CHAPTER 3 - PERSONAL DEMONS
"They call it a hunter's moon. That's supposed to be good, right?"
The man in the passenger seat sighs, his left arm propped against the door, his head resting in it as he watches out of the window with predatory eyes.
Next to him his brother just keeps talking, not catching the sign to stop. "I don't think we're ready for this Dean. We don't have anything to take her on with."
Outside the night is calm, pleasant almost if it wasn't for the chill in the air and the full moon hanging overhead. The black car is barely visible on the dead end road, studded with patches of gravel where some poor fellow had tried to fill in the potholes. Weeds grow in a tangled clump along the side, their greedy fingers wrapping around a rotting, half-collapsed picket fence that trails the roadside. Beyond there is an empty field of green, a dark teal in the darkness.
"This place is in the middle of nowhere," Sam continues, "And I mean… how much do we really trust Crowley? He said that this was the place, because apparently it's where the guy was exorcised, but beyond that…? She could have chosen anywhere!"
Dean's fingers tap out a rhythm on his thigh, and it gradually develops into the chords of a Metallica song.
"Dude are you ignoring me? I knew we should have brought Cas. Even without wings he's still an angel. It's more than we currently have. We don't even know that angel blades work on her."
Dean stops tapping, turning to glare at his younger brother, "Shut up and stop bitching," he snaps irritably. Sam wonders if his brother has slept at all recently. "We're here because Crowley says it's here, and ever since you worked you…" his right hand tries to make a gesture to emphasise his point but it fails and he drops it back down, "Ever since he got humanised he's the best deal we've got."
"And Cas?" Sam challenges, because at least now he's got his brother talking. "Why isn't he here?"
Dean casts his eyes towards the car ceiling, as if maybe looking up towards Heaven.
Except Castiel wasn't there anymore.
"He's got angel trouble," Dean shrugs one shoulder, "What with our new friend Bart and company…"
Sam frowns. "The Simpson?" he asks.
"The angel you douche," Dean straightens in his seat, "Whatshisname Bartholemew."
Sam's eyebrows go up in his head and he considers this, looking sideways at his brother with one of those expressions on his face. This one is silently asking Dean, 'what the hell is your obsession with naming the angels?'
Dean ignores him, leaning forwards and peering over the steering wheel down the road. It ends in a dead path, a gate hanging awkwardly on hinges with a footpath behind. Beyond that a house looms in the darkness, all shadows and dark corners, with a tangle of unrestrained undergrowth wrapped around it in a protective embrace.
Occasionally a gust of wind sends a loose shutter on the upper window flapping open, creaking on rusty hinges. It's your typical ghost house, rusting timbers that groan and threaten to give way at any moment. It's almost clichéd in a way, and neither brother appreciates it, both of them bundles of nerves and tensions waiting for the right moment.
Dean's drumming fingers continue, and the quiet tapping is louder than it has any right to be. Sam makes a move towards the radio, because even the blaring rock would be better than the half heard tune, the rest of it all in his brother's head.
Dean slaps his hand away, "Don't he," complains, and Sam doesn't bother to argue. He knows Dean will just play the 'my car, my rules' card and so he slumps in his seat, stretching out his legs as much as he is able to.
There is silence for a while, and the sound of their breathing is the only thing that they can hear. Sam finds without realising it that he and his brother have matched their breaths until it sounds like there is only one person in the car, their calm, measured breathing overlaying each other almost perfectly.
Sam shivers. There's a chill in the air, but it's dry, the ground cracked at it runs up towards the house. There are three windows downstairs, facing them with sightless eyes, and another two upstairs. There are cracks in the white washed walls, spread out like a spider web.
One of the downstairs windows flare. The far left one.
Both brothers automatically stiffen as the light flickers, and then grows slightly, as if a candle has been lit. Dean automatically reaches for his Colt '45, reassured by the familiar weight and grip.
There is a crack, a loud sound that could be anything from a snapping bone to lightning, but it's too loud, too sharp and it ends far, far too soon. Above the sky is still clear, but the air now hangs heavy as if in wait of something.
Something dark.
Sam and Dean exchange a single glance. No words pass between them because no words are needed. Dean somewhat appreciates having Sam there to watch his back, because even though it's still weak, still broken and crumpled in places, the trust is there. They've had to step away from each other, but there's always going to be that layer that makes the Winchester brothers just work together, a well-oiled machine with no room for error.
At least not until the next angel or demon or vampire comes along and shoves a spanner in the works, but Dean will deal with that when it comes to it.
They wordlessly slide out of the car, the doors shutting as quietly as they can, which for Sam isn't quiet enough, and for Dean, he just pats his car as one would a dog, before leaving it to stalk towards the house. They move like predators, sleek and well trained, right up until the point Dean stubs his toe and bites his lip to stop himself from swearing.
There is a stone half hidden in the ground. Dean crouches down, pulling away the tangle of grass and roots from it.
Inscribed into the square shaped rock is a sigil. It looks like a castle, with battlement along the top in a little square. The lines don't meet, and at the bottom of the castle the lines veer outwards, curling around. From these arcs, hang crosses, and circles like some sort of twisted balancing scale.
"What do you want to bet that's going to be our new arrival if we don't do something soon?" Dean whispers in a hushed tone to his brother.
"That's creepy dude. It's like some sort of grave marking to him."
Dean stands, moving towards the gate, "Come on," he gestures at Sam. The pair bypass the gate entirely, instead creeping through a gap in the hedge. They fall silent, and Dean motions to Sam in quick sharp gestures that only Sam appears to understand, as he nods and slips to one side, heading around the back.
Dean paces towards the front door. The window on the far left is lit with soft, orange light from a candle that sits in the window, illuminating the room, but also casting shadows on the contents within. Shadows move about inside and he finds himself holding his breath as he turns the door handle.
The door creaks slightly. Typical. He slides in like a cat, gun angled towards the ground. There is a hallway next to the door, but at some point it was half-way towards being turned into a large open single room. There's only a thin piece of wall that separates him from the room to his left, and it ends in a large archway through to where the candle light flickers. He doesn't pay much attention to the rest of the house, a door leading through to what looks like a kitchen with old, mouldy surfaces and cracked tiles, instead pressing himself towards the wall and edging towards the arch from which the light seeps.
He doesn't make it two steps before a voice drifts through to him from the room on the left. It's rich, and full of amusement and deadly power that sends a tremor down his right arm. "Don't lurk there in the hallway like a stalker, Dean."
Dean doesn't answer. He reaches around, tucking the gun into his belt and then slipping a shining silver blade from his jacket pocket. It's almost circular, and it's hard to tell where the grip ends and the blade begins. On first impression the angelic sword doesn't look sharp, but when it catches the light leaking out of the room there is a fuzzy edge to it, that vanishes into that which human eye can't perceive, and Dean knows from experience that it cuts not just through flesh and bones, but through grace and soul as well.
He weighs it in his hand for a few seconds, before mimicking Cas and sliding it up his sleeve.
Dean turns slowly and steps out into the archway. He thinks in vain that Sam was right, and they are woefully unprepared for this, but then again what exactly could they have attempted to do to improve their chances? They were the Winchesters. Nobody wanted to deal with them, to help them out, not when they played with life and death, heaven and hell as casually as they did.
He swallows down his fear and steps forwards, grip tightening on the angel blade. The room ahead of him is lit with candles, one on the windowsill, and another two on a table against the right wall.
It's some sort of altar, draped with a white cloth and a metallic bowl, probably bronze, with dried green and brown plants resting within. Dean can also see sharp yellow-white which suggests bones, but it's hard to tell because the herbs are smouldering softly and giving the whole room a sickly sweet smell.
The ceiling is a myriad of cracks, with a large gaping section where the plaster is missing. Just beyond that hangs a crystal chandelier, and the faceted surface sends sparkles of light shooting around the room like some sort of disco ball. Below it stands the demon, her red hair cascading loosely around her shoulders and clashing with her black leather jacket.
"Hello Dean," Abaddon smiles, "How nice of you to join us."
Dean notes the 'us' and he looks beyond Abaddon, to where a man is tied up. The youngish guy kneels on the floor, bound and gagged with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes that meet Dean's, wide and scared. He struggles but Dean can see the knots have already rubbed his skin raw, and knows that he's not going anywhere.
The hunter steps towards the man who tries to make a noise, but it's muffled by the gag. There is a tutting sound from the demon, who steps in Dean's path, her head shaking disapprovingly. "Now, now," she tells him, "You can just wait until it's your turn."
Dean stops, standing still as she moves towards him, sleek, languid steps. His heart thuds in his chest as she moves well within his personal space limits, her gaze meeting his. She's beautiful, fierce and deadly, and Dean prays that Sam gets a move on with their plan. "Careful darlin'," he drawls instead, sounding more confident than he is, "You're almost worse than an angel with personal space issues," and he steps back, away from her.
She follows, lips smirking somewhat. "You'd know, wouldn't you?" she asks, "What with that pet angel of yours?"
He doesn't know if she's referring to Castiel or Gadreel, but either way she leans forwards, her body pressed against his. One hand reaches up to cup his cheek, fingers tracing the jawline while the other grips his wrist, and the angel blade that he had barely closed his grip on drops under the tight nails that leave bloody imprints on his skin.
He gives her a weak smirk, "What can I say?" he asked rhetorically, as she circled around behind him, one eye still on the silver sword at his feet. "I had to try."
The sword slides away as if kicked by invisible feet. "It's a shame you're so defiant, Dean." Abaddon seems to like molesting his name, "You'd make a perfect vessel otherwise."
"This ass has so far remained demon and angel free." His voice is tense. "I'd like to keep it that way."
She circles back around in front of him, her one hand trailing across his chest to where they both know his anti-possession tattoo lies. "I don't know," she hums, "Then again it's too be expected really…" she continues circling him, rounding past his left shoulder with slow, measured steps and the floorboards creak underneath her. "Do you know why I'm here?" she asks him.
She vanishes in his blind spot but Dean doesn't flinch. He mentally shouts at Sam to hurry up, but doesn't visibly give anything away, doesn't even glance towards the ceiling where upstairs, he knows Sam is spraying out a devil's trap over this very spot.
Get a freakin' move on Sammy!
"Why don't you tell me?" he barters.
"I could," she shrugs one shoulder, emerging back into his field of vision on his right side, "Maybe I don't want to."
"And here you struck me as one of those villains who like to monologue." He sighed.
"A villain, Dean, really?" she laughs at him, her lips a deep red that matches her hair. "Is that what you see me as?"
Her hand traces down his shoulder and he recoils slightly.
"I'm more of a… faithful servant." She says, and then stops. Her hand lingers over just below the crook of his elbow where unseen the mark is branded into his skin. "Well," she hums, stepping away from him, "You've been busy. Meeting new people, reaching for the higher places…" Dean hopes he sees panic in her eyes but it's gone almost immediately, replaced by smug knowing, "Are you going to kill me Dean?"
She leans forwards and he tries to move backwards, but her hand clenches as she leans close, "You know I am," he whispers to her, glaring.
Her perfect lips curl up into an open grin, "Then where's the blade?" She pulls away thankfully, relaxed and at ease now, "What are even doing here?" she spreads out her arms, "If you don't even have it! You can't kill me! Those little angel swords can't hurt me!"
"I don't need the blade to kill you," Dean snarls, hatred churning in his gut.
She considers him for a fraction of a second. Then she smiles, and Dean's hopes drop. She's too confident. "Did you really think you could trick me?" she asks him, and she reaches up towards non-existent stars, as if to pull them down to earth.
There's a crash as the ceiling gives way in the centre of the room, the cracked plaster breaking in a cloud of dust as something crashes down, and Dean lurches instinctively towards the gangly long limbs of his brother. Beyond the poor gagged guy winces, whimpering through his gag as Sam crashes down in front of him.
"Sam!" he shouts, and there is a groan from his younger brother who rolls to the side, before stilling, and even through the dust and broken bits of ceiling Dean knows he is wincing in pain.
Dean's only a few steps away from Sam, when suddenly he can't breathe. There is no oxygen to be found and he chokes on nothing. There are footsteps as Abaddon strolls over, and she flicks her hand.
An invisible force takes a hold of his brother, picking him up and throwing him against the wall. She moves closer to Sam, and Dean wants to get her away, because the last time a demon touched his brother the poor kid ended up high on demon blood, but the red-head merely slips one hand into Sam's jacket and draws out the demon killing knife.
"It was a nice plan," she turns to him, standing. Dean tries to gasp out an insult but he can't even draw in a single breath. He feels his vision blackening as invisible hands clamp down on his windpipe. "Shame it didn't work," she steps past him, as he slips down onto the floor, splinters digging in under his nails.
Black spots his vision but it's intermingled with white and yellow and he's not exactly sure when but at some point he can breathe again, sucking in gasps of air like a dying man which he quite nearly almost was.
He's pinned with his back to the wall on the right side of the room. He looks up, eyes roving around frantically and spotting where Sam is pinned directly opposite him. His brother hangs limply, arms out to either side of him.
It takes longer than it should for his oxygen deprived brain to realise his younger brother is unusually still, and then that he can see Sam's features outlined in moonlight.
The hole through which the ceiling collapsed is a gaping wound above them. Above that the roof tiles are broken, and the rafters snapped to provide direct access to the sky above. Through the two stories of the house, Dean can see moonlight pouring down, the moon almost directly above the gap and shining down onto the floorboards.
"You're so obedient," Abaddon places the metal bowl underneath the chandelier, "Coming when you're called. That's what I like about you Winchesters." She moves towards Dean and he tries to move, to reach a blade, a knife, something.
It's useless, and she has him pinned with all her demonic mojo.
In a stupid, desperate attempt the words of the exorcism roll of his tongue, but then once again his oxygen supplies become non-existent and he stops, choking.
"Don't try it," the demon leans over him. She grabs his wrist, pinning it out to the side. There is a blade glittering in her other hand. With a deft twist she spins it around and buries it into his arm.
Dean's still struggling to breathe so the cry is soundless. Without even waiting for a pause Abaddon materialises another blade and drives it into his other arm. Then suddenly he can breathe. Pain runs through his arms, and he has the vague thought of hoping she hadn't stabbed the mark before she pulls out another knife, ornamental and looking almost blunt.
The hunter is already categorising the pain in a compartment of his mind as he reprioritises. He knows now why Sam isn't moving, why he hangs against the wall so limply, pinned there not just by the demon telekinesis, but by the blades he hadn't noticed before, crucifying him to the fucking wall. Now Dean looks closely he can see Sam is shaking, slight breaths that contrast his own heaving gasps for air now that the hold on his throat has been released again.
Sam is still alive, and he hopes he stays that way, even if Dean doesn't make it out of this.
He doesn't think he can survive it if Sam dies.
He's honestly expecting the silver ornamental knife through his chest, which is why it takes him by surprise when she merely presses it against his arm, where rivulets of blood trace patterns down his arm.
The blade shimmers as the blood drips onto it, and he strains his eyes, barely able to pick out the rust red where Sam's blood already stains the blade. It was unhygienic really, and Dean would have made such a comment if he had his breath back.
"Couldn't have down this without you boys," she directs to the pair.
Sam raises his head weakly, hair hanging in his eyes and curses her. Dean is relieved to hear his brother's voice. Neither knows quite how they got themselves so involved in this ritual as Abaddon paces to the centre of the room, standing under the moonlit hole and beginning an invocation.
It doesn't sound like Latin, and it's too flowing to be Enochian. Neither brother recognises the words, and if both were honest, they were both more worried about each other bleeding out than trying to identify the language. Abaddon had cut what was probably a major artery, probably on purpose knowing her, and Dean can feel each pulse of blood that left him, making him dizzy.
Dean wonders if maybe it's time to retire after this.
There is a rumble of thunder, but the sky remains clear. Abaddon stands in the centre of the room, the crystal chandelier shaking above her. To her left lies Sam, and the younger Winchester vaguely acknowledges that he, the tainted one, lies on the west side of the room where the sun sets while Dean, the righteous one, is on the east side of the room where the sun rises.
To the north the host body struggles, eyes wide and terrified and his whimpers through the gag. The chanting continues, growing in volume. The candles in the room flicker out and then relight themselves, and the earth seems to shake.
With one final word Abaddon brings the knife down on the floor between the brothers. Dean and Sam's eyes meet as the blade buries itself in the floorboards.
It's dead silent.
"So…" Dean speaks, breaking it, heart pounding, "I guess your ritual didn't work?" he grins, happier than he should be from where he is crucified to the wall.
She just smiles at him, far too smugly for Dean to get a fucking break for a change. Instead he is aware of the blood that has dripped down to the floor moving towards the blade. It's like a magnet, attracting the red viscous liquid, and Dean knows that Sam's blood is doing the same.
The older Winchester sees it, muscles tensing and then relaxing to try and avoiding losing any more life force through the knife dug into his lower arm.
He'd lost too much already and Sam must have lost even more. Random and stupid thoughts were flying through his head. Such as: hadn't Abaddon read the Bible? She was meant to crucify him through the hand, wasn't she? It was also kind of ironic how Sam they used to think was the Anti-Christ, and now he was probably going to die like Christ.
It's like with Lilith, Sam opposite his brother realises with horror, as the two veins of liquid run steadily on a crash collision course with each other, the blade in the centre. Dean lets out a hollow laugh around that time, head sagging and the younger Winchester wonders who is worse off in this situation, because for a change they both seem pretty battered.
The blood meets with a crack, and the ground rattles in reply and Dean can feel the burn from Sam's bitch face for jinxing everything. There is a snapping sound as a fissure runs out from where the knife is buried in the floor. It spreads slowly like cracking ice, like something is forcing its way up from underneath. Their blood steams slightly, as the floorboards splinter, snapping like broken bones.
Abaddon steps back laughing. She's triumphant and deadly and jubilant as the house begins shaking. She steps back just as the crystal chandelier falls, with a loud crash. The crystals splinter, hitting the ground and smashing into a million glass droplets like tears.
Dean turns away, his eyes shut to try and protect them from the mist of glass. The moonlight still pouring through the hole and down onto the knife makes them shine in all colours, as they bounce and bounce and then still.
The floorboards groan as they are ripped apart, and Sam sees the first wisp of black smoke materialise. Then there is another crack, and the wood is ripped aside as a smoky body emerges, no features distinct. Horror overcomes him as he witnesses the demon claw its way out of the earth, claw its way out of hell…
Because they'd seen demons before, black smoke and coloured eyes, but never before had Sam seen their true forms, and for a moment under the shroud of smoke the whole image flickers like static. It is for barely a second, but he catches sight of rotting flesh and huge burns marring the skin, and the burnt black skeletal form of what once might have been wings, small and stumped on its back.
Then thankfully the form is gone, back to the indistinct, black smoke, featureless and blurred around the edges. The centre of its form is burning, charred cinders and embers clinging to it in a faint reminder of hellfire. The scent of brimstone permeates the air, and Dean closes his eyes, images of hell and Alistair leaking out from the wall he had barricaded it behind.
The cinder ash form blurs and then flares out in a faint mockery of wings, before with a rush, forming itself into a funnel and swooping towards where the bound man still struggles desperately.
His mouth is still gagged, but the demonic form just forces his head up and shoves its way in his eyes and nose. There's a faint roaring sound as the demonic smoke forces its way in, unceremoniously and violently, brutalising the host before the possession has even begun. Finally the last wisps of black tendrils vanish and the host slumps, body still for a moment.
Then with a heaving gasp the now possessed man startles upright, limbs convulsing and trembling.
His limbs jerk like a marionette puppet, twitching as if in a seizure. The ropes and gag smoulder and then burn away, ash crumpling to the ground as they vanish into dust and ashes.
His eyes slam open and both Dean and Sam, against their better wishes look towards the new arrival. They both flinch back when the eyes open a sickly yellow and Sam can't help it when he chokes out "Azazel."
The man stretches, neck cracking as he clenches his fingers. "Oh this is nice," he murmurs appreciatory, yellow gaze regarding the room and where Abaddon is grinning triumphantly. "Very nice," he repeats, standing and looking down at himself. "How much did this cost?" he chuckles, straightening his shirt and looking at the black-eyed demon.
"I found it cheap at a bar," Abaddon sneers at him.
The demon shrugs, seemingly easy-going. He rolls his shoulders, circling them as if he should have wings or something attached and slightly puzzled that they aren't there. His gaze catches sight of the brothers and he steps forwards. Their gaze follows him, both wary of his presence.
"Well crap," Dean says, meeting Sam's gaze across the room. Sam has a slight frown, and Dean shakes his head in a slight jerk because he knows he killed Azazel, he knows the guy is dead but if so… why is he standing here?
"Why…so…frightened?" the guy takes time picking each word, as if getting used to his voice. "I mean… I've heard about you. Everyone's heard about you. Sam and Dean Winchester."
Dean really wishes the demons would stop molesting their names like that. It makes him feel uncomfortable.
"So these are the famous vessels, huh?" he asks, dragging out the 's' as he paces between them. Sam frowns at him, because this isn't Azazel. It scares him that he knows that, but the demon that had tormented their family was nothing like this.
With a flick of his fingers the knives that are buried in Sam and Dean's arms twist in deeper and both brothers let out cries of pain.
"Handsome fellas'," the demon grins, "Can see why Mike and Lucy were so insistent on them." He steps forwards over the broken glass which crunches under his feet and then spins around suddenly as if remembering something, "Abaddon!" His hands fly out slightly in greeting, "You're looking…" he stops suddenly, leering at the meatsuit.
"Belial." She replies shortly, and from over where Sam is wincing in pain Dean sees his eyes widen. He recognises the name too and he bites his lip, trying to struggle free, not really caring at this point if he rips the muscle trying to get those damn knives out of his arms.
"So is it time? Is it? Is it?" Belial tilts his head conspiringly at Abaddon, grinning like a demented puppy.
"What do you think?" she asks, scornfully, "Do you think I broke you out of the deepest pits of Hell just for the pleasure of your company?"
"I'm hurt," the yellow eyed demon presses his hands over his heart, "Well." He reconsiders, "I would be if I cared." He skips over to her, his eyes flashing a sickening swirl of colours. "Unfortunately I… well…" he glances at Sam and Dean, "I don't think I have soul. Don't think I ever did, really." He flashes a white-toothed grin. "So Polly," he says instead, clapping his hand together and turning to her. "What are you going to do about them?" he asks. He doesn't need a gesture to refer to who is talking about, but he stabs a thumb over his shoulder anyway.
"Leave them," Abaddon steps back, half turning away, "They're no longer useful."
A grin catches the corner of Belial's lips. "Well in that case…" he flings out a hand.
Sam just has enough to think 'well we fucked this up' before he is ripped from the wall, the knives being torn out of the plaster with him. He falls forwards to the floor, landing heavily on one shoulder, jarring it, and Dean lands with a whimper next to him, hitting the floor and rolling onto his back to try and protect his arms.
They have barely a moment to look up at each other, before with a shuddering crack the floorboards break underneath them.
Sam's brain choses that moment to remind him that there isn't a basement below, that there shouldn't be a gap in the earth that should just be able to collapse open, but the sink hole is there and for the second time that night he falls. The floor falls away beneath him in a manner horrible reminisce of falling into the cage. Soil crushes in on him, complete with rocks and bits of brick and glass and he clenches his eyes closed as darkness presses in on him. Somehow a hand finds Dean's jacket and clings onto it, and this time at least, they fall together.
Then the earth swallows him and Dean whole.
Belial watches for a moment as the earth cracks beneath them, opening up to make a pretty little pit just for the brothers. Then he lets the soil and shattered glass and wood crash down on top of them. "Let's see them try and claw their way out from that," he smirks, "And if they don't well… it saves them the trouble of digging a grave." He turns to Abaddon, his eyes glowing yellow and lips curled up in a sick leer. "It's not particularly inventive," he shrugs, "But I've got to say it's appropriate."
"Stop playing around," the Knight sneers at him. "We have work to do."
She spins away and the other demon just shrugs. "Gonna' begrudge me a bit of fun?" he asks. "It's been awhile after all."
Between one step and another, the demons are gone, leaving an empty room with no floor, the ground collapsed into one churned up mess.
Sam and Dean are left, buried in their own graves.
March 2013 - Just a reminder this is set post s09e13The Purge and then will sort of run AU along the end of s09.
Reviews are love. They might get Sam and Dean un-buried (is that a word?) faster.
