Author's Note:

Hey all! Just wanted to say that I made a banner for this story, if you wanna see it. It's on my LiveJournal account, just look for the link on my profile.

Enjoy the next segment!

Chapter Eleven: Demonic Debacle

Morning grogginess never went well with a headache that made Dean's skull feel like two rams were using it for target practice. Dean was wondering what he must have been drinking to get a headache that bad. He didn't remember going to any bars, just waiting for Andy to get home –

Wait.

Memories of obsidian eyes and panic and the crash came hurtling back into his mind, and Dean's pain was forgotten in the face of their reminders. Sam and he were in danger. He sat up quickly, feeling stiff and cold from the concrete flooring. Groaning and rubbing his eyes, he tried to look around him. It was a small, dark, damp room, not more than eight feet in any direction. There was an oil lamp mounted on the wall, the only source of light. He was alone.

Dean backed himself slowly to the nearest wall, pushing himself to his feet and using it for support. He didn't think there was any merit to checking the door to see if it was indeed locked, but he did it anyway. The thick oak door did not budge.

Fantastic.

Dean's ribs and shoulder were inflamed and annoyingly sore – he was sure that one or two of his lower ribs were cracked. So, charging at the door was out. He afforded the offensive wood blockage with five or six hard, jarring kicks before he quit and decided that he didn't want to make anymore noise to alert his captures. The door did not even creak under his punishing blows.

"Mother fucker," he muttered darkly, settling down into the corner nearest the door. He knew that he didn't exactly have the strength to really make a surprise attack worth the effort, or of any kind, but at least here he would see who came in before they saw him.

He sat there and lost track of time, drifting in and out of consciousness out of boredom worry, tiredness, and numbing pain. It had to have been at least two hours after he woke up when the door finally screeched open.

Feet shuffled in (Dean could make out two pairs of hard-soled shoes) and black eyes fell on him. The malicious depths churned in the lamp light and Dean sneered at the amusement they found in his wounded state. Their smug expressions told him everything he never wanted to know, or admit to: they had Sam and him under control and there was not anything they could really do about it.

Fuck that.

He did not know how injured Sam was, but the angel would not be held back forever. It made his hunter instincts boil over in frustration and general wrongness. He had been taught never to rely on anyone else to save his sorry ass, not even his own father, because most of the time it wasn't possible or an even sane decision to make. Sam was his guardian angel, though, whatever small difference that made, and he really was in no position to help himself at all. He had to trust in Sam.

After all, it was his soul in danger.

"Get up," the demon on the right commanded.

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Sam came to feeling as shitty as Dean had. The difference with his situation, however, was that someone had removed his shirt and chained him up.

Joy.

The restraints allowed him to sit on the freezing ground, but his arms were achingly locked above his head. The chains were strung from the high wooden arch on the ceiling of the building. He was leaning against a pillar made of the same dark, heavy wood that was next to the pews that were splintering and bulging with molding water spots.

Huh. An old church.

Could his life be anymore Hollywood?

But that made Dean the damsel in distress… He shook his head. Those were role playing fantasies that could get his ass kicked another time.

Though he was weak and bruised, he still tried the chains. The wood above him did not even groan under his pull, the chains clinking and shuddering loudly, echoing in the large hall, but no dice. From what he could hear and feel, he was alone in the room.

Dean was not with him, but he was alive, awake, and close. It felt like… Dean was under him?

Tapping his booted heel on the ground, he checked to see that the tiles were solid, like cement was their base. Breaking through the floor was out…

He was contemplating whether or not dislocating his thumbs would make a difference in escaping the binds when the side door banged open. One demon (possessing a red-headed tall man) was followed by two others, obviously grunts that led a wearied Dean in by his arms, which were tied behind his back. They forced Dean to his knees in front of the rosewood altar, and the demon that was in control of the others looked to Sam, and his eyes were yellow.

"So, Sammy-boy," he smiled broadly, "How's it feel to be a failure?"

Sam looked pointedly at Dean, who was fuming, but unable to get away.

"Dean's still kicking. I don't see the problem," Sam raised a sarcastic eyebrow, trying to keep calm.

"He won't be for much longer. Admit it, there's nothing you can do to stop the ritual now," Azazel smirked.

"It ain't over till the ugly-ass Hell King sings," Dean quipped, and was punched for his trouble.

Azazel laughed, "It will be soon,"

And the ritual began.

Azazel drew a circle of blood around Dean, with no other intricacies. On the wood altar, he painted the complicated symbols and caricatures of a language long forgotten and unreadable even to him, but their purpose was known. He stood to the side, and the two demonic goons attached a set of manacled chains to the altar and Dean's wrists. Dean, again, struggled, but he was too weak and in pain to do anything but gain a few mocking chuckles for it. Then Azazel produced an old scrap of parchment and began to read.

By the second line of the incantation, the building began to groan, as if it were under some huge pressure. Sometime during the fifth line, the air around them cooled rapidly, charging with a strange and ancient energy and it felt as if the church itself were breathing. A sulfurous breath of toxic air filling the space, making it difficult to think and Sam felt sick. Azazel's voice was reaching a crescendo, and it was as if Sam were being choked, there was so much power permeating from the spell, from Dean's soul.

He knew he had to act fast. Dean, from what he could see, was slumped forward and shuddering. Sam felt more than knew that the spell would be finished soon. He concentrated. The chains holding him rubbed his wrists and the links shook under his force. His physical weakness was inhibiting him, but he pushed past his body's limits.

The chain's link's snapped.

Sam threw himself forward as Azazel was closing the final two lines of the verse. He summoned his weapon out of instinct and slashed the first demon's throat and stabbed the other in the gut in a flurry of graceful motion. The magic's tension that had built as Azazel read finally burst and became visible: hundreds navy-black smoke-like tendrils swarming and engulfing Dean's form. Dean gave a fierce shout of pain and surprise, resisting the chains more forcefully than before.

Sam was almost thrown back as the dark immense power pulsed and whipped around him. The half-angel made his feet move, forcing himself into the circle as the black-magic repelled his naturally light spirit. The pain was like his soul was being ripped asunder, like Dean's essence was being drawn from his body. The foggy cloud that encased Dean was constricting and coaxing the stubborn soul from its physical form, as a side effect from sucking the power that was held with it.

Sam finally reached Dean, struggling to gain a hold of him in the impossible, close distance between them. He saw Dean's eyes roll back into his head as Sam wrapped his arms around Dean. It was the most terrifying, heart-wrenching and sickening experience in the world, in all of time, to feel Dean's life slipping through his desperate embrace.

No...! His mind scrambled for a solution, a method to cease the chaos. He felt his angelic energy center within him, pool behind his shoulder blades, and knew what needed to be done.

Sam's wings emerged from his back, wrapping around them both. They glowed like soft moonlight at first, increasing their brightness in waves and Sam closed his eyes. He did not know what happened next, but he felt Dean's soul secure itself and settle back into his body. The spell still worked, stealing the energy that Dean's matured spirit held, but it would not kill him. The magic emanating from the spell and Sam's impromptu intervention died down abruptly, leaving the church, and seemingly the universe, devoid of everything.

Dean breathed steadily in his arms.

Sam, in contrast, felt out of breath and dazed, looking around him and not knowing what to expect. It was unearthly silent. His eyes fell on Azazel.

"You may not have failed in protecting Dean, Sammy, but what about all the other humans you have let down by not killing him?" Azazel smiled widely.

Sam could hardly glare at the snide demon.

The altar, otherwise unmoved, cracked in two. Grayish smog rolled in from the abrasion, dusting the floor in impenetrable haze. Azazel started to stalk toward Sam and the unconscious Dean, and Sam clutched his angelic knife-dagger. He didn't want to leave Dean. He desperately wanted to rip Azazel to shreds. His body wanted to wilt under all the strain.

The gray smoke began to mix with black essences, and demons were pouring out. A portal to hell had been torn open.

"Sam," A voice behind the madness called. In Sam's peripheral vision, he saw Castiel. Without pause, he picked Dean up in his arms and used some of his power and Azazel's momentary distraction to shove the demon back onto his ass. He hurried over to the other angel and shoved Dean into his arms.

"Take him out of here. He could still be useful to them. I will kill Azazel, try to contain the demons, and follow."

Castiel held Dean effortlessly, and by the look in the man's usually emotionless eyes, he knew that Sam did not mean the last part of his promise.

"May your battle be swift and serve the Lord," Castiel said, inclining his head. It was a warrior's prayer, given in times of uncertainty.

"May the Lord bless you as well," Sam grasped the man's arm tightly, and gazed down at Dean once again. Sam turned back to where Azazel was standing, and felt Castiel take Dean to safety. He was alone.

He used his power again, setting a devil's trap around the church without a second thought. It was weighing on his mind and spirit, but he forced himself forward. He didn't stand a chance against the high-level demon, but he did get a few good shots in before he was pinned beneath the other.

Sam stared at the pair of leather shoes before looking up at the man kneel in front of him.

Icy blue eyes shone with mirth as they looked down on Sam under Azazel's hold, but his full mouth was unsmiling.

Sam's vision tunneled.

"Lucifer," he said, succumbing to the dark dreamless sleep from over strain.

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