So I should probably give a warning for the end of this chapter. One of the characters gets quite badly hurt, so don't read it if you don't enjoy violence.
CHAPTER 35 - WHO WILL SAVE YOU NOW
The thing about Hell is: it exists.
And it's sitting right under their town, just waiting to break free. Already it's bleeding through the gaps, the wounds that they have caused in the town.
Soon it's going to rip open all together, creak open ominously and pour out.
This is massive, bigger than anything she's ever even dreamed of. Yet here in the woods, trees swaying overhead with gentle blossoms and the breeze tugging at her skin, it's hard to imagine that anything is wrong. Allison takes a deep breath, the forest sounds washing over her.
There is the gentle sound of bickering in the background that just slightly ruins the moment, and reminds her that not all is well. The wolves are camped out somewhere up north, and the last Allison had seen of them the two boys were getting a thorough ass-kicking from the small blonde alpha who had decided they needed some much needed lessons in self-defence. Although according to Isaac, Derek's training methods were worse.
She wishes Lydia or Stiles had agreed to come along, but both didn't want to come anywhere near the Nemeton after the last time they had been there. It made sense considering the dead body they had found. The forest section is still roped off with police tape.
So it's just her, leading the brothers through the trees towards the death clearing.
The hunters scare Allison. They're all splinters and broken shards, and they seem so haunted.
A part of her sees herself in them, a decade down the line if she went the life of her dad, hunting down monsters.
She's glad that she's stepped back to protecting people. It's given her purpose that these two seem to have lost. Or maybe they're lost in the bigger picture because their small picture has become so blurred, the black mixing with the white.
There are shades of grey that are dark enough to be black, and these brothers walk that line.
"So-" she decides to bring up the topic that nobody has broached yet, "Who's Adam?"
Both brothers go silent, dark eyed and tongue-tied. She thinks that this is risky, poking at wounds, but neither hunter had offered anything yet, and she thinks they really need to know.
"Because our ghosts - they've all been bad. We salted everything, and that keeps them away. Obviously now we know they're from the veil, or the Hell Gate, and we're the only ones who can see them because we're tied to the Nemeton and therefore tied to the Hell Gate, but is this guy-"
"He's our brother," Dean says shortly.
Her mouth opens in a small 'oh' of surprise. "He looked young," she remembers the pale face, just a bit older than her. "What- what happened to him?"
Judging by the way they both shift, neither of them have spoken with each other about this, "He died," Sam replies, tense and guilty, "We had a chance to save him but we- didn't get there in time-"
Dean snorts quietly, "What do we say?" he spreads his hands out, lips twisting into a bitter, derisive grin, "He got possessed by an archangel and then Sammy dragged him into a cage with Lucifer."
"Okay," Allison says, weakly, when really she's thinking 'what the ever loving-?"
"And we left him there." Dean continues, and his voice is so light that it's like sliding glass on a chalk board, "We left him in hell to rot. I-" he stops, and glances at Sam, but says no more. She wishes she hadn't brought this up now and so she stays silent, and doesn't ask anymore.
"You should be at school," Dean grumbles, "Why aren't you at school again?"
"You didn't hear?" Allison pauses, surprised, "School's closed for the week. They found one kid dead from overworking, stressing out over finals or something and they decided to give us a week off."
"Diligence," Sam pipes up, "Opposite of sloth. Looks like it's getting worse again."
"Is that guy poking around? The fed we talked to?"
"Hey, isn't he a relative of Scott?" Dean frowns, "The one who looks like a blowfish… Agent McCall…"
Allison stumbles over nothing, choking on laughter, "Yeah, that's Scott's dad."
Dean looks worried for a moment, "Don't tell him I said that."
She shakes her head, biting her lip to stop herself form laughing. Looking up, she spots a familiar sight through the trees. "Well that's it," she draws up shortly, her footsteps drawn to the beacon, the path so familiar she thinks she could get here in her sleep. She stops on the edge of the circle of dying things and watches as both brothers snap into hunter mode, stalking in different directions around the trunk.
"Well that looks pretty damn dead," Dean pokes a boot toe at the body of a dead bird. It's not rotting, and looks fresh. "What do you think would happen if we stepped in there?"
"Do you want to find out?" Sam is waving a device around, and it whines slightly.
"No, not really." Dean shakes his head. "I don't think there's anything here of use," he's standing the other side of the circle now, and he meets Allison's gaze straight on, "Has anyone died here?" he asks.
Allison shakes her head, "The murder was just over there," she points to the yellow tape just visible through the forest.
He beckons her over, "Are you sure?" he asks, and she stands next to him as he points something out. "Look at that."
She follows where he is pointing, not seeing for a while but then she does. The ground is a darker shade, and on the tree itself there are specks of rust brown. "Blood," she realises. It's old, and should have been long gone by now, but the magic that tingles like static in the air preserves the living red. "Do you think that set all this off?"
"It would have done a great job at it," Sam shrugs, still the other side of the circle waving the whining device around. With a sigh he turns it off, pocketing it. "Combined with a triple sacrifice from you and your friends-"
"So you guys were dead?" Allison asks the brothers as she picks her way along the dead life border. It feels kind of symbolic in a way, if there really is a gate way to hell under the town. "How did you get out of that?" She's curious, if slightly relieved. She doesn't want to be around her father much, with the new attitude he has going for him. She's always known he can be scary, but lately he's as terrifying as anything she's ever encountered. It's a relief that whatever shenanigans these two have been through mean that they too are immune from the craziness in the town. They're not total friends, but she's getting used to them, and it feels good to have at least two adults they can trust and who know sort of what they're dealing with.
"We got better," they say in sync. She smiles. They remind her of Scott and Stiles. Dean has Stiles' genre savvy pop culture knowledge while having Scott's hero and people orientated thing going for him, while Sam has Stiles' research mode, along with Scott's sense of right and wrong and general attitude.
"We heading back?" Sam asks as she finishes crossing the circle.
"Yeah," Dean nods, "You reckon the wolves are still playing fetch?"
"A dog joke?" Sam sighs, "Really? Out of all the dog related humour you went with that?"
Allison's lips twitch, "Scott and Isaac sit and stay when I tell them too," she inputs her own voice into the conversation.
"Thatta' girl," Dean grins as if he's proud of her, and it makes her feel weirdly comfortable. "You're a hunter's girl through and through."
"And proud of it," she meets his gaze.
"Well if the wolves are play fighting-" Sam shrugs, "-and the others are doing who-knows-what, do you want to practise too?"
"Practise?"
"Shooting?" Dean spins around so he's walking backwards. He almost walks into a tree, but the grin on his face and spark in his eye is full of friendly competitiveness. She feels a sudden impulse to prove herself to them, to prove her worth.
She's a hunter too, retired or not.
She smiles at them, because while what's underneath these brothers terrifies her, scares her to death, the surface is relatable to herself. "That...sounds good. Great, actually. That sounds great. I could use the extra target practise." Her grin is wicked.
Dean looks slightly taken aback by her enthusiasm. "Remind me not to get on her bad side," he whispers to his brother, and Allison moves past him, feeling like she's found her small patch of calm amidst the chaos of their lives.
That's when they hear the scream.
"So you're a feathered Mesoamerican serpent," Stiles reads out. He's printed out the translated pages from the bestiary, along with whatever else he could find, "That apparently represents the gap between earth and sky."
Jethro stands in the leafy woods looking unimpressed. The preserve is beautiful at this time of year, with the blossoms on the trees, but that's not what they're here for.
Stiles calls it practise. He also calls it 'pushing the supernatural creature to breaking point' but only Scott appears to be aware of that name.
"They used to be worshipped as gods of sun, wind, wisdom and culture and could control elemental energies. It's why he - Quetzalcoatl, the god dude - used to be worshipped, since he, and probably you too - can control rain, wind, sometimes even using the wind to fly. They can - get this - teleport, between dimensions, and sense changes in the atmosphere. Bam." Stiles pumps his fist, "That sound like you or not? You sense energy, can manipulate it, and we all got ourselves a teleportation ride first class!"
"Apparently you have wings," Lydia says snidely from where she stands next to a tree, looking uncomfortable and out of place in the middle of the woods. "Or at least a lot of feathers. In fact I'm surprised you haven't started moulting yet."
Jethro now just looks distinctly uncomfortable. "You guys suck," he announces, "This isn't telling me how to control my powers at all."
"Which is why you're here," Stiles gestures around him, "Here, in the forest, as opposed to in Derek's loft." Because this way at least Derek's loft stays intact. Not that Stiles really cares much about Derek, since the dude abandoned them for South America, but still, at least his loft makes a good base.
"And why are we here?" Lydia asks, "Apart from the fact the werewolves are play-fighting two miles north?"
"Because the forest has the Nemeton in it. That makes it special. More energy. Trees have life to start with, but you have to listen to the energy!"
The dark haired boy doesn't see what Stiles' is getting at. "Listen to the trees." He deadpans.
"Wha- no, okay, okay. Close your eyes."
"What?" Jethro yelps.
"Close your eyes and stand there, okay? Stand there and relax."
"I feel stupid."
"You look stupid."
"Lydia shush. Stand there and listen to the trees rustling. Listen to the breeze, to the forest, to the werewolves howling in the distance despite the fact we told them to go even further so as not to make the townsfolk afraid and scared about wolves in California. So ignore the wolves and just, just listen. Listen and feel."
Stiles has no idea what he's doing, but then again he had no idea with the werewolf thing either but he still helped Scott find an anchor in Allison. He still knows to just let Lydia's senses lead her to the dead body, and he knows he's just got to get Jethro tuned into that next dimension of energy and aura and whatever else and then he can do the rest.
Although maybe not yet. Stiles watches as Jethro stands there, frowning in concentration. He exchanges a helpless glance with Lydia.
"Relax a bit," he calls out.
Jethro shakes his head, "I can't," he says, "It's like there's a spider crawling up my back. Is there a spider crawling up my back? Ugh," he shivers, "It's cold too. It's April, I thought it was meant to be warmer in April?"
Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Just, try to ignore that," he says. "Try and -" he stops, because Jethro is still shivering in little bouts, almost as if he's having a seizure.
"I can't," Jethro frowns, eyes still closed, "There's something-" he breaks off in a choke, eyes opening as he doubles over, gasping for air. His limbs spasm, "There's something dark." he staggers forwards, falling to his knees, brown eyes flashing green. "Something coming." Stiles startles forwards, because this was not what he wanted the training session to turn into.
"Here?" he asks, "Now? What is it? Where?"
Jethro's brown eyes glow eerily, and for a moment a spectrum of florescent green rests like a cloak across him, shimmering in the air like an aurora before fading from sight, "Now." he gasps out, gasping for breath, "Stiles, get the others-"
"Good senses," someone says, the tone unfamiliar and Stiles whirls around. Lydia opens her mouth to scream. It is cut off before it begins with a violent hand gesture. She clutches at her throat, unable to breath.
Stiles has never seen the man before, although he recognises the guy, not from the spiked up blonde hair but from the yellow eyes swirling with black obsidian. He knows the name - Belial. To mean worthless. He's a duke of hell.
A demon.
"Oh-oh fuck." he swears stepping backwards and trying to pull Jethro up weakly by his friend's jacket.
"Awww," the demon croons, tilting his head, "Don't be like that - I just came by to say 'hi'." he grins, flashing his teeth.
To the side Lydia lets out a little whimper and falls to her knees. "Stop it!" Stiles threatens, hoping the wolves can hear or smell them. But Lydia can't scream and they're downwind of the pack.
They won't know anything until it's too late.
"Let her go - you're killing her!"
"And-?" Belial shrugs, stepping forwards. Stiles tugs harder as where Jethro kneels on the ground. "The little banshee can't even manage to find one door!"
"Stop it," Jethro spits out, shoving away Stiles hand and standing, glaring at the demon. Stiles stumbles backwards, and then to the side towards Lydia. He crouches besides her, one hand on her shoulder but there is nothing he can do. She can't breathe. It's like there is an invisible hand around her throat.
She's being strangled again, and he can see that she knows that this time she might not be so lucky.
"Stop it!" Jethro shouts again, hands lashing out as if he's throwing something at the demon. There is a bright green flash that blinds Stiles for a moment. He blinks it away, spotting Jethro's silhouette, arms extended as the energy flickers outwards like a wave.
The demon snarls, eyes flaring yellow and he steps away, the energy dissipating away before it reaches him. Belial bats his hand to one side with one careless flick.
Jethro is flung aside. He hits a tree hard and slumps down, limp. The distraction is enough however, and while Stiles still blinks away bright spots, Lydia breathes in a lungful of air, shoulders sagging in relief.
"Lyds, are you okay, can you see me?" he waves a hand in front of her face as she blinks despondently, disconnected and lightheaded. "Lydia?" he asks.
For a moment her gaze focusses sharply on him and he sees her mouth his name. Then her sight drifts past him to something over his shoulder. Just as she finally opens her mouth to scream, fingers dig into Stiles' collar and yank him backwards.
The wail stops them all in their tracks, Isaac and Scott mid-brawl. They falls down onto the dirt, heads looking up, disorientated. The cry cuts off violently and suddenly but all four wolves know what they heard.
"Did you hear that?" Isaac asks, rather unnecessarily.
"Is that-?" Nate asks, already jogging down. "Are the others-?"
"Lydia. Something's wrong." Scott sums it all up, wriggling out from under Isaac, on his feet and making like a bullet down the preserve.
The ground falls away from under him as the demon drags him back. His back lands heavily on the ground as he is slammed down, Belial turning back to Lydia with an exaggerated sigh. The demon lashes out, and Lydia's banshee wail is cut out as Belial knocks her aside. She falls limply to the ground.
Stiles attempts to scramble upwards, pushing himself backwards as the yellow-eyed demon turns to him. He has no words, his biggest defence having left him in panic as Belial starts towards him.
"Why so scared?" the demon asks as Stiles flounders, slipping and despite his attempt to get away they both know there is no chance. The wolves are too far away, even if they did hear Lydia's scream. "You're just sitting there, waiting to be rescued - don't you get tired of that?"
Hands clench in the collar of his plaid shirt as the demon reaches him, leaning over as he crouches down next to him. Stiles finds his voice, "No, not really, I tend to live longer with people around to save my ass."
The demon laughs, and the fingers in Stiles' collar twist tighter and cruelly as the demon shifts his weight over until he is straddling Stiles, pinning him down. Stiles kicks but the demon's boot stamps down on his leg and stops that pretty quickly. His hands flail out and the demon lets go of his collar, only to reach out and twist. Stiles is vaguely aware of something cracking as he sinks back down, letting out a gasp of pain. "It would be much more fun…" Belial suggests, "If your little pack were here. But as it is…"
The demon punches him in the face. His head knocks around to one side, grazing slightly against some rocks on the ground, but that is nothing compared to the bruises and swelling he is going to have later. The demon lets go his collar fully to punch him again, the other side now so that his head feels like a punching bag.
"Now this?" Yellow-eyes leers at him. "This is fun." Stiles' head snaps to the side under the force of another blow, so hard it feels like his neck might snap. "Not like those bitches you hang around with." Another punch. His teeth rattle. "You're the weak link. Why do you think I'm here? Why do you think I'd target you - I mean - you're not special, you're nothing." the demon sneers, one hand grasping Stiles' throat and turning him so that he can't look anywhere but the yellow eyes about him. His hands thrash uselessly. "Don't you see?" he hisses, like a snake, "That's the point. Nobody cares about you. You're going to be our warning for your pack to stay away. I mean, even the other human - Argent - she has some skills going for her but you?" the demon's thumb traces Stiles' jawline, "You have nothing. Little boy who runs with wolves-" Belial's thumb slips up until it presses against Stiles' lips, his teeth below. With exaggerated movement the demon traces the curve of his mouth towards the left side of Stiles' face. "Don't you want to be one? I'm sure I could arrange it…?"
Stiles tries to bite him, only to have his head slammed down to the side, leaving him dazed. Obviously irritated the demon somehow acquires a knife between one blink and the next, and Stiles can feel the cold metal pressed against the corner of his mouth.
"Don't be like that," the demon grins, "It's simple," he hums, "Take the teeth and push in fangs." Belial flashes his eyes, and Stiles feels the knife slip, tearing at the corner of his mouth and curling up along to the right along the left side of his face. It stings as the knife twists a path along his jawline, leaving behind a jagged lopsided smile. The demon lifts the knife up, licking at the blood on the blade, "Rip the nails and sew on claws. Boy who runs with wolves, shouldn't you be one?"
He laughs, short and harsh and buries the blade downwards. It sinks into his shoulder, pinning him to the ground and Stiles can't even focus on it, it's so close. He can't even feel it really, except that would be a lie because it burns in a slow sharp piercing ache. A cry escapes his throat. That hurts too though, to even open his mouth, because the demon has just given him half a Glasgow smile. He can feel it bleeding out, like tears. It smarts, and he prays to whatever god is out there that it's not deep, that the skin isn't cut completely.
He doesn't dare move, trying to stop it bleeding out. He feels sick and he can taste the blood on his tongue.
As if sensing this, Belial digs his fingers into the wound, and Stiles can almost feel the flesh tearing, making the wound bigger. It's a bitter sting, and with a hollow stomach Stiles' feels himself draining away there and then. He fights in a breath, something warm running down the back of his throat and making him gag. "You know you're kind of pretty," the demon muses, "Tell me... have you spread your legs for your alpha yet?" His smile is sneering as his other hand presses down on Stiles' throat.
His vision blurs.
Fuck, he thinks, I'm going to die.
"No one's gonna save you know," the demon mocks, "You know you're not really part of the pack - don't you?"
Any breath he might have had left rushes out of him. The world blurs until all he can see is the yellow eyes leering at him.
"Oh," the demon's grin is bloodthirsty, "You didn't you think that you were one of them? Did you?"
"I am." he doesn't know how he manages to say it, because that is definitely blood on his tongue and down his throat, "I am."
"So where are there?" the demon's fingers clamp down tighter and he leans down, "Where are you precious pack now?"
"Right here!" and it's Scott's voice, Stiles thinks with relief. It's Scott and the others and he still can't fucking breath.
"Hey!" someone calls and above him the sky blurs, blue and grey and yellow lightning and yellow eyes and if this is what dying feels like it sucks. It feels like he is fucking high.
"Hey Belial!" It sounds a bit like Sam Winchester, Stiles considers as the iron grip on his throat vanishes, the weight on his chest lightening.
He fights for a few moments to maintain his swimming vision, but it's too warm, too hot and he can't breathe. He sucks in dry air, jaw aching and finally even his vision blurs, fading to black. He tries to hold on but it's no use.
He passes out.