Sam lays on the ground, stunned, confused. His mind moves sluggishly, thoughts swirling around each other, colliding and overlapping and none of them make any sense together. Apart, they're all terrifying. He thinks about moving but his limbs are too heavy.
Someone appears over him, just a shadow against the bright light. There are sounds, maybe words, but his own breath is the loudest thing he can hear. Something wet and warm rains down on his forehead. Sam tries to speak and some of it gets in his mouth. Tastes like copper. Tastes like power.
And he burns.
Alastair chants, a frantic litany of words tripping over his tongue. He slashes his hand and lets the blood anoint Samael's head and mouth. The Boy-King screams, arching up off the ground like it sears through him. He rolls to his knees and tears off his shirt.
"That bitch." There's a cleansing sigil glowing on Samael's back. A very skilled magic user has been trying to remove the demonic taint. Had almost succeeded from the looks of it. He's going to have to expend an unnecessary amount of effort to break whatever's affected Samael. Alastair uses his knife to carve a deep cut down the center of it, then reopens the wound on his hand and mixes their blood. Sam raises up on his knees and howls like a wounded animal. The green of his eyes are swallowed by darkness as the taint surges back. Alastair almost loses himself. Samael craves more, wants all that he has. His power sweeps out of him through the cut on his hand and there's something he should be remembering-
Alastair rips his hand away, stumbling back, dizzy and disconnected. Drained.
The howling stops. Samael stands, his movements fluid and easy, as if gravity is a suggestion he's currently humoring. He cracks his neck, left then right, the sounds loud in the still room.
"Ruby." Samael places his hand over Alastair's heart and replaces everything he lost and then some. It's the most painful thing Alastair has ever felt. He strains at the overload and power arcs between his fingers tips. The world smells metallic and every moment is the most exquisite form of agony.
After an eternity Samael releases him and Alastair flails weakly on the ground, sucking in unneeded air. He feels like he could destroy the world with a thought. Like he would follow Samael wherever he might lead because they are invincible.
He staggers to his feet and laughs. Samael smiles-a feral expression tinged with gory anticipation. At the very least Alastair will have his revenge.
Ruby feels her spell break. She has so much of herself wrapped up in it that it rips out a part of her, power she'll never regain; she stumbles into the wall, her world spinning. The body she's in starts gagging instinctively.
Shit.
She feels them coming. Samael's wrath precedes him, colors the hallways and sets the hell hounds braying. Alastair is far more subtle; she'll never know where he is until the second knife is in her.
She flees to her room, activating spells she left behind to impede their progress and gain her valuable seconds. There's a bag underneath her bed, packed and ready for this very occasion and without it she won't survive. She also needs her knife, and the two crystals on her bedside table.
She's just gathered everything when door opens and Alastair steps in. Good; she has a chance.
"Ambitious," he says, taking in everything. He is wholly unconcerned and feels...different. Changed. She has no idea what happened to him, but it frightens her. "It never would have worked."
"Yes. It would've." She'd seen the signs even if no one else had. She was bringing Sam back and pushing Samael to the side. The fact that's he's here first, asked Sam for the right of first blood and won it tells her that much. She rubs the crystals together and feels the spell in them activate, warming the quartz and making them vibrate in her hands.
Alastair steps forward and she dashes the crystals at her feet. They explode with enough force to tear a hole in the fabric of the world. Ruby's sucked into the vortex the spell creates, a portal to anywhere-but-here. A random destination that no one can track.
She hits rocky, arid ground with a thud, rolls along the ground until she hits a rock, something in her arm making a sickening, wet squelch. She takes a moment to orient herself. It's night, the stars are bright points in the sky, and the air is freezing. If she were human, she'd die of exposure as she's had the good luck to appear in the middle of a desert.
She takes stock of her body. She's scraped off a good chunk of the skin on her left arm in addition to shattering the ulna. She pushes a piece of ragged, exposed bone back under the skin. She has no practice in setting bones but she manipulates what's left into a vague semblance of normalcy. It hurts to the point where she can't quite ignore it and her body starts to sweat. She watches her blood pool on the ground below her, the arid soil soaking up the moisture.
Enough. She has work to do.
Ruby turns in a circle, trying to see if there are any lights in the distance that mean civilization. Nothing. So she picks a direction and starts walking.
Dean has no idea where he is. The air is wetter than it should be, the temperature much colder. Fuck, Zachariah could have transported him anywhere. Another country, even.
Something lightly brushes against Dean's back and the feeling of distortion makes his vision swim. When he focuses again he's not where he was. He looks around, on guard for another of Zachariah's tricks, but there's no one there. He's just be transported somewhere new.
"Anna? Cas?" Snatching him from right under Zachariah's nose would be a pretty ballsy move, and his two angels aren't really known for taking risks. He gets no answer. There's really nothing left to do but start moving.
He's at the base of a steep hill. The ground crumbles underneath his boots, the short grass not enough to keep the soil together. Swearing, Dean stumbles over the crest.
"Son of a bitch." Dean's in Thrieve, a thousand miles away from where he's supposed to be. He has no idea why they dropped him here but-
"Dean?" Danny's hands are full of wood. He's got a large purple bruise over half his face. And he's looking at Dean like he's seen a ghost.
"Jesus, Danny. Is Mer okay?"
"No, come on." He starts down the path and Dean follows. "Sam was there, he tried to kill her, but he didn't and she won't tell us what happened. And then you were gone and we all ended up here and we're freaking out."
Fuck. That...that is not good. Uriel's comments come back with tormenting clarity.
"How did everyone get here?" Here is what they've dubbed Bobby's house, the one they visit when they need some esoteric book or to do some serious research, on the outskirts of Thrieve. Only a handful of people know it exists and it's got the most heavy-duty anti-demon security they can manage, even with the protective circle.
"We're assuming Angel Express?" Danny says.
"Me too," Dean sighs.
"Yeah. It's, uh, intense," Danny settles on. The back door flies open upon their approach, someone barreling out at full speed.
"Dan, we need-holy shit." Trix trips over his feet he stops so fast. Dean grabs him by the arm to stop him from falling on his face. "You disappeared! We thought Sam got you! Where'd you go? How'd you get here?"
"He didn't. Where's Mer?" He pushes past Trix and into the house. It's fairly open and simple; it's not wired as there's no electricity here, just the fire and a series of camp lights and oil lamps.
He spies her sleeping on the couch in front of the fireplace, hidden under a couple of blankets. There's a cut on her chin with a dark bruise forming on around. Her bottom lip is swollen; probably has a cut from her teeth on the inside. He touches the tender spots lightly but Mer still flinches away.
He feels the moment she wakes up, her entire body tensing for action. He stays still and immobile until she identifies him as a non-threat.
"Dad." She tries to sit up and gasps, clutching her ribs. Dean helps her up and slips a second pillow behind her back. She won't let go of his shirt.
He does his own check of her ribs to make sure they aren't cracked. She stifles a cry but the sound still sears through him. How can the fight Hell when Heaven's lurking in the shadows? Zachariah made it clear they expect Dean to fall in line for the end game or face the consequences. And what happens if Heaven and Hell are working together?
A chill goes through Dean because there's no way the angels snatching him and Sam showing up were independent events. That was a concerted, joint effort. He doesn't think Sam knew-Sam would choose grabbing Dean over killing Mer any day. ...right?
Trix slips in with a cold pack and salve. He hands it to Dean, offering Mer a small smile before he grabs Danny and drags him out, leaving the two of them alone. Dean holds the compress to her ribs, winces in sympathy when she hisses. They'll need to wrap 'em tomorrow.
Mer takes over holding the compress and Dean starts rubbing the salve over her bruises. He smells comfrey, arnica, and what he suspects is mullein. Identifying the ingredients and going through their properties-a hold over from the time Leslie thought he should learn how to brew his own medicine-keeps him from completely freaking the fuck out.
He takes his time, making sure he doesn't miss any spots. But there's a question burning between them that he can't ignore anymore. Mer's eyes are closed, her breathing even and steady. Not asleep.
"How'd you get away?" Mer's expression oscillates between torment and attempted stoicism. She never opens her eyes but tears leak out of the corners.
"He...he stopped."
"What?" She looks at him, so broken that he automatically responds in kind, reacting to her pain as if it's his own.
"It-it wasn't him. It was Atta." She loses her control and her sobs have to hurt, straining cracked ribs and tender bruises. Dean pulls her close, trying to be gentle. "Atta came back. He came back and I just ran away."
Dean leaves Mer on the couch, the fire banked for the night. He picks one of the empty bedrooms off the main room and flips on the overhead light. He toes off his boots and pulls off his shirt. The carpet is incredibly soft.
He wanders into the bathroom, already steamed up from the shower. The water is almost scalding but that's how Dean likes it.
Dean lets the water beat down on his shoulders, loosening the tension there. It feels so good.
He rubs shampoo on his head, the faint scent of orange pervading the room.
Dean reaches up and kneads his traps, the self-massage not quite what he's looking for. He moans when strong fingers dig into tense, knotted muscles. God, that's brilliant. Dean tilts his head a little to the left and the fingers obligingly follow his lead. He has a tendency to get large knots on the right side of his neck, the muscle bulging obscenely from the tension. If he lets it go too long he starts getting crippling, nauseating headaches.
The fingers coax him into leaning back, into their pressure and against the firm body behind him. Scalding water sluices off his chest, just enough splashing on his neck to keep the heat up.
"Sam," Dean sighs. Lips brush against his neck. He lets himself relax fully. Sam's hands slide down his chest and come to rest over his stomach. Sam nibbles on his ear and Dean huffs a laugh.
There's something he should be remembering, but thoughts float away the second he has them. All he can focus on is how nice the shower is, how wonderful the heat. His mind is as thick as the steam fogging up the bathroom.
"There's something you should know," Sam whispers. Dean shivers at the feeling of Sam's hot breath over his ear and the seductive promise of Sam's tone. He tries to get Sam to do it again but he won't, would rather trail kisses down Dean's neck and bite lightly at the juncture of his neck. "Ask me." Sam's fingers slide along Dean's obliques and settle against his hipbones.
"Ask you what?" Dean asks softly. He pushes his ass into Sam's erection and grins when Sam's grip tightens. He hopes there are bruises; he likes bruises.
"What you should know." Dean wiggles and Sam steps back, holding him at arm's length, body too far away, until Dean sighs and complies.
"Fine, what should I know?" Sam propels them forward, smashing Dean into the wall and pinning him there. He presses against Dean's back, hotter than the water, and the tile is bitingly cold against Dean's front. Dean struggles, the breath knocked out of him. He snaps his head back into Sam's nose, hears the bone break. Feels Sam's blood drip like lava onto his skin. Sam just laughs and digs his teeth onto Dean's shoulder, drawing blood.
Dean pushes off the wall and sends them both falling over the edge of the tub, Dean landing hard on top. He throws a few elbows getting up, enjoying Sam's pained grunt, and scrambles away from Sam's obnoxiously long limbs.
They've fought and fucked and blurred the line between both in these waking-dreams but this is different. The difference between sparring and fighting to maim.
Dean doesn't get far. Sam catches up with him and pushes him into the wall; Dean thinks that, were this reality, he'd have matching bruises on either side of his face Sam digs his fingers into the thin skin at Dean's wrist and then spins him. He looks up at Sam-
Black eyes with vivid green irises. Dean tries to jerk away but Sam holds him in place. There's a too-tight hand around Dean's throat, controlling and unrelenting.
"I'm coming for you." Sam kisses him, brutal and merciless, and Dean falls into darkness.
Alastair arrives at the given coordinates late to make a point. Someone has drawn a smiley face with a blood splotch where he's supposed to stand. Cute. Probably Uriel, who is five inches away from falling. Alastair would happily help him out if he weren't so fucking useful as an angel.
He feels the once-familiar jerk of a heavenly transportation spell pull him through the different aspects of the world and deposit him between. His senses are dulled though his manipulation of the space around him has increased exponentially.
The room they've dropped him in is the very definition of ostentatious. What the humans would call 'Old World.' Gilt furniture and hand-carved trim and obnoxious murals painted on the walls. Upon closer inspection, the murals all depict fluffy-winged angels with halos playing harps. Clearly designed to hold some hapless human and decorated by someone with a sharper wit than Uriel.
"You failed to deliver." Alastair straightens slowly, keeping his back to the two angels just to show that he's not intimidated by them. He conjures a red Sharpie and sketches a few improvements onto the painting. Only when he's well and truly done does he turn around and smirk. Uriel is there but the one who captures his attention is the other. Zachariah. A relatively low-ranking seraph who navigated the rigidly bureaucratic hierarchy of Heaven and is basically running the garrison on Earth. He'd make a fantastic demon.
"It seems we both had traitors in our midst." Alastair manifests a bottle of alcohol and seats himself at the table.
"We know who they are," Uriel says menacingly. Uriel makes fantastic cannon fodder.
"And we are using all of our resources to find them," Zachariah says. Alastair salutes him with his drink; so the angels had more than one traitor working against them. Interesting. Given the angelic propensity for blind faith Alastair wouldn't estimate the number to be above three individuals working against the common cause.
"And how's that going?" he asks mockingly.
"I suspect as well as the hunt for your traitor." Zachariah favors him with a mocking smile.
"She may be running, but she's powerless now. A neutralized threat. Did you bring me to your nether regions to chat about our minions' lack of perspective or something worth my time?"
"We are displeased with the pace of this Apocalypse. It does not appear to be gaining momentum."
"Meandering towards stagnation." That's as close as Alastair will ever go to agreeing with an angel, simply on principle.
"And what are we going to do about it?" Zachariah asks.
"We?" Alastair enjoys the way Zachariah's face pinches. His eyes almost disappear. He lets the word and all its implications hang between them for some time, but one should not play waiting games with immortal beings. "If we are going to do something then the first move is yours."
"What do you want?" Zachariah asks. He almost seems amused.
"Dean Winchester. Samael will not budge until he has his consort at his side. Nothing will sway or distract him. And trickery doesn't work; he's annoyingly perceptive for a pawn."
"We need him."
"You have a spare."
"This is how it's supposed to be, brother against brother. How it's always been and always will be. Besides, the symmetry is appealing." Not to mention Zachariah can't stand Dean's obnoxious offspring. She's suspiciously powerful and a foil to all of his best-laid plans.
"Appealing. You're going to derail the Apocalypse for appealing." Alastair's lip curls in disdain. It's very human.
"It's not our problem that you can't control your-"
"The problem is that Sammy loves Deanie. Doesn't just lust after his tight little ass and fairly average-sized cock. He's obsessive and possessive and wants to hurt your too-pretty Michael suit in the worst ways and he still loves him with every fiber of his black little heart and there is nothing I can do to exorcise it. Believe me, I have tried, but they've sunk so far in each other the loss will either drive them mad or kill them. That is both of our problem if you want this thing to happen."
Zachariah steeples his fingers and regards Alastair evenly. Inside he rages with vicious satisfaction. He warned Dean about going against them.
"We will use the girl as Heaven's instrument. Samael can have his consort. We withdraw all protection from Dean Winchester." A scroll appears on the table, the golden lettering of their pact appearing before their eyes. A drop of Zachariah's blood and a dash of Alastair's and it is done. Alastair raises his tumbler in a toast as the two angels disappear. It's time to light a fire under this apocalypse, and he knows just how to do it.