And the bullets are flying, the body count's rising/
And everyone's dyin' to know, oh Santa, why?
-The Night Santa Went Crazy (Weird Al)
The farmhouse looked innocent enough, softly pale yellow with white trim and a slate-colored roof. Multiple tall windows with light curtains hung inside for every room. But Sam remembered all-too well the interior of Lisa Harrow's house, and he regarded those curtains on the upper floor with profound wariness. Mom and Dean seemed more relaxed about it than he was, probably because they hadn't been upstairs in the other place, and didn't know what it had been like.
However, they all noted the suspicious state of the Christmas decorations. Unlike at Harrow's house, there actually were decorations, most of which had religious significance. There was a nativity scene, but the baby Jesus was missing, and all the other figures had repulsive expressions drawn on them with some kind of black marker. A big plastic donkey had been planted atop the manger. There wasn't an Angel either, and someone had broken off all the points of the star attached to the model stable.
There was an actual barn off to the right of the house, to the front of which had been nailed strings of Christmas lights. Sam realized they had not been hung at random, but actually spelled out 'Hell's Bells.' Which seemed to not only confirm the presence of a Demon, but also struck Sam as tacky, though it was surpassed in sheer tackiness by the pair of Christmas light reindeer mounting each other just beyond the steps of the wrap around porch of the farmhouse itself. The décor was more juvenile than horrifying, but Sam had long ago learned that Demons with a childish sense of humor were frequently the most abhorrent of the damned to actually deal with.
Collectively, the Winchesters had exited the Impala some distance back from the house, not wanting the noise of the vehicle to draw attention. On the chill air of the early, predawn December morning, they could all smell the acrid tang of death. A brief investigation by Dean revealed that there were dead and rotting animals out in the fields on either side of the rutted dirt driveway.
By the evidence, the owner of the property had kept a couple of cows, horses and a flock of chickens, all of which (as well as any wildlife that had made the mistake of venturing onto the property) had been brutally slain and mutilated, then left out in the fields to rot away from prying eyes. If any of the Winchesters had still doubted that a Demon had possessed the home owner or else murdered them and set up shop here, sating its violent urges on animals to avoid revealing itself by gutting people, that doubt was completely erased.
They approached the farmhouse steadily but cautiously, noticing as they did so that the smell of dead animals rapidly faded into the background, and they probably would not have noticed at all if they'd driven up to the farmhouse in a closed vehicle instead of approaching on foot.
Mom broke off to investigate the barn, but shortly returned with a shake of her head, indicating nothing of interest lay in that direction. Once on the porch, Sam and Mom peeled off to either side of the door while Dean tested it, avoiding touching the brown and dead wreath hung over the peephole with care.
It didn't surprise anyone that the door was unlocked. What need had a Demon for mere locks on a door? Any ordinary human stood no chance against a Demon, and any Hunter would not be thwarted by a lock for more than a moment, not long enough to be worth the bother of engaging it.
The foyer was clear, slightly dusty, which indicated that the family had been dead long before the yuletide season, meaning The Demon had done that decorating on its own, presumably for the giggles.
The Demon was clearly prepared for the possibility that some wayward door-to-door salesman or someone with a broken down car or something might show up unexpectedly in such a manner that made it an inconvenience to kill them, and it wanted to be able to open the door without alarming anyone, so it hadn't left any bodies in the foyer.
Once inside, however, the smell hit them almost immediately. Mom put a hand to her nose reflexively, and Sam gagged on the stench. Dean muffled a cough. They had to stand for a moment to steel themselves against the odor before continuing on into the house.
Through a swinging door to the kitchen, they found the first of the bodies they knew were there. It was a teenage boy, laid upon the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, a cleaver stuck in his chest. The blood had spread across his body, over the counter and dripped to the floor, though now it was dried and black. His face was blotchy and his features distorted. The smell now they were closer was unbearable and Sam backed out of the kitchen to avoid retching.
Because it was indoors, most carrion-eating wildlife couldn't get in, though it certainly smelled like something had been using the kitchen for a toilet, possibly a feral cat or a raccoon or some other creature that was probably dead outside now for daring to enter the abode of a Demon.
Every human instinct Sam had told him to run, to get out now while he still could. The instincts of the Hunter said that this was the work of a Demon. It wasn't uncommon for Demons to slay the families of the people they possessed, usually unnecessarily violently.
The kitchen opened out into a dining area that then rejoined the main hall. Dean went through there, cautiously edging around the island counter, while Mom and Sam went back. Mom split off to the living room, while Sam took the stairs again.
Unlike Lisa Harrow's house, this was a very ordinary looking home, with normal family photos on the walls, the appropriate number of completely non-suggestive knickknacks on the available flat surfaces, and table lamps that didn't immediately make Sam think of Dean's porn collection. Somehow, the normalcy that had once filled this house only served to make it feel more perverted.
There had been an normal family here once, people just living their normal lives. Then a Demon and a witch had come, taken that from them, and made this place into a house of death and murder.
In the upstairs bedrooms, Sam found the wife and daughter of the man the Demon had possessed, and saw it had satisfied more than just its lust for violence before it killed them.
The Demon regarded Castiel with a kind of vicious curiosity.
He knew he had angered it earlier, understood that the sudden release of all its pent up rage when it had attacked him had generated a fixation. It was hungry for violence, starved for death, he could see it in The Demon's eyes. The majority of Hellspawn fed on pain and suffering, and it was difficult for them to suppress their desires for long. This Demon had likely last sated its taste for death on whatever family the man it was wearing had, and it had since likely restrained itself.
Besides that of course, Demons were built for the express purpose of making war with Angels. The Demon undoubtedly hated Castiel as much as he despised it.
"Harrow thinks we should give you another day," the Demon was saying, "But her greed and ignorance blind her. I know you, Fallen Seraph, though you would not know me. I can hear it when you scream, that certain... absence of despair. You're just waiting to do what it is that you do best."
Castiel had no idea what The Demon was on about. What he did know was that at this point The Demon's killing him would come as a welcome relief. So he simply lay where he was and stared impassively at The Demon, knowing his lack of response would only egg it on.
"What a puzzling creature you are," it purred, "One of the only Angels to storm the very gates of Hell, and steal a soul which was ours by ancient right," the Demon's face twitched, as though it was trying to decide whether it should smile or laugh or both, and instead it merely grimaced, "But not soon enough to prevent the Apocalypse. From what I've heard about you, that's been the hallmark of your entire your sordid career. Never quite fast enough. Never quite strong enough."
It seemed The Demon really did know who he was, at least enough to know he had been one of the few who had been at the epicenter of the Apocalypse.
"And now look at you, an exceptionally pathetic specimen of Angel-kind," the Demon scoffed, "I mean, what other Angel would have stumbled into that witch's trap? Hell, are any of them even on Earth, or remotely interested in humans anymore? Is even one Angel up there bothering to listen to prayer? Why? They haven't got any wings, their organization is shot- oh, and their numbers drop every time they come to Earth, usually because you skewer them."
Castiel was too tired for this. Couldn't think clearly. Didn't dare respond. The Demon was purposely tormenting him, intentionally clawing at his emotions before it tore him apart.
"Ever since I first went solo," The Demon continued, "I've always done my research. And I've found that the most dangerous Demon Hunters of them all were the mighty Winchesters, the ones who kickstarted the Apocalypse and saw to the release of Lucifer himself, then shoved him back in the box, not to be released again until The Darkness descended upon the Earth like a plague. And I wondered how they managed all that. 'Well obviously,' I thought, 'It must have something to do with their pet Angel.' So I learned your name, Castiel. Burned it into my memory, and scoured Hell and Earth for anyone who knew about you. And do you know what I found?"
It loved the sound of its own voice, but seemed to enjoy its dramatic pauses even more. Castiel found it a bit tedious, because he already knew the answer to The Demon's question. Still, it hit like a hammer.
"What I found was... an unmitigated failure. You are... without a doubt, the worst Angel to have ever existed. You do know that, right? Lucifer may have spent eons locked in a cage, but at least in his brief moments of freedom he actually did something. You... what is it you've done again?"
The Demon began to shiver with delight, barely able to contain its glee. It hadn't gotten to do any torturing for awhile, and was obviously having a great time.
"And this is the funniest part," the Demon went on, uninterested in what Castiel's answer might be, "You claim that everything you've ever done is for the Greater Good. But with a little bit of extra soul juice... you laid waste to Heaven!" it was so delighted by this particular bit that it laughed.
Let the damned thing talk. Its fate was already sealed. It could kill him when it was done storytelling and cackling, but that wouldn't change the fact that the Winchesters knew where it was now, were coming for it. Its days weren't merely numbered; its time could probably be counted in minutes.
When it recovered sufficiently from its fit of mirth to speak again, the Demon continued from where it had left off, "And I thought to myself, 'Just what in the Hell greater objective good is there than working for Heaven?' At first I couldn't figure it out. Looking at your recent history, it seems that you simply flutter about randomly, sewing chaos and death, like the proverbial butterfly ignorantly creating hurricanes on the other side of the world. Without pattern, without purpose, without meaning..."
The words were getting to him. They were digging into his consciousness, tugging at his tenuous grasp on self-control, fine tuning the dread that had kept an increasingly painful grip on him since the first time the witch worked her spell. He clenched his jaw, and held his silence.
Even though Castiel was facing a wall and not The Demon, he could feel it when The Demon smiled, the lash of cruel energy the action generated.
"But we all know Angels just don't do that sort of thing, not those feathery bastards with the Holier Than Thou sticks up their asses; that's our schtick, Demon stuff. Angels are all about order and restraint. So I dug a little deeper, and when I did I realized that you're not an Angel at all," its tone grew harsh and cold as ice, "You, Fallen Seraph, are nothing but a whore for the supernatural," its smile was as cold as its voice as it added, "and a cheap one at that."
There was a recent add-on to the back of the farmhouse, which they hadn't seen when approaching the front, but which Dean found the door to underneath the stairs just outside the dining room. He at first thought it was a door to the cellar or basement, since that's what under-the-stair doors were usually for, but when he opened it he was confronted with a narrow hallway, which turned out to be the short part of an L-shape. Dean traversed the hallway in silence, half expecting something to come bounding out of the walls at him even though there weren't any ghosts involved that he knew about. But the hallway was claustrophobic even for someone who didn't have a problem with tight spaces, narrow and low-ceilinged and papered with dizzying dusty rose floral and stripe print.
Since it clashed with the overall more relaxed and pleasing aesthetic of the house, and it looked nothing like the "style" Lisa Harrow had in her abode, Dean presumed that this was the Demon's handiwork. He'd always suspected there was something slightly twisted and evil about this sort of wallpaper.
Around the corner, there was a step down off the foundation and the hallway widened out considerably. One wall followed the back of the house, the other was lined with doors spaced at regular intervals which made him think of some kind of asylum. For a moment, he imagined that there was a patient and prisoner behind every closed door, but he shook off the mental image quickly. He had considerable reason to believe there was only one prisoner here.
With so many rooms to check, however, Dean had just about decided to wait for Mom to catch up with him when he heard a crash behind the door almost directly in front of him which was accompanied by the metallic rattle and snap of what sounded like chain, followed by a very organic sounding thud.
Dean went to the door and paused to listen. He heard a voice on the other side that was almost assuredly The Demon. Humans couldn't actually hear the demonic sound of a person possessed, but it was amazing how easy it was to detect the pure evil and hateful malice in the voice once you suspected someone might be a Demon, how clearly you could feel the wicked presence seething in the air.
Slowly, Dean reached for the handle, turned it and eased the door open.
"What all have you had up inside that slutty celestial being of yours?" The Demon was asking, "Leviathans? That special personal Hellfire Lucifer cooked up for Sam Winchester? Lucifer Himself? Hell, even the King of Hell got in on the action for a hot minute, didn't he?"
The Demon stood with its back to the door, facing the wall, pinning whom it addressed with one hand, and holding an Angel Blade in the other. It glanced at the Blade it was holding, grinned malevolently, obviously enjoying some privately held vision of obscenity.
"Hell, I half want to try you out," The Demon said, "See what it's like to ride an Angel," it sighed regretfully and raised the Blade, "But that look you're giving me tells me you've got some kind of plan for taking me out. And I think I should take you out before you have the chance to implement it."
"Too late, you damn son-of-a-bitch," Dean announced.
The Demon turned, and there was frightened recognition in its gaze. Before Dean could get his gun -loaded with Devil's Trap bullets- up however, The Demon caught him and threw him across the room. He slammed into the wall, black spots exploding in his vision.
"I was just going to kill the Angel," The Demon told him, "But I'll take a Winchester too," it laughed with fiendish delight, adding, "I've always liked a good bargain."