Warnings: Alternate Universe. Alternate Interpretation of Mythology. Pure Self-Indulgence. WIP. Non-Linear Narrative. Limited POV. Outsider POV. Dean With Powers. BAMF Dean. Protective Sam. Protective Dean. Protective Castiel. Free Will vs. God's Plan. Literally Everyone Fucks Up God's Plan. Especially Dean. Rumors. Gossip.
Parts 1-5
1.
Never before has a righteous man shed blood in hell, it is said.
That is not to say that no righteous man has ever entered Hell, for indeed the righteous are no more or less tempted by blood and power and love than any other human. And if there motivations differ, that difference won't matter in the end, not in the history books and certainly not to the hell hounds that inevitably come for them.
That is not to say that no righteous man has ever ended on the rack, the tattered and broken remains of a once pure soul unrecognizable against the black taint surrounding it, corrupting it, breaking it. Until all he, all it knows is pain, so all-encompassing nothing may have ever, will ever exist beyond it.
That is not to say that no righteous man has ever taken up the knife, has ever given in, has cracked, broken, shattered. Has never risen again, a crumbled ruin of itself, beyond repair or salvation. Has never become what they once despised, never turned against their fellow souls and excelled as monsters in the pit.
That is not to say that no righteous man has ever carved up a soul inside out, has never taken it apart and crushed it into nothingness with cruel delight. For to say this would be an untenable lie, one even the lowest of demons must be aware of if they have retained any room for logical thought.
The right way, the only way to free Lucifer has been known for as long as the Light-Bringer has fallen. Some may have followed him out of fear or opportunism, but many — too many — have followed out of love. Lilith and Azrael are only two names in a long list of those loyal and desperate enough to set in motion a chain of events that will not end in anything for certain, except their own demise. And so, the kind and the righteous have been falling for as long as humanity has known evil.
Yet the first seal remains unbroken and so the only possible explanation is this: No righteous man has shed blood in hell, for everyone — everyone who matters — knows that this is what is needed to set Lucifer free.
{When a Righteous Man sheds blood in hell, it is said. Nowhere is it specified that just any righteous man will suffice. Only that there will be a Man who breaks the first seal and he will be Righteous.
And so perhaps there was never a way for anyone, be they demon, angel or more, to kickstart the apocalypse at any other point in time than precisely when it was meant to happen.
Would that comfort you?}
Never before has a righteous man shed blood in hell, the demons whisper, gleefully, excited, foreboding. [and broken the first seal, is what they mean.]
Like most words uttered by a demon, they are no simple lie. They are no simple truth.
2.
Sammy is seven and his world is simple.
There's Dean [big brother, warm, safe, always, there, home].
There's the Impala [Dean's favorite place in the whole world, unbearably hot and stuffy on long summer days, uncomfortable, sweaty clothes sticking to his skin, Dean elbowing his side and sneaking him little soldier figurines], the car Sammy spends the very most time in.
There's Dad [Dean mumbling 'Sir', all serious and determined, Dean reaching for his knife, Dad's gun, Dean stepping between Sammy and the monsters prowling in cellars and dark spaces, Dean telling him bedtime stories until Dad gets back from work, Dean walking him to school and waiting for him when he's finished, Dean helping him with his homework 'cause Dad's busy].
There's Mom [Dean's wistful voice, eyes soft as they pull Sammy closer to tell him another story Dad isn't supposed to hear, Dean's hands, warm and so very careful, as they caress the old pictures of smiling faces Sammy knows but doesn't recognize].
Sammy is seven and his world is simple. It begins and ends with Dean.
3.
Some days, most days, Jo hates Dean Winchester.
It's nothing personal. Or so she tries to tell herself. Dean's a nice guy, a good guy, and maybe that's what makes it burn so much worse. If he was an unapologetic asshole. If he was a cold-hearted, calculating bastard. If he was batshit crazy — the way far too many hunters are, she's seen enough of them, served enough of them, and maybe there are days where she wonders if those men and women aren't much more responsible for her mother's refusal to let her hunt than her dad's death ever was — that would have made it easier to accept.
Because then it wouldn't have been personal. Jo could've lived with that. She could've accepted that she miscalculated, misjudged Dean's character and moved on with her life, determined to do better. It would've been her fault. Her mistake.
But it wasn't.
She put her faith in Dean Winchester because he's nice, because he's kind, because he knows what he's doing. [Because he looks at her like he sees her, really sees her, and maybe that makes him the rarest kind of man she's met yet.]
It gets her tied to a chair, threatened with rape and almost killed because Dean cannot, will not put her safety above his brother's.
Not even when said brother is possessed by a demon. [What if Sam hadn't been?]
A hunter should know better, is what the cynical, bitter part of her sneers. And hell, Dean does. Jo sees it in his eyes, that agony, that terrible choice nobody should be forced to make but the world somehow puts in front of people time and time again.
It's that moment more than anything else, that truly confirms it for her: Dean Winchester is exactly the man she thought, knew, believed him to be. And Sam? Sam is his line in the sand.
[Jo could've told Bobby the moment Sam died that there is nothing Dean won't do for his brother. She could've told Sam that there's nothing Dean would put in front of him. Not even his morals, his consciousness, his soul. But what good will the words of a mostly-stranger do, when everything Dean's done up to this point hasn't clued them in yet?]
Some days, Jo hates Dean Winchester because when his brother threatened her, Dean hesitated. He stopped fighting [for her]. Because when she closes her eyes, sometimes she still dreams of Sam's vicious whispers against her ears, of the horrorconfusiondisbeliefresignation in Dean's eyes.
It's not fair. Jo doesn't know what she'd do if she had to make the same choice, if she had to weight the life of her mother against someone, anyone else. But the world isn't a fair place, hunters know that better than everyone.
On those days, Jo hates Dean Winchester because she trusted him to be better and he failed [her].
[Most days, she hates Dean Winchester because she would, will do it again.]
4.
Dean knows nightmares. More specifically, he knows this nightmare.
No matter how many bodies they find, how many people they fail to save, how many monstrous acts they witness, there's just something about this particular dream that makes it stand out. Even among all the blood, gore and horror, Dean's mind has become over the years.
Maybe it's because it's one of the first Dean remembers having. The first, if he's honest. Older even than the ones that end with his mother's wide eyes and burning flames, though Dean has a hard time pinpointing how he can know for sure that he's had this one first.
It's not even a very scary one, is the thing.
Dean!
Dean winces.
Sometimes it's Sammy's voice. Sometimes it's Dad. Sometimes it's a stranger he ran into, their most recent motel manager, a witness on a case. Sometimes they're angry or scared. [Those are the worst]. Sometimes they're excited, eager.
Dean! Dean!
Dean turns on his heels, but the voice is everywhere. There's nothing else there. Nowhere to go, to or from.
Dean's not afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing that will hurt him. Not here. But there's something wrong all the same. Dean can tell. He doesn't know how he knows that, doesn't know what it is, just knows it's important.
Dean!
He won't find them, Dean knows that. He never does. And he never forgets that he doesn't find them. He never forgets that it's all a dream.
[He never stops searching.]
Dean!
5.
Every author who has invested weeks into pinning down a stubborn character in their effort to finally get them to the point they need them to be to move the plot along will tell you: The end result you've spent months and years of your life picturing doesn't ever to turn out exactly the way you imagined it. Just like a portrait an artist has spent her entire life slaving away at won't ever capture the model perfectly as it is, will always hold a little too much of the one wielding the brush to be anything but a reflection of what the model is to them.
Sometimes those end results disappoint us.
[Sometimes they take our breath away.]
And so perhaps at some point there comes a time where you, the creator, have to ask yourself: What is it? This great, terrible, unnamed force that leads your stories astray? Reshapes your sculptures right underneath your fingertips? Mixes up your colors unintentionally?
Is it fate? Wiggling itself through the subconsciousness of even the most stubborn of creatures?
Is it coincidence? A random combination of your surroundings and inner nature, forever unable to predicted with a hundred percent certainty?
Is it your own will? Hidden from even your conscious, focused mind, revealing and sharing a bit of yourself with the world, a part you didn't even realize you have?
Is it something else? A peak behind the curtain of the universe, if only one can be bothered to pick up the clues?
{If it's the true answer you want, then alright, here it is: Take the answer that comforts you. The one that brings a smile to your lips and tears to your eyes. The one that gives you faith. Hold on to that answer with all your strength and then some and don't ever let go.
That, my dear, is the purest truth the world can afford to give you.}
It starts with a plan that is well thought-out and brilliantly executed. A simple, complex, breathtaking row of falling dominos, working their way through generation after generation, uniting cosmic forces as much as they tear them apart. So many options, so many coincidences that are not, cannot be set in stone, yet occur in some shape or form along the way. Contingency after contingency after contingency, plots and sub-plots so closely entwined even He occasionally threatens to lose sight of where it all leads.
[It starts with a spur-of-the-moment inspiration. A wrinkle in the tapestry of the universe He doesn't bother to smooth out, because why should He? Where would be the fun in that? What will it matter in the end?]
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