Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke.
It was worse than a concussion. Way worse. Sure the nausea, dizziness and splitting headache were there, but merely labeling how he felt right now as a mild traumatic brain injury… somehow just didn't quite cut it. Instead, if he had to put it into words, he would say it felt like someone had taken a hold of his skull and used it as a bowling ball. The only time he could ever remember feeling like this was when a shtriga tried feeding off him as a child. Oh, the memories.
With a groan, Sam righted himself- and immediately fell forward, jolted flat onto his face.
What the- Groggily, he shook his head and tried to peer around himself in the pitch-black darkness, to avail. Once he somewhat had a good sense of which way was up and which way was down, he carefully pushed himself up, leaning back against a wall so he wouldn't fall. Oh. So that was why he couldn't quite get to his feet.
The ground was moving.
Wait a minute. He coughed dryly, suddenly aware of the dirty rag stuck in his mouth, the rough ropes looped around his wrists and the realization wasn't so much like a slap in the face as it was one of those moments in which the inclination was to groan aloud in frustration and annoyance. Not again.
Slowly, cautiously, Sam lowered his ear to the floor of the moving truck. The driver was pretty much ignoring any and every sign announcing the speed limit on the side of the road; he had to be going at least eighty, perhaps even more. The road was smooth, and traveling this fast on this type of terrain could only mean one thing- the interstate. Well, this is just fantastic, he thought sullenly, thumping the heel of his boots roughly against the floor.
He had no idea how long it'd been since he'd last been in the land of the waking and as a result, there was no way for him to guess as to who had him tied up and thrown in the back of their moving truck like some rich kid being held for ransom, or where these people were taking him. He tried to come up with a cognitive map of all the interstates spanning form Bobby's house and the salvage yard in South Dakota, but his head throbbed dully, prevented concentration.
The last thing he remembered, he'd been in the living room, reading over the translations regarding the seal and feeling like the butt of some huge and terribly unfunny joke upon the discovery that he, Sam Winchester, was the intended vessel for Lucifer: the Son of Perdition, the Prince of Darkness, the original enemy of God.
His defeated sigh filled the empty interior space of the box around him and Sam hung his head. Having grown up with a man like John Winchester for a father who'd given him a .44 when he'd said there was something under his bed hardly made Sam a sniveling weakling prone to self-pity. But as of right now, all he could do when there in the back of the moving truck, trussed up like a turkey, was thinking about what shit luck he had.
Mom… Jessica… then Dad and Dean. Dean. His brother who had made a deal to deliver his own soul for the slaughter just to save his little brother's, his brother who had willingly gone and accepted the worst torture imaginable just so that he would be able to live... Sam's eyes filled with tears that he quickly blinked away. And all of this, for what? Just because some demon decided to handpick me for his twisted games by bleeding into my mouth?
He wondered if all this would have happened if he had never been born in the first place. Would his parents still be alive and well, living in Kansas and growing old together? Would the family business ever become that of hunters who crept around at night, armed with shotguns filled with salt and vials of holy water? Would Dean have finally settled down with a girl and started a family? A smile crept onto his face at that. Not likely, that last one.
Vaguely, his thoughts meandered over to the reason why he was stuck here and had he glared any harder, his eyes would have burned a hole directly through the side of the moving truck. Anna. Her hazel eyes and small, laughing mouth mocked him and now when he thought back upon it, she always seemed to have been mocking him; those backward glances and little smirks held much more than he or Dean could have far as he could tell, she was basically working with the demons now. But why would a former angel want to align herself with Lucifer, even if she had fallen?
Sam banged his head back against the wall and immediately regretted the action as bile rose up in the back of his throat and he pressed his forehead against his knees, breathing deeply but still the anger burned bright and unyielding. For someone who wanted nothing more than the ability to feel, that girl is one cold-hearted unfeeling bitch.
Small feet crossed steadily over the dry, unkempt grass, walking through the fractured skeletal frame of railroad tracks that ran parallel to the cemetery and moving into the hallowed ground itself. Shadows danced over the old and crumbling gravestones that had long ago succumbed to the elements and now were mere slabs of slate among the weeds, names and dates of those buried beneath the earth lost forever to the ravages of time.
The figure stopped in front of what looked to be a rundown crypt and may have been passed by tourists or lost travelers who simply dismissed it as such- but those who held knowledge of what it really was knew the importance of the iron railroad lines surrounding the old cowboy cemetery, they knew of the devil's trap whose lock could only be fitted with a key in the form of a gun that was now lost.
A white hand reached out, slim fingers brushing against the symbol and instantly, the silent Wyoming night was shattered. The ground shook, iron and steel creaked and the earth heaved, as if trying to expel something from its bowels and with an extraordinary cracking sound, the gates of Hell flew open.
There was an unnatural bellow, lasting for only one spectacular instant and a limp form was unceremoniously tossed up from the depths beyond, landing heavily on the ground and staining the grass a deep crimson. With the flick of a slender wrist, the doors of the portal to the netherworld slammed shut again and the pale-skinned girl bent down to inspect her prize with a contemplative tilt of her head. She reached out a hand to callously shove the prone figure onto his back as her other hand rose into the air, fingers snapping once to alert the two shadows who stood on the other side of the railroad tracks, a gurney between the two of them.
"Oh, Castiel." Anna said with a sigh, surveying the angel bound within his vessel who lay at her feet. "They made such a mess of you. At least your face is still easy on the eyes." Long fingers pushed back blood-caked hair from the branded forehead and dragged across a deep gash that spanned the length of the sweat-slicked cheek. "But I have to admit one thing…" Her voice lowered as she bent her head so her mouth was right next to his ear, breathy and seductive- "you do look downright ravishing in red."
Sharp, penetrating blue eyes snapped open and cracked lips parted to utter three words from a parched throat: "Vade, creatura maledicte."
The hard right hook struck with amazing ferocity and startling swiftness like the attack of a rattlesnake. Neither of the two men that were striding across the cemetery grounds had time to react before the girl was landing hard on her rear end with a cry of surprise, pale cheek turning red and smarting at the unexpected blow that had been delivered with surprising strength for an individual in the injured man's condition. Castiel was struggling to sit up, features contorted in inexpressible pain and also in disgust toward the fallen angel who was also on the ground, fear dawning upon her pretty features as she took in the other's gaze-
Suddenly, a booted foot slammed into Castiel's exposed torso, knocking him flat on his back and the shoes drew back and swung forward again, landing repeated blows. The leather tongues were quickly turning from dull brown into bright red as the victim writhed helpless on the ground, too weak to defend himself but enduring the torment without sound. Anna, having now gotten to her feet, stood by watching with an almost lazy expression before finally calling the demons to halt their actions.
"We're wasting time," she said sharply, turning swiftly on her heel and striding across the cemetery and to the modified ambulance that was idling at the side of the road. "Let's go."
One of the demons dragged Castiel upright, sneering into the angel's exhausted features before slamming him onto the gurney and pulling the leather straps hard across the cot and buckling them tight, the other slammed his fist across the angel's face, snapping his head sharply to the side, stabbing a syringe into his neck and depositing the entire barrel of unidentifiable liquid. "Something to keep the prick alive," came the harsh growl.
Every jarring action and abrupt movement sent fire radiating through Castiel's form and he closed his eyes tightly, trying to ignore the pain as he tried to draw in the light purity and goodness from all the creations around him, but he couldn't. Not in his condition; after being bound in his vessel, tormented in the abyss and then pulled out of the realm of evil back into this world… he could barely remember the grace of the Father.
Not even his soul had the ability to cry out as the drugs overrode his vessel's ability to function and his consciousness slipped, leaving him wrapped up in the throes of an overwhelming darkness.
"You're saying that Sam is going to become Lucifer's vessel?" came the incredulous question as it was posed for perhaps the fifth time in the past ten minutes.
"No, the damn textbook says that Sam is supposed to become Lucifer's vessel, but there's no way in hell I'm going to let that happen," Dean replied coolly, calmly as he screwed the top back on another canteen filled to the brim with holy water before reaching for the shotgun and the multiple canisters filled with salt littered on the poorly-lit kitchen tabletop.
Bobby watched him, dumbfounded. "Now that don't make a lick of sense."
"Tell me about it," was the muttered response and the older hunter shook his head.
"Boy, listen to me. Your angel is in Hell. Now if you're sure that the demons aren't going to pull your brother down into the hotbox, then how are they going to complete this ritual of theirs? There ain't gonna be nothing left of that angel to sacrifice!"
Your angel is in Hell… Dean set down the shotgun before he gave into the urge to hurl it across the room and leaned his weight against the table, willing his frazzled nerves into calmness before trusting himself to speak. "There's no doubt that those sons of bitches tortured Cas down in the Pit, but it wasn't to the point of death 'cause the demons can't repair him. He was dragged down in his vessel, in a physical body, not as a soul. And they aren't going to risk killing him 'cause I have a feeling that would seriously piss off their boss."
Bobby furrowed his brow, still skeptical. "And why change locations at all? If they already had him down there…"
"…why go through the trouble of bringing Cas back up out of Hell?" Dean kept his gaze trained steadily on the floor, shards of stained glass shifting in and out of focus in his vision.
There was a whisper of movement of starched linen and the finely tailored suit as Gabriel too leaned forward, resting his chin atop long, almost spindly interlaced fingers. "It's… complicated."
"So explain it to me." The angel shot him a sharp look and Dean held up his hands in defense. "Hey, look buddy- I have every right to know."
A heavy sigh. Then, "An angel's grace is what connects him with the Father. It is consecrated, pure… holy. It is what makes us different from all the other creations here upon earth; it is what gives us the ability to be warriors of the Lord, to do His work." Gabriel uncrossed his hands and then re-crossed them, an oddly human-like gesture of discomfort. "Should such an essence ever confront the fires of Hell, it would instantly be overcome and twisted into sin."
"But not here on earth." It was a statement, not an inquiry because Dean already knew that. He'd seen Anna's grace when she took it back, but the very thought of the girl he thought he once could have loved made him want to slam his fist into the wall, so he kept his train of thought on the issue at hand. "Why?"
"Think of earth as a no man's land, where warriors sanctioned by the Lord and those from down below have an equal battlefield, with neither side having any advantage over the other. In the same way, humans are used as vessels because they are the in between, they are the middleman." The angel re-crossed his hands again. Right thumb over left. Separate. Left thumb over right.
Dean shook his head in frustration, wishing that he had some sort of translator that could decipher the angel's cryptic language. "Come again?"
"This realm of being is the only location where an angel's grace could be ripped from his soul and fed to Lucifer's vessel before the essence dissipated," Gabriel snapped harshly, impatient at the mortal's limited capacity of understanding. "They brought my brother down into the Pit and dragged him back up through the numberless levels of the abyss for the sole purpose of weakening his will through torture. Getting dragged down into Hell isn't nearly as painful as the journey back up."
His throat was dry and Dean swallowed hard, dumbstruck. "What?" It still came out as a whisper. "But I don't- I can't remember…"
Gabriel turned his head then and the sidelong stare was uncomfortable and probing. "Castiel took it upon himself to strike it from your memory." The hunter's only response was silence and the angel fixed his disconcerting gaze all the more intensely on Dean's face. "I heard what Uriel said to you, Dean Winchester. But he is wrong for all too often, we soldiers forget the teachings of the Father. Compassion and mercy for the Lord's creations is not weakness; rather, those are the qualities that make my brother strong."
His fingers slid over the smooth glass beads, not knowing which sections of the rosary were supposed to be divided up into Hail Marys or the different Mystery chants but not caring either. Dean closed his fingers into a fist, letting the silver crucifix warm in his hand as his breath billowed out before him like great clouds of grey smoke.
Bobby was worried. The younger hunter had that look in his eye, and boy did Robert Steven Singer recognize that look. He'd seen it too many times in John's eye before to not realize it, and while he never would have admitted it out loud (or perhaps even to himself), it frightened him. "Do you even know where you're going? Where exactly is the set location for the sacrifice where 'life and death coincide'? And how are you going to save two people at the same time?"
"Where Cas is, that's where Sam will be," Dean answered curtly and straightened from where he had been leaning against the Impala's trunk and went around the car to the driver's side. "And as for where I'm going, I know where to start. Where else is there a portal to and from Hell?"
"You mean the Devil's Gate."
"That's exactly where I mean."
"Wyoming, that's at least a five hour drive!"
"Not the way I drive." Dean stuck the key in the ignition and was about to start the car and Bobby stuck his hand inside the open window, grabbing his arm.
"You're not gonna win this fight, boy. Not with shotguns, holy water or even that special demon knife of yours. Not alone."
"Don't worry, Bobby. I've got angels perched on my shoulder." With that and a roar of the engine, Dean pushed the pedal to the metal and peeled out into the night.
He didn't know how long it'd been before the moving truck rumbled to a halt and the driver killed the engine. Sam tensed upon hearing the driver and passenger doors opening and shutting and the sounds of footsteps moving toward where he still sat in the darkness, unable to do so much as scoot away from the trunk as it was unlocked from the outside and hauled upwards, letting in the cool night air.
"Up on yer feet. And no funny business, wise guy."
He briefly considered struggling but that notion was quickly quelled when he turned his head and found himself staring straight down the barrel of a gun. Sam rose slowly, head still throbbing. Even though his legs hadn't been restrained, if he tried to run right now, he wouldn't have gotten very far with a 9 mm Glock 17 stuck in the small of his back. A brief chill stole over him as the muzzle pressed against the wound that had long ago scarred over but whose far-stretching effects were still being felt. If I had never been born…if none of this had ever happened… what if…?
The two demons prodded him across the blacktop and toward the large building that loomed over the parking lot and stood against the backdrop of the midnight sky like a monster made of brick and mortar. Sam sneaked a glance at the sign that stood on the edge of the overgrown and weed-infested lawn that showed signs of abandonment.
Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. Huh. What irony.
The interior of the hospital was even worse than the lawn, with the paint chipping off the walls with rats skittering along the dusty corridors completing the picture of wretched desolation but Sam could still sense the ammonia and bleach that were once used to scrub the walls and floors sparkling clean to mask the ugly processes of trying to sew people back together to prevent life from leaking away. Death itself lingered on the air, along with the stench of sulfur that exuded from the dozens of demon possessed that lined the halls, black eyes fixed upon Lucifer's intended vessel.
"You better leave off on messin' 'im up too bad. Bossman wants this one all to 'imself."
"Greedy bastard. This one looks like he'd be a lot of fun, too."
Voices floated out of a surprisingly well-lit room that Sam, from the very few times that he'd actually been in a hospital, recognized as the operating room. For some reason, his heels wanted to take root into the floor where he stood because he could tell that whatever lay beyond those swinging doors was something he didn't want to be a part of. The gun jammed into his back yet again, forcing him in and what he saw made his stomach turn three rebellious somersaults.
Now he knew why Pamela reacted the way she did after witnessing this spectacle in Hell. Beautiful, fierce Pamela who had clung to his arm for half an hour, sobbing and unable to speak except to gasp out one name over and over, throat choked with tears and helplessness. It was the same name that slipped from his mouth now, colored with disbelief and horror.
"Castiel!"
The gaggle of demons turned away from the operating table they surrounded in the middle of the room, turning to face the newcomers with expressions of displeasure at having been interrupted. The form strapped down upon the table, illuminated by the garishly bright overhead lights did not move; Castiel did not respond and fear gripped Sam's entire being, clenching its fingers tight.
Dean replaced the gas nozzle, slamming the lid of the fuel tank shut and looked up at the sky for a brief moment, taking a deep breath. He'd been going about eighty, ninety miles per hour since he left Bobby's house and his mind was whirling in every which direction at about five times that speed.
Do I really know where I'm going? Sure, somewhere in Wyoming. Do I know what to do when I get there? What if everything goes to Hell and the plan doesn't work; what am I supposed to do when the shit hits the fan? How many of these sons of bitches am I going to have to take down? How many of them can I take down?
There was one question that probed at the corners of his mind, one that was too painful to think about so he pushed it into a corner and had hoped that it would stay there, safely stowed away from the forefront of his consciousness but he kept returning to it, like a magnet drawn invariably to its core.
If it comes down to the wire, and you can only save one of them… which one will it be? Your brother, or the angel?
Dean scrubbed at his face wearily. It shouldn't have been that hard of a question to answer, but his gut instinct to answer with Sam's name reinvigorated the dark feeling of guilt that had been gnawing away at his conscience ever since his first nightmare. With a low growl of frustration, the hunter rounded the car and slipped into the driver's seat, slamming the door hard-
-and, turning swiftly, dumped an entire bottleful of holy water onto the person in the passenger's seat with a swift flick of his wrist, eliciting a shriek of pain.
"Son of a-!"
"You talk about my mother that way and I'll give you another," Dean warned, reaching into his for another bottle even as his spoke. "What, you didn't think I could smell rotten eggs filling up my car? You're cleaning out that stink, by the way."
Ruby put up her hands in defense, glaring from behind her soaked locks of hair that hung in her face. "Take it easy, Dean."
"Sure. Get out of my car, stay away from my brother and while you're at it, take a nice one-way vacation back to Hell and we'll call it even."
"I'm not here to fight," she said, eying him warily. "I just want to help you find Sam."
"I don't need a demon telling me how to look after my brother."
"I know where it's all going down," Ruby quickly interjected.
"Old news. It's in Wyoming, in a hospital. Get out."
"Oh, so you know where Our Lady of Mercy Hospital is?"
Dean faltered for a minute and opened his mouth before shutting it with a click. He glared. "No."
"I can take you there."
His foot stomped the accelerator to the floor.
A/N: Whew. Wow. Okay. I'm not sure when I'll have the time to crank out the next chapter, cause my schedule is packed right now but I hope I'm not leaving you guys off on too painful of a cliffhanger. Thanks for reading and please review!