Coming down to the end here, people. Finally. Just one more planned after this one, and possibly an epilogue.
Thanks to all my readers. I hope you find the chapters concluding this story satisfying. Thanks to my reviewers, without whom I never would have had the will to finish this story.
Finally, thanks to my beta, K. Hanna Korossy. As with every other chapter in this story, the quality of this chapter owes a great deal to her efforts.
Enjoy Chapter 14,
Kohadril
Chapter 14: Impulse Control
Aphorael turned away from Sam and faced Dean, willing him to collapse to the ground in the fetal position. Sam tried to yell, tried to move, but found once again he could not.
His mind was beginning to unhinge; he could feel it. The voices were coming more and more frequently, were getting louder as he kneeled there helplessly.
"Failed again, Sam. Looks like I was right about you all along," John Winchester said, provoking a wince.
"At least I wasn't the only one," Jess added, and Sam tried to force his hands to his head to muffle the sound but still couldn't move. "Turns out you kill everyone you love."
"What the fuck is wrong with you? It was a simple exorcism," Dean berated him.
The demon twisted his hand, and the real Dean screamed.
Dean! Sam had to do something, something about this world outside of him that was more than just reference material for his hallucinations to draw from.
"I released his vocal chords so you could hear him. It's so much more satisfying this way, don't you think?" the demon needled.
"It's too bad it has to end like this. You and I could have had a lot of fun," said Sam's duplicate, now standing in front of him.
They surrounded him, the four of them all there at once, all speaking at once, tripping over each other. But Sam could hear every word and inflection. Somehow, he could see their faces, too, even the ones behind him, could feel their expressions, their eyes boring into him. And over the din of their condemnations, Sam could only hear Dean's cries.
Inside of him, things started to fly apart. Even as he sobbed uncontrollably, something was changing, something dark and primal and hot growing in his heart.
Dean screamed again, and Sam's rage grew, flaring like a fire, burning away at his other, less useful emotions. Sam fought it; it threatened to overwhelm him.
However, something, some nagging doubt remaining from his encounter with the Anasazi spirit, finally led him to try a different tactic. Sam focused his rage, and found that he could move his hands, however slightly, in the demon's grip. A surge of hope filled him briefly, but his head felt like it was going to burst. He needed more.
He knew now what the vision had meant. Knew what part of him the spirit had been talking about. The dark part. The demon part. The part staring him in the face right now.
"That's it, goody-two-shoes. You can still save him. All you need is me," the demon-him whispered, distinct from the other voices. Sam dry-heaved from the revulsion. "Just give it up. Let me in."
Dean had stopped screaming and was retching now instead. He caught Sam's eyes, briefly, and the world quieted, Sam's prosecutors falling silent. Sam looked back in silent apology, hoping Dean would register it in his eyes. He seemed to, and as the wrenching moment ended, Dean mouthed his response, too pained even to speak. Not your fault.
That small gesture, that breathless absolution and pure expression of love, eclipsed Sam's fear. And without his fear, things were so much clearer. The hallucination of himself was a product of the creature's power. How much had it shown him to play on his terror of his special abilities and darker nature? As much as his duplicate had seemed to be trying to tempt him, all it had really done was push him further away, convince him that his powers were evil and would inevitably corrupt him. This thing didn't want him to stop resisting; it wanted him to keep it up.
This thing was afraid of Sam. Afraid of what Sam could do.
The demon stood beside his brother, a look of dark finality on his face, and Dean lay there, tensed as though still fighting, unbowed in the face of death. This was their only chance. Dean's only chance.
Sam let go.
Aphorael picked up the squirming, struggling hunter by the throat and held him in the air, displaying him so that the younger one could watch every ounce of strength drain from his brother's body. He turned to gauge the boy's reaction.
But something was wrong. Something was fighting against his hold on the younger hunter, threatening to break it. The demon looked on in astonishment as the young man, no longer broken or scared, climbed confidently to his feet, shaking off the demon's magic.
The boy looked him in the eye with cold, unambiguous hate and grinned. Viciously.
"Worst. Pastor. Ever," the boy mocked.
The demon dropped the older one unceremoniously, turning his full might against the adversary in front of him and projecting a powerful telekinetic blast. The boy ducked and rolled, avoiding the attack as though he'd seen it coming. He then picked up a knife from the dirt and threw it in a single fluid move.
The demon roared in pain as the knife buried itself in his chest.
It still hurt. Sam had tried to completely release control, but there were parts of his consciousness that would not be subsumed. Still, they were abstract now, and distant. And they were not in command.
The demon continued to bellow as it struck again, and again Sam easily avoided harm. Sam's mind strained under the weight of new senses, his perception split between the world of the moment and the world of a few seconds to come. His psychic sight was infinitely improved: everything around him had penumbras and auras, and the forces of the demon's telekinesis were no longer invisible to him. Around the altar, a fading violet energy strained against a rising blackness.
Sam considered all of this only to assess his capabilities, not out of any idle curiosity. These powers were a gift to him now, instruments with which to fulfill a single, consuming desire. Vengeance. His heart pounded but despite the pain, there was a cathartic ecstasy to it, a freedom he'd never felt and hadn't known he was missing. He didn't know what his powers were, didn't understand their limits, but somehow he felt what to do.
"Insolent boy! Do you really think your paltry gifts can match me?"
Sam picked up his brother's .45 in the middle of another roll, and as he brought it up to fire, the world slowed to a crawl. What's more, his target seemed to grow, eventually seeming so large, Sam could aim the gun right at its throat even as he finished his acrobatic movement, and easily put three bullets within the space of an inch before the world sped up again.
"Shut up," Sam snarked with a wicked, toothy smile as the demon, his esophagus destroyed, screamed unintelligibly. The former pastor's eyes flashed to black, and the demon projected a wall of force that, while not particularly powerful, was too wide to dodge. Sam fell backward, dropping the gun, and the demon stalked after him.
By the time Sam had made it to his feet, the demon was there. He threw a wild punch—demons must not be instructed in boxing technique in hell—but it was supernaturally strong and fast: Sam narrowly avoided it, and instinctively threw a counterpunch at his opponent's jaw. The strike hit, Sam's hand hurt, and the demon glared back disdainfully. He caught Sam with a punch to the gut that sent him hurtling back.
Again the demon was on him as he got up, but this time Sam lashed out, giving himself over to his rage. The pain in his head lightened; he was resisting less, and he felt unnatural strength fill him. Sam's thrust-kick to the demon's chest staggered him, and with the opening, Sam launched a flying knee, catching the demon square in the jaw and knocking him over.
The demon looked confused as he hit the ground, and again instinct took over. Sam got on top of his opponent, straddling his chest, and started to pound.
"You know," Sam seethed, punishing his victim with a bone-crushing right, "a demon did this to me once." Sam punched him again. And again. Each time the host's feature's shattered; each time it took longer for them to recover. "It's much more fun being on top."
The demon made another indistinct, guttural noise and heaved unskillfully, which shouldn't have worked except that the demon was absurdly strong. Sam fell off him and instantly stood, backing away as if to get some distance.
Dean didn't really get what was going on—he'd lost consciousness for a while back there, and he was groggy and having trouble moving—but from what he could see, Sam was standing toe-to-toe with the demon, which didn't seem possible. The kid was moving fast, inhumanly fast, hitting inhumanly hard. Something wasn't right.
He'd worry about that later. The demon's attention was on Sam; maybe Dean could find some way to help. He looked around for weapons. Nothing within easy reach except for a shovel. He reached, a painful exertion, and gripped the handle, dragging the tool over next to him.
"Fucking demons," he muttered to himself as he planted the shovel and used it to climb to his feet.
This was not what he had foreseen.
True, it was one of several possible futures he'd walked, but it had been so unlikely. The younger hunter should not have been able to see through his hallucination. The messenger had used the boy's greatest fear, had given it gruesome, perfect form; he had let the boy's own mind shape and define it. That he had overcome it was inconceivable.
The messenger could feel his kin awakening, but he worried. Did the hunter know? Did he so much as suspect? The demon should have been powerful enough to stop them, but now the messenger worried. While he needed the first one there, to be bodily consumed as the creature awoke, he could also be used to restore the Anasazi magic.
The messenger tried to dip into the future, but the outcomes were all hazy. For only the second time in its multi-millennial life, it was uncertain.
"So let me tell you," Sam chided, bringing the stock of the musket across the demon's jaw, "what I've been thinking."
The demon threw a telekinetic punch that grazed Sam's chest and spun him back away. Sam rolled with it and brought the butt of the musket around in a looping motion. It landed with a resounding crack. It seemed like he couldn't miss. And things were starting to make sense.
"Who might the first crazy person be?" Sam smiled.
"You are a fool—" the demon shouted generically, almost boringly. Sam snapped a round kick at the un-pastor's knee and could feel the bones break when it connected. The demon's rant became more of an agonized scream.
"Excuse me, I was talking," Sam complained. "Rude. Anyway, I was thinking that for you to have built up a flock like that, to build up the power to summon things, you had to be in town for a while."
The demon lurched forward, its knee regenerating but not yet functional, and Sam dodged another sloppy strike.
"And demons? Usually can't get inside just anybody, unless they're really powerful. And at least back then, you were only powerful when people believed in you. When you were starting out here, no one did."
"What is the point of this?" the demon asked incredulously, frustrated to the point of engagement. He tried to mask another punch, but Sam saw it coming a mile off, ducked in, and made the demon pay for it with an uppercut. He grabbed his opponent by the hair and forced him back. This was becoming so easy.
"The point is, you got inside a crazy person. A crazy preacher, because you need people to believe in you. Back then, when you first came here, you didn't even know about the loony flu, did you? 'Cause back then, no one was crazy yet, were they?" Sam pulled Aphorael off balance and drilled him with a left hook, spinning the demon around. Sam grabbed him from behind.
"I mean, except for the good pastor. When all those other folks started freaking, I bet you thought you'd lucked out. Hit the demon-summoning jackpot." Sam chuckled arrogantly into the demon's ear, on a roll now. "But in reality? It was the worst luck you've ever had."
The demon spun back and shoved the boy away. Everything the hunter said was true, but he still didn't see the significance and that frustrated him all the more.
"In a few minutes, that thing is going to come up out of the earth, and you and your brother are going to die," Aphorael growled.
"Oh, no," the boy replied. "You don't get it. You're what I need to stop it."
"What?" the demon demanded sharply. This child—he needed to destroy him. Not for the messenger, not for his mission, but because he simply could not tolerate this pathetic human's continued existence.
The earth shook again. This time it felt like a true earthquake, and a piece of ground jutted forward and up beneath the boy's feet. He tumbled backward, hitting his head. It stunned him.
Aphorael leaped on the opportunity, jumping on top of his quarry, grabbing him by the collar and physically lifting him before bringing him down hard, right on top of the altar's flat center stone. In the demon's haste, he nearly stepped into the hole the other one had been digging, just a few inches to the right.
His opponent's eyes were unfocused, dazed, and the drop had taken the wind out of him. He was helpless, just for a moment, but that was all the Aphorael needed. He raised his fist.
"Hey, Pastor Dumbshit!" he heard from behind him. He turned right into the oncoming backside of the shovel. It did nothing. He grabbed the shovel and telekinetically threw the older boy several yards through the air, where he landed roughly on the ground. Then the demon turned back.
"Surprise!" the younger boy yelled, recovered. He bolted up, planting a hand on Aphorael's chest, and a titanic surge of burning energy poured into the demon. His host's limbs and muscles began to jerk and contract, becoming rigid as though electrified. The boy spun them around, pinning the demon's back to the altar table. And as he lay there, paralyzed and wracked with searing pain, somehow he knew his unnatural life was about to end. In the face of oncoming oblivion, he began to scream.
Dean sat up just in time to see his brother extend his unoccupied hand into the air, and watched, disbelieving, as Dean's blessed machete, which he'd discarded by the hole he'd been digging, twirled through the air and into Sam's hand. The demon was…freaking out. Smoke was rising from his body, and he was acting like he'd just jammed a fork into an electrical socket.
Sam let go with his restraining hand, only briefly, and the demon's body sagged. Sam put both hands on the machete and raised it.
Suddenly, the black wisps of the demon's true form began to pour forth out of the eyes and mouth of the pastor's body, arcing up into the sky, where they seemed to hover, unsure, unable to disperse or escape.
From the earth, all around the altar, long tendrils, also black but this time filled with flecks of white that seemed like stars, rose up and surrounded the demon's essence, chasing it, sparking where they intersected, slowly obliterating it.
Dean didn't really know, but he suspected the demon had just met his end.
Dean turned and watched his brother pause momentarily as the pastor—who likely didn't have much time in this world, as whatever injuries he'd sustained as a demon were soon to kill him—came to his senses. But Sam didn't alter his grip, and as Dean screamed his protest, his little brother brought the machete down.
Maybe the creature had thought this would dissuade him, thought he wouldn't take an innocent life, even one that was about to die, to save his brother. And it was true, Sam was having trouble maintaining his focus. His anger was ebbing, his powers weakening, and his head was beginning to scream. Beneath him, a man was crying, bleeding, dying of horrible burns Sam had just inflicted. The man was trying to beg.
Sam was afraid. Afraid that this was the kind of thing one couldn't turn back from: taking an innocent life, especially in the viciously painful way he had to do it to make sure the man's living blood drenched the altar. But he was now more certain than ever. The thing that had been ordering Aphorael around wouldn't have released the demon from the pastor's body if he hadn't wanted to give Sam pause.
He stood there, just a second, but it felt like he'd been waiting an eternity. It wasn't about hate anymore. It wasn't about revenge. He knew that what he had to do was evil, and as much as he wanted to believe he was doing this to protect civilization, he had to admit something to himself.
He was doing this for his family. Like the Anasazi before him.
He brought the blade down, and rent the man's belly from waist to shoulder. The pastor made a horrible noise—half-gurgle, half-scream—as his life came to its final, awful end.
As the blood spilled over the altar, Sam glanced up and caught an indistinct face glaring at him with black, star-filled eyes. Horror gripped him, reality splintered, and he fell to the ground.
As the blood covered the altar, a hum filled the air, purple-white energy wafting up around it, encircling the starry black tentacles and forcing them back down into the earth. The quakes stopped, but everything seemed to vibrate, as though a charge was running through the air. As Dean watched, the purple energy gathered, having dispersed the black, and shot skyward in a titanic blast from the center of the altar, boring a hole through the black clouds that had closed above them.
With a deafening clap, the energy exploded outward in all directions. Then it was over. The sky was clear. The earth was still. The creature, Dean presumed, slept once more.
Then he saw Sam. He hadn't seen the kid fall, but there he was, on the ground. Dean climbed to his feet as quickly as he was able, and limped over to him.
He grabbed his brother's lapels and pulled him up, propping him against the altar in a sitting position. Sam's eyes were open, he was breathing, but something was wrong.
"Sam? Sammy?" Dean said, looking intently into his brother's eyes. Sam didn't make eye contact. He wasn't avoiding it, though; he just looked straight through his brother.
"I'm not," Sam said, and though it came out in a whisper, Dean got the sense Sam wasn't talking to him. "I'm…smarter than them. They think they can fool me, but I know. They're watching, but they'll never see it. I promise they'll never see it."
Dean's heart leaped into his throat, his eyes filling. "No," he croaked. He shook his brother lightly and pulled their faces together. "Come on, man, look at me."
Sam provided no resistance, but he didn't comply. "They want my soul. I know they want to get inside me to get it," Sam muttered incomprehensibly.
"No, this isn't fair!" Dean shouted in agony, looking past his brother at the altar before glaring up at the open sky. "We stopped the monster—give him back to me!"
Sam's face contorted painfully. "They're going to get it, too. I can't stop them forever."
Dean waited for something, for any kind of response from the universe. He got nothing.
He put his hand on his brother's cheek. "Don't worry, Sam. Just keep fighting. You're going to get better," he said, but he knew it was more for himself than for Sam. Sam just stared straight ahead, traces of emotion crossing his face, a kind of quiet, unremitting pain in his eyes.
Dean's will gave out. The hope that Sam could still get better seemed distant and faint, and it was crushed under the weight of Dean's failure. It didn't matter that he was just a human being, and that what had happened here was beyond his ability to even understand. The math was simple: Sam was crazy, so Dean had failed.
Instinct took over. He reached out, hugged his brother tightly, and began to sob.