Chapter 7 – Reap the Whirlwind
Sam stands at the lip of the seething Hellhole, considering for a moment the enormity of the task before him. His mind is clear, his entire being focused on his goal. He feels neither fear nor doubt; either he will fail, in which case he will die, or he will succeed and bring his brother home. There are no other alternatives. He leaps...
…and falls for what seems like moments - or eternity, for Hell is madness and illusion and Sam, for all his power, is not immune.
Sam bursts into being in this most damned plane of existence and comes immediately to himself, his gaze sweeping back and forth, internalizing the dimensions of the vast, mad vista that confronts him. He senses an enormous convergence of demon energy somewhere ahead and to the left of his current position, and something else – another kind of energy – immensely powerful. He turns in that direction, effortlessly willing himself through hundreds of planes and levels of the Damned Dominion.
Finally - or perhaps only seconds later - an unholy cacophony smites Sam's ears as he ventures closer, still immaterial and invisible to all eyes.
Sam has never seen an angel, yet he instinctively recognizes the celestial nature of the magnificent beings at the center of the battle unfolding before him.
He is awestruck.
Through all his years of hunting vamps, werewolves, ghouls, striga, crocotta, wendigos, demons and all the rest, Sam had kept the flame of his belief in a higher power alive although he would have admitted that at times it flickered. But Angels! For all the countless clashes with evil down the long trail of years, Sam had never seen even a spark of what he imagined to be the ultimate incarnation of good – an Angel. It wasn't that he actively didn't believe in them; they simply had no substance. They had existed as a soothing idea and no more. And now here they were - not as divine messengers or gentle comforters, but as God's avenging warriors.
Despite the urgency of his own mission, Sam cannot tear his gaze from the angels. Their gigantic forms seem to shimmer with a pure white light, masking the details of their features. But now and then as the light flows and pulses, Sam catches a clear glimpse of them. One, whose gigantic wings sweep demons and hellhounds alike aside with each muscular beat, seems to have six arms, each holding a silver sword which slashes independently, spearing or beheading a slavering demon with each fierce stroke. Another suddenly soars straight upward, blazing a fiery white trail through the blood-tinged murk. Then, at the zenith of its arc it twists in the air - the fangs in its silver lion-face bared and gleaming - and rockets back down, arms extended, long silver talons curved to rend the enemy as it lands among them. A third angel battling at the center of a 100-demon cluster suddenly begins to glow with an effulgence so intense that even Sam has to close his eyes to slits lest his eyeballs melt right out of his head – which is, in fact, the effect on most of the remaining demons in the immediate area.
Still, Sam can see that more and more demons, hellhounds, and other, less recognizable creatures are streaming into the fray from all directions. He fears suddenly that the angels, for all their divine power, will be overcome by sheer numbers. For a moment Sam is torn. He should help them. But the need to find Dean overpowers all other considerations. When he has recovered Dean and taken care of Alastair, he will return. Sam withdraws his energy into himself then thrusts it forth in a long, questing bolt. Once. Twice. And again. THERE!
The noxious energy that is Alastair suddenly floods Sam's senses like a noseful of rotten milk. In the space of a thought he projects himself toward the energy.
Ω ∞ ∑
The space occupied by Dean Winchester is rather unique, even for Hell. Upon learning of Dean's imminent arrival Alastair had labored feverishly to construct a fitting "residence" for the damned hunter. No ordinary alcove furnished with a bone rack would do for this son of one of the most hated enemies of the Dark.
No.
Dean Winchester would languish through eternity in a nightmare room designed just for him, constructed of blood, earth, bone, rock, and sinew mortared together with the fluids of corruption and waste. His ears would be forever assailed by accusing voices, floating from the walls themselves, of all the dead he could not save, his family, his ancestors, the ghosts of his never-to-be-born children and grandchildren. He would hang suspended among the instruments of torture and degradation that lined the slimy, oozing walls of his oubliette and he would come to know intimately all the many nuances of suffering that Hell, via Alastair, could provide.
And Alastair had to admit, Dean didn't disappoint. He could hardly wait for this minor skirmish to be over so he could get back to enjoying his Number 1 Boy.
Alastair decides on the moment to remove Dean from his space and secrete him elsewhere in Hell just until things die down. He could dispatch a couple of flunkies to do this, but such is Alastair's sick attachment to Dean that the thought of others touching him is unacceptable. Just as he is about to cross the threshold, though, Alastair's ears are assaulted by a sudden, reverberating concussion of sound that momentarily stuns and disorients him.
The sound is the aftershock created by the arrival of Castiel and his brother Afriel, protector of the young. Alastair and the two angels lock eyes for a moment. Then, in one smooth motion Alastair draws a strange object from one of his voluminous sleeves and hurls it straight toward the two angels. Castiel's wings flatten and he drops toward the surface in a movement too fast to track. Afriel, only a hair slower, takes the full brunt of a blast of icy matter that first strikes him and then seems to expand and expand until it envelops him like a filmy black cocoon. The substance – unknown to any but the denizens of Hell where it is mined - begins to shrink and constrict, the angel trapped within likewise being crushed smaller and smaller until with a hollow pop! he disappears. Castiel spares the merest glance toward his vanished brother before leaping to his feet, drawing his gleaming silver sword and turning to face the grinning Alastair.
As Castiel sweeps toward him Alastair thrusts his arm straight into the air. From nowhere, as if magnetically drawn to him, a short, twisted staff made of some black shiny substance flies into his extended hand. It emits an indescribable odor of putrefaction, and Alastair is careful as he wields it to hold it far from his own body.
Simultaneously, four massive demons materialize on either side of Castiel, seizing his arms and legs and stripping him of the silver sword. He immediately ceases struggling and closes his eyes as his body begins to vibrate, faintly at first, and then faster and faster until a deep, droning hum displaces the fetid air. The demons fight to keep their grip on Castiel as Alastair appears before him, the reeking ebony staff held aloft. If the staff touches Castiel he will not die, but he will perhaps wish he could, for the substance of the staff is a poison deadly to angels. Merely touching it to his skin will almost instantaneously render him insane - unable to fight, fly, speak or understand. Castiel realizes he will not break free of the demons holding him before Alastair touches him with the staff. Even as despair floods through him with the knowledge that he will fail his Father, fail Dean Winchester and consequently, fail all of humankind, Castiel exerts all the power he can muster to throw off the demons restraining him.
Suddenly, a brilliant flash crackles in the air behind Alastair and a tall figure materializes out of the resulting vacuum, its form exuding a faint golden fluorescence. A powerful thrust of energy slams into the four demons holding Castiel. They vaporize instantaneously into a cloud of sticky, red droplets. Castiel looks past the stunned Alastair, his brain at first unwilling to accept what his eyes register, for he recognizes this being.
It is Sam Winchester! Brother of Dean -tainted with Darkness, his life every bit as twisted and destiny-laden as his brother's. Castiel has not even the time to wonder how it is that Sam is here, although he has already sensed that Sam is something other than human - something more, and perhaps – less. Energy is rippling off Sam in enormous waves that are all but visible to Castiel. He is shocked by the almost limitless power he senses in the young hunter.
For a timeless moment, the three form a frozen tableau within the heaving chaos that surrounds them. Then Castiel heads for the barred entrance to Dean's prison as Alastair, lips asnarl, moves to intercept him, still clutching the poisoned staff.
There is no warning, no sensation of movement. In the space of a breath, Alastair finds himself staring into a pair of piercing, luminous eyes that hold his gaze like twin magnets. He feels himself pinioned against the smoldering outer wall of Dean's cage, unable to move a muscle, to twitch or even blink. His astonishment is so great it leaves no room even for fear.
For an instant Alastair's mind recoils from the gargantuan force that assaults it. The silent psychic struggle that ensues is brief and violent, its outcome foregone. In the end Alastair's massive will lies crushed beneath the juggernaut that is Sam - his mind laid open like a gutted carp.
Leaving the drooling Alastair suspended on the bloody wall, Sam turns and follows Castiel, who has burst asunder the door to Dean's prison and disappeared within. Even Castiel, despite the evil and torture he has observed through the eons of his angelic existence, is not immune to the reality of Dean Winchester's damnation. Existing for even a few moments in this vile, unholy place makes Castiel feel filthy and violated. He can scarcely imagine what it has wrought in the soul of the valiant human.
With a touch, Castiel frees Dean from the barbed chains that secure him to the wall; the angel's gentle fingers graze the side of Dean's ravaged face and he falls immediately into dreamless unconsciousness. Castiel is gathering the broken, bleeding form in his arms when Sam steps to his side. Castiel looks up to meet Sam's questing gaze.
"This is why the angels came here? For my brother?"
Castiel stares deeply into Sam's eyes - reads the fierce love, the furious rage, the guilt and pain warring within this singular human. There will be no hiding the truth from this man but Castiel knows that their most immediate enemy is time; the whole truth will have to wait.
"Yes", says Castiel. "We were sent to raise Dean from perdition and restore him to life."
The sudden hope that flares in Sam's golden eyes touches Castiel profoundly.
"You – you can do this? Put him back in his body? Whole and alive?"
"Yes, of course", Castiel solemnly replies. "Although - Sam, we will heal his body and his mind of much of the destruction wrought by his torture, but -"
Sam's flashing eyes narrow dangerously. "But what?"
"But there is only so much we can do to heal his soul and spirit. These are the aspects of humanity that Hell is designed to destroy. Even restored to himself, Dean will suffer the effects of damnation for a long time, perhaps for all time."
Sam digests this statement, accepts it. He will do whatever needs to be done to make Dean whole. Whatever it takes. It is enough for now that the last obstacle to his brother's return to life – a way to get him back in his body – has been removed, and by the best of all possible agents – Angels of the Lord.
"Take him, then. Go. I will deal with Alastair."
Castiel thinks on this and almost smiles. "Yes, I'm sure you will."
Sam turns to go, then stops. "You know my name it seems, but I don't know yours."
"I am Castiel."
"Castiel, thank you. Thank you for my brother's life. Whatever your reason – and we will talk about that in time - I owe you. I won't forget it."
Castiel is touched by the humility that resonates from this strange and immensely powerful human. Sam turns again to leave then stops, turns back, now looking down with burning tenderness at his sleeping brother.
"Castiel, there is one more thing I would ask of you."
Castiel nods.
"When you bring Dean back, please don't mention me or anything about my presence here. Let him believe that the angels alone rescued him. Will you do that?"
Castiel nods again solemnly. It will, after all, not really be lying. Just omission. And he knows that the brothers will have much to deal with…
Sam lingers for a moment more, his eyes roaming over his brother's battered face and body. Now that he is actually physically this close to him, he can barely stop himself from tearing Dean from Castiel's arms and crushing him in his own. But he mustn't weaken now. There is still work to be done.
Alastair.
Ω Ω Ω
Sam regards his captive silently, considering what is necessary. The most important thing now is to learn as much as he can about what happened to Dean here so Sam can help him deal with it. He must also find out how to close and secure the Gate. As distasteful as it is, he has decided to simply flay Alastair's mind and cull the information he needs. The agony this mental rape will cause the demon is merely icing on the cake.
Sam bears down, inexorably forcing the razor-edge of his will deeper and deeper into the arch-demon's being, slicing through his memories, his passions, needs, and fears - his very sense of self - with surgical precision. He learns the process and the incantation for the spell; learns how Alastair discovered the Gate. Alastair writhes beneath the onslaught, bloody foam and spittle flying from his gash of a mouth.
Sam's heart stutters as he searches more of Alastair's memories, seeking knowledge of Dean. But he is completely unprepared for the scenes of torment and sadism that flood his mind. One after another like slides flashing on a screen, he is bombarded by visions of Dean – his beautiful brother - conscious and screaming as his skin is flayed from his body, as sizzling metal rods are pressed everywhere into him; as flames melt the flesh from his bones, as needles, spikes, and hooks pierce his limbs, as razors slice his eyelids, lips, ears and tongue, as ravenous flesh-eating scarabs burrow under his skin, devouring him from the inside.
He hears Alastair's cruel taunts stream forth obscenely as he probes and slashes, trying to break Dean down with lies about Sam, about their mother and their father. He sees a succession of demons cloaked in the forms of Bobby, John, Mary - worst of all Sam himself – wielding the instruments of torture with awful glee. He can feel, too, his brother's terrible agony and suffering, and the inconsolable desolation, self-loathing, and black despair that are gradually destroying Dean's very soul…
The scenes continue with merciless clarity until Sam wrenches his mind back, stunned and sickened. It is so much worse than he had even conceived. He hardly feels the tears that course freely down his face, and he cannot see that his own eyes as they stare into Alastair's have morphed from a glowing greenish gold into two hellish, luminous bronze disks completely devoid of human qualities. For a split second Sam feels his control waver beneath the force of his emotion, and with savage concentration he crushes down the sorrow and empathic pain that engulfs him.
He can barely look into the face of this – abomination - much less suffer its continued existence. A burning lust to inflict unspeakable pain on Alastair suffuses Sam's being, and it is only by a monumental effort of will that he is able to pull his blasted senses together.
Sam struggles to master the violent intent that has all but consumed his soul. There will be time enough - and soon - to allow the black rage within him free rein. Grasping Alastair by the neck, Sam zaps them both back to the scene of the angel/demon battle. He bursts upon a vista out of – well – out of Hell. The angels are gone – fled or dead, Sam doesn't know, although he does note the gigantic imprint of a pair of outspread wings tattooed upon the scarred and steaming ground. He does not know the meaning of this but senses that it's not a good sign.
Everywhere he looks, the detritus of no-holds-barred conflict is evident. The bodies of demons, hellhounds, and even lower, more bestial beings litter the landscape as far as Sam can see, their stinking blood clotting in pools, their limbs twisted into pretzels of agony. The area is deserted except for the bodies.
Alastair's plundered memories still reverberate horribly behind Sam's eyes as he surveys the destruction. He feels as if his soul will never be clean nor his mind completely sane again unless he can purge them somehow. The very existence of this place affronts everything he believes in, everything he and Dean have fought to protect. And although Sam knows that as powerful as he is, he cannot destroy Hell, he figures he can fuck it up plenty.
Cloning Alastair's energy, Sam sends out a psychic summons to every demon within "earshot", bidding them to join their master now. Soon the cavernous space is filled with the surviving demons under Alastair's dominion. Sam, his presence now cloaked, surveys the scene from a bare spar of rock that juts up from the bubbling surface. The rank, red tinged-air vibrates with malice. As Sam eyes the demon host he feels his anger heighten, feels the power it feeds thrum beneath his skin like a gigantic heartbeat.
The demons, for their part, begin to mill about, surveying the carnage uneasily, growling and muttering among themselves. They cannot see the battered Alastair, cloaked as he is by Sam's will, until the form of their bloody, drooling master suddenly materializes, gripped in the outstretched hand of Sam Winchester. A howl of wonderment and outrage echoes through the space as the demons look upon their defeated master.
As Sam's gaze sweeps over the multitude of hellish life below him, he wishes he could roll all of Hell into a big ball and simply drop kick it into the next universe. But that's off the table – for now at least – so he settles for the next best thing.
Still grasping the limp form of Alastair in one fist, he thrusts his other arm out, focusing his intent. Although there is no visible manifestation of Sam's power, its effect is both tangible and immediate. The mass of demons who but a moment before were in possession of both sense and will, immediately let loose with a chorus of shrieks as their essences are wrenched from their bodies to form billowing clouds of noxious black smoke. The bodies themselves begin to shrivel and smoke, curdling into twisted, desiccated husks. The smoke continues to foment in angry clouds and ragged tendrils as if desperately seeking egress from the cavern – which in fact is the case. But there is nowhere to go, and no hope of escape from the wrath of Sam. When finally he has absorbed into himself all the green-glowing life energy from the blasted demons and their bodies lie empty and unmoving at his feet, Sam turns his focus to the swarming mass of demon "souls" writhing madly to escape. With one great concentrated blast of psychical energy that turns his flashing eyes the color of lead, he smites the black cloud of demonsouls - an annihilation accompanied by an ululation of indescribable agony.
The sound of their obliteration washes over Sam like a blessing. The vista of hell wavers in his red-tinted vision and he shivers from the force of the new power flowing through him. Sam drops the body of Alastair unceremoniously to the ground and flings his arms wide. Electric blue bolts of energy shoot forth from both hands without direction or order. No thought propels them, for Sam has, finally, surrendered control of his power to serve his rage. Wherever a bolt strikes destruction is instantaneous and total. Great crags of rock drop from the roof; the ground, already a-bubble, ruptures further, spewing long streams of boiling rock and steam. Great cracks appear in the rocky walls and floor – out of which pour rivers of fire. A pervasive bass rumble seems to come from everywhere at once – ground and air. It builds and builds until it is a brain-shattering vibration subsuming everything.
Suddenly, in the center of what used to be a great cavern of Hell, an indentation appears in the ground. The vibrations continue as it widens and deepens from an indentation to a hole, to a bottomless pit, and still it continues to widen and deepen. With a gesture, Sam retrieves the still animate Alastair. Dragging him by his leg, Sam propels himself back toward the cave where he first entered the Hell Gate. He never turns back to observe the final result of his rampage.
As Sam disappears, the true consequence of his unbridled power becomes apparent. The gigantic hole in the center of the vast chamber ceases to widen – now its edges seem to crumble; the hole itself begins to collapse whirling and swirling like a waterspout made of earth and molten rock. Caught up in the huge suction, the entire cavern begins to shiver and crumble, falling inexorably toward the center of this multidimensional wormhole which continues to drop and drop. This entire section of the Not-place called Hell will, in another few moments, simply cease to be.
As Sam, dragging the inert form of Alastair, propels himself from the mouth of the Hell Gate, he begins to intone the arcane primordial syllables of the sealing incantation. No blood sacrifice is required to reclose the gate, only sufficient psychical power such as few living beings have or will ever possess. With a final, thunderous whump! the sulfurous pit that was a Hell Gate seals itself up like a scabbed-over cut. Within seconds the smoking cap of volcanic rock has fused and melded to a diamond-like hardness. Sam pauses, staring down at the bloody heap that is Alastair. He jolts the arch-demon back to consciousness, effortlessly levitating him to his feet to hang like wet laundry in the steaming air of the tunnel.
"I know you're conscious. Open your eyes."
Alastair's black eyes roll in their sockets for a moment before unwillingly coming to rest on Sam's face. The eyes are dull, flat, void of expression. Strangely, Sam's own eyes reflect a similar absence, but this is because he is now unwilling to allow Alastair access even to his anger and hatred. Thus, he exerts the severest command over himself as he considers his next actions. He feels an overwhelming need to see and be with Dean. Yet the destruction of Alastair must be accomplished although he is inclined to take his time about it. He spends a few moments considering and discarding options. He thinks that perhaps for a creature like Alastair, the worst eventuality would not be death, but an eternal torture bound within his own impotent being. On the instant he hits upon a means of accomplishing this living death while leaving his future options open. Sam's eyes, calm and pitiless, bore into Alastair's
"Hellspawn piece of shit, I've no time now to deal with you as you deserve, but know this: I will never let you die. You think you know Hell. You have never been to Hell."
Sam focuses his will like a laser on the rock wall before him, simultaneously forcing Alastair back into that wall. For a moment Alastair hangs, pinioned. Then, with agonizing slowness, the demon's body begins to sink into the stone itself as, cell by cell his demon flesh melds with the stone, the stone in turn fusing with his substance on a cellular level. The pain of this fusion is evidenced by the ungodly shrieks that issue from Alastair's still-fleshly lips. The screams grow in volume and intensity, bouncing back from the scabrous cave walls in a cascade of soul-rending noise. The rigid body of Alastair is now flush with the surface of the rock like some gruesome animated fresco and still it continues to be absorbed into the stone. Even muffled as they now are, his wretched screams reflect Alastair's unspeakable agony. Sam watches this process with silent equanimity. Finally, Alastair's form is no longer visible at all. It has been driven deep into the matter composing the mountain that is now his tomb. Still, his screams echo in Sam's ears, although so deeply is Alastair buried that they would be inaudible to anyone else. A small, faint smile curves Sam's upper lip as he considers the eons of suffering ahead for the arch-demon, who will remain, alive and entrapped forever, or until Sam can devise some other, more awful fate for him.
"I know you can hear me, hellspawn. Enjoy eternity."
The incoming tide swirls around Sam's feet, rising quickly. Soon it will flood the hidden chamber, as it has done twice a day for 10,000 years. Sam transports himself back to the beach and makes his way to the Impala, still hidden in its grove of scrub pine.
Although nothing was discussed between them, Sam knows somehow that the angel – Castiel – has taken Dean back to Pontiac where his body lies buried. Perhaps Dean's soul has already been reunited with his meatsuit, he thinks, and Dean will be wondering where Sam is.
Suddenly, Sam is filled with a strange, heady mixture of panic, anticipation and dread. It seems like a lifetime ago that he watched his brother die. It feels like he has dragged around a huge frozen boulder of grief in his heart his whole life. But there is more. He knows that he is not the Sam Dean left behind. He doesn't really know what he is.
Perhaps just because he is Sam, he worries more about Dean's wellbeing. How will Hell have changed his brother? And how can Sam help him? How much should he share with Dean about his new and downright scary power? Sam decides to seek out Castiel first, before reuniting with Dean. There is too much that he doesn't know, and too much that he knows he must keep from Dean, at least for now.
Sam drives back to the motel, grabs his stuff and books. The drive back to Pontiac will give him some time to sort through all this.