"Likewise," says Sam, drawing out his silver handgun and training it on the yellow-eyed demon. "You must be Azazel."
Azazel grins at him, advancing into the room. It would probably be a nice, friendly smile on a human, but on the demon it's little more than the gleaming of bared teeth in the darkness.
"Oh, Sam," he says, nodding at the handgun, "I'm disappointed. You must know there's only one gun that can hurt me, and that ain't it."
"Sorry," says Sam, keeping his eyes fixed on Azazel's yellow ones. "This is the best I could do." He must not so much as glance towards the corner, or he'll give away his hiding spot. He doesn't want to even imagine Dean's reaction if he lost the Colt—and besides, if his current plan doesn't succeed, he needs to make sure Dean still has a chance of finishing the job. As he speaks, he edges carefully backward, gripping his handgun tightly to keep it steady in front of him.
"Shame," sighs Azazel. "I was looking forward to getting the Colt back." He shrugs waving a hand. "Oh well. Finally getting to meet you is more than enough compensation."
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" asks Sam, now inching forward at a precise, calculated angle, dragging his feet through the dust on the floor.
"Ah, I was hoping you would ask that," says Azazel. He tilts his head back and takes a deep breath of the stale, dusty air. ""It's a glorious time to be alive, Sam. A plan decades in the making is coming to fruition, and you get to be right in the center of it."
"Because of the psychic stuff? You want me to help you somehow?" asks Sam, trying to keep Azazel distracted and talking as he slides backwards again. He has to admit it's nice to finally be getting some answers, although, on the whole, he'd much rather that Dean were here and the two of them had already taken the demon out.
"Right on the money," says Azazel, turning to grin at him as he moves. "There's a door. A gate, to be precise. It will only open to your hand. All you need to do is open that one little door, and your army can join you."
"My army?" says Sam, pausing as he starts another step forward.
"That's right, Sammy. An army all your own. My brethren and I have been waiting for you longer than the Jews have been waiting for the Messiah. All that's needed is a little cooperation from you, and you'll be king."
"That so?" Sam asks slowly. This must be what Meg meant, when she said he could take over the world, he realizes. The demons have chosen him to lead their coup.
Mary definitely made a mistake in saving him, if this is the purpose his life is meant for.
"Think of it, Sam," says Azazel in a conspiratorial whisper, his yellow eyes gleaming brighter than ever.
"I'll tell you what I think of it," says Sam, taking a final step and stopping. He takes a deep breath. "Exorcizamus te."
Azazel's grin changes suddenly to a snarl of rage, which changes again to a look of surprise when he lunges forward and finds himself brought up short by the pentagram Sam has traced in the dust around him with his footprints.
"Omnis immundus spiritus," says Sam.
Azazel claps his hands together, laughing raspily.
"Oh, I knew there was a reason you were the Chosen One," he says, wiping tears from his eyes, and then looking back at Sam. "Well done. Really clever. You've trapped me. This won't hold me for long, of course—but good effort."
Sam is aware that the trap he's drawn is extremely feeble, but he only needs it to hold long enough. "Omnis satanica potestas, omnis—"
Azazel makes a sharp gesture. Sam is flung backwards onto the floor, landing in a cloud of dust, the air whooshing out of his lungs.
"Why do that, when you could kill me dead?" says Azazel, grinning again. "You wouldn't even need the Colt."
Sam clenches his teeth. The last thing he needs is another weird mind power, when Dean already thinks he's a freak. He sits up painfully, sucking in a few labored breaths and feeling around for his gun, which dropped out of his hand when he fell. "Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii," he wheezes.
"Come on, Sam," Azazel hisses, bearing down on him. "Hell's too good for me. I killed your parents. Your aunt and uncle too—I gave the order, that one's on me. Doesn't it make you angry, what I've taken from you? Doesn't it make you want to give me what I deserve?"
"Omnis legio," Sam coughs, scrambling away from him, stirring up even more dust.
"But why stop there, Sam?" asks Azazel, and there's a horrible note of glee in his voice now. "I want all the prizes in this blame game. After all, it's my fault your mother got into that car accident way back when."
Sam's hand lands on the cool metal handle of his handgun, and, without thinking, he grasps it, turning and aiming it at Azazel's forehead in one smooth motion. Just like Dean taught him.
"You son of a bitch," he snarls through clenched teeth. He no longer cares whether or not the silver handgun will kill Azazel; he only cares whether or not it'll hurt.
Azazel grins even wider. "That's right, Sammy," he whispers. "Feel that rage."
Sam's finger tightens on the trigger, his teeth grinding together so hard he hears them creak. But he can't afford such petty revenge. He needs to finish the exorcism.
"Omnis congregatio et—"
But at another gesture from Azazel, he finds himself flat on the floor again, this time with his head thumping dully from having cracked against the hardwood.
"You don't seem to quite understand," says Azazel, standing over him, and looking down like a parent surveying a tantruming toddler. "You're going along with us whether you like it or not."
As he speaks, a fierce wind kicks up outside, rattling the windows and blowing in through the front door. A thick black smoke pours in with it, swirling around the room, picking up dust and debris and flinging it into Sam's face.
"Not that hard to possess someone, you see," says Azazel. All that Sam can see of him now through the smoke and dust is the yellow gleam of his eyes. "Just gotta find that one little weak spot and give it a good hard poke. I could do that to you, but that's messy and complicated, so why not make it easy on yourself and join us?"
"Why would I ever join you?" Sam snaps, his voice hoarse from the dust in his throat. "After everything you did to me?"
"Who's left for you, besides us?" rejoins Azazel, his voice floating through the haze. "No mother, no father, no Aunt Cheryl or Uncle Tommy. Not even a girlfriend."
"There's Dean," says Sam, although he's not really sure how true that is anymore.
"Really?" says Azazel, in tones of great surprise. "I don't see him around. Where is he, Sam? Waiting in the wings to come beat up the big bad bully?"
He pauses, waiting, but Sam says nothing. There's nothing he can say.
"Nope," Azazel answers for him. "Dean took off just like Daddy. Got tired of trying to protect you."
The smoke is now so thick around Sam that he can't tell the difference between his eyes being closed or open. It might be just a trick of the wind, but he thinks he can hear a strange voice whispering around him, laughing in his ear.
"Really, you can't blame him," Azazel's disembodied voice continues. "This has always been your destiny. Waste of time trying to escape it."
Sam feels as though he's drowning. The smoke is swirling around him, inside him, pouring down his throat and into his lungs and stomach, dissolving into his blood.
*S*P*N*
Bela's information was good, Dean has to admit, as he pokes around in an old abandoned house hardly distinguishable from the one they'd stayed in in Chicago. It's clear that Sam's been here; as if the warding sigils covering the walls weren't clue enough, Dean can make out the remains of salt lines at the doors and windows, and a few dried leaves scattered around that had probably been contained in hex bags.
It's also clear that Bela's information, good as it was, comes too late. Sam is long gone, and the room positively reeks of sulphur. The dust covering the floor seems to be at least half composed of yellow powder, and is formed into strange, swirling drifts and ridges, as if a powerful wind swept through the place.
Dean stands up from where he's crouching, examining the pattern of the dust on the floor. What is he still doing doing here, if this isn't where Sam is?
Before he can take a step towards the door, his phone rings. Dean jumps, and nearly drops the phone in his haste to check it. A quick glance at the screen squashes his momentary hope that it's Sam. He answers with something of a disappointed sigh.
"How's it goin', Bobby?"
"I don't approve of this new lady friend of yours," Bobby's voice growls in his ear.
"I didn't think you would," says Dean, amused. Bela must have arrived in Sioux Falls. "Did you shoot her?"
"Not yet," says Bobby, sounding as though he regrets this deeply. "But I'm thinkin' on it. She's a slippery little minx, ain't she?"
"You're telling me," mutters Dean, remembering New York.
"I also think she's full of crap."
"Far as I can tell her intel's about half good, and half crap," says Dean, kicking through the dust on the floor.
"Yeah, that's what I figured," drawls Bobby. "I mean, I knew she had to be lyin' when she said you were goin' after the demon that killed your parents."
"Well…." Dean doesn't know what to say. He's suddenly as tongue-tied and ashamed as if he were ten years old again, and John had just caught him in a silly lie. "I didn't think she would mention that," he finishes lamely.
"So it's true?" Bobby exclaims, so loudly that Dean has to hold the phone away from his ear. "What the hell are you thinking? You know better than to take on a demon like that with no backup!"
"He's got Sam, Bobby," Dean whispers. His voice wobbles, quite without his permission. "I've got to go after him. He's got Sam."
There's a brief pause. When Bobby speaks again, it's in a much gentler tone. "So that's true, too, is it? How'd you boys get separated, anyway?"
Dean shakes his head. The wobble in his voice is even worse when he speaks again. "It was stupid. We had a fight and—" He breaks off.
"Okay," says Bobby. His tone is gruffer than ever, but it somehow manages to be comforting. "Okay, so the demon got to Sam. Bela says they'll be takin' him to Wyoming next—something about a gate?"
"It's bad, Bobby," says Dean, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He imagines he can feel ridges and lines that never used to be there before. "All hell is gonna break loose."
"Okay," says Bobby again. "But even still, you can't just go charging in there, Dean. You'll just get yourself killed, and that won't do Sam or anybody any good."
Getting killed is a distinct possibility, but Dean kind of gets now why Mary preferred to make a demon deal rather than outlive Sam. Almost anything, he thinks, would be preferable to that eventuality.
"You don't even have a viable weapon against this demon," Bobby says, when he doesn't reply.
This is true, too. Dean gave the Colt to Sam, and now both are gone, likely both taken by Azazel.
"Just hang tight, will ya, at least until I can get there?" Bobby pleads, but Dean isn't paying attention. He's just spotted something. In a corner of the room, several nails are sticking up from the floor. He drops to his knees beside the loose floorboard, and pries it up.
Underneath, the barrel of the Colt gleams in the light of his flashlight, winking at him like an old friend.
"Call you back, Bobby," says Dean.
*S*P*N*
The black smoke obscures all Sam's senses; smoke is all that he can see, smell, taste, feel, hear, smoke that burns him as he struggles against it. Even his thoughts are entirely shrouded in smoke. It seeps into every corner of his mind, filling him up so there's no room for anything else, dissolving him into itself.
He screams at the pain of it, and the smoke swirls maliciously. You know, you could have saved everyone a lot of trouble if you'd just agreed to the plan, it says. Its voice doesn't sound familiar—in fact, it doesn't even have a sound—but Sam knows it's Meg. But I'm glad you didn't, she continues. It's good to be riding with you, Sam.
The hatred is Sam's. He owns it. He hangs onto it, covers himself with it, creates a small bubble in the smoke, a clear space in which he can think, can gather himself. Whatever you want me to do, he says, I'm not doing it.
The black smoke roils and heaves with laughter. That's no problem. We only need the body, not the spirit.
I'm not doing it, Sam repeats, and the little bubble of hatred grows larger. He stretches, pushing back against the smoke.
His vision clears suddenly, though Sam has the horrible feeling that this is more due to Meg's whim than his own efforts. He quickly finds that he can't move his eyes the way he wants to in order to take in his surroundings, but they've grown familiar enough to him over the last several months that he knows instantly where he is—the passenger seat of a car. He can see a dirt road and an overgrown stretch of railroad through the windshield, illuminated in the headlights. His head turns to the left, but it's not Dean sitting in the driver's seat; it's Azazel. He gives a nod, and Sam's hand reaches out to pop open the door.
Sam hunkers down in his little bubble while Meg walks up to the railroad, but tendrils of smoke reach out to him, probing, spiraling ever closer.
Like I said, this all would have been easier if you'd agreed to the plan, says Meg. You can't tell from here, but this track runs in the shape of a devil's trap. And the gate is right in the middle.
Sam smiles from within his haven. This vindictive pleasure is his, too, and he welcomes it, owns it. The bubble expands again. The smoke rages and seethes, but it can't penetrate the clear space that is all Sam.
Guess you're out of luck, then, says Sam.
Oh, I don't think so, Meg replies. Fortunately, you have the mojo to break this bad boy wide open.
With that, the smoke renews its attack, pressing inexorably inwards.
Don't you want to know? she asks. What you're capable of?
Sam doesn't want to know. The psychic powers were what got him into this mess in the first place; they're the reason he's here, alone.
His bubble wobbles. Smoke starts to leak through.
As if sensing his thoughts, Meg whispers, Come on, Sam. If Dean's going to hate you, might as well give him a real reason.
The bubble shatters, and Sam is drowning in smoke again. It rushes into the space he cleared, molding itself to his insides, reaching, searching for something deep down.
Sam knows when it finds what it's looking for, because there's a twist and a pull as something comes loose, and the pain of it makes him scream again.
The next time his vision clears, it's to see that the metal rails are broken and twisted, the crossties split and scattered amongst the weeds. Azazel is standing in Sam's field of vision. He steps over the broken railroad, then spins on his heel to look back.
"Well done," he says, and Sam understands that he's addressing this praise to him, and he shrinks down even further.
Oh, don't worry, Sam, says Meg, as they walk forward, crunching on dry grass. Sam can make out the dark, lopsided rectangles of old gravestones passing them on either side. That's not the only thing you're going to break tonight.
Another shape is looming out of the darkness now, something much larger than the surrounding gravestones. It's towards this shape they're heading, and as they draw nearer, Sam realizes that it's a crypt. The glow of the headlights has faded behind them, so it's too dark to make out many details, but he can see that it looks ancient, even older than the rest of the graveyard.
Ever heard the story of Pandora's Box? asks Meg, as they come to a halt directly in front of the crypt door. She was just like you, Sam. She opened the gate and let evil into the world.
Sam watches his arm rise, as though of its own accord, and extend towards the door.
A/N: The end is nigh, folks. Only one more chapter left.