"Hello, Sammy." The voice was honeyed malevolence in the darkest trenches of the shadows. Its sound was sweet and soft—and familiar, in a way that wrought a shudder through Sam's veins. As though the blood within stirred in recognition of that which neared.
From the dark, a figure appeared, his eyes gleaming with unnatural light, his teeth shining in a grin. The air around him hummed in confidence, raw power, and a putrid wickedness shading every flicker of light, as though it recoiled in fear of touching the abomination spawned from hell's depths.
"Missed me?" Yellow Eyes head tilted, brow raised tauntingly, his feet dragging casually across the ground as he approached. He didn't bother keeping his voice low—he didn't bother muffling a single noise. As though he didn't care if anyone could overhear—if anyone else remained near enough to listen. As though he knew Sam was well and truly alone, with no one to save him from the demon before him.
Sam forced himself to meet the demon's gaze, his mind alight in confusion and terror. "You're not real." And yet, the tremor of his voice and coiling of his muscles seemed to betray the frailty of his words.
Yellow Eyes easily caught the falter, just as clearly as if he felt the shaky vibrations through a hand clasped tight around Sam's throat. His tone carried a mocking edge, and a sly smirk played at the corners of his mouth, "Are you sure?"
"It's just the demon blood," Sam attempted to strengthen his words into some semblance of certainty. Yet doubt tormented his thoughts. He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, but he couldn't think it had been even a mere twenty-four hours since he'd savored the blood. Surely the withdrawals hadn't settled in already? Much less extended so far as to conjure hallucinations. Then again… given the way his head buzzed in wretched static… maybe the demon before him was merely a signal of a concussion.
"Maybe," Azazel dismissed with an unyielding smile, utterly unbothered.
A chill crept across Sam's spine as he neared, his hair raising as though the demon truly stood before him, its foul presence contaminating the very air around it. But it wasn't possible. He tried to catch his mind before it entertained further panic. "You're dead. Dean killed you." It was as much a reminder to himself as a jab or dismissal toward the must-be-hallucination.
Azazel's chuckle, while deep and throaty, felt like the awful screech of nails across chalkboard. It was full of confidence and a patronizing frame, almost pitying. He stopped a few feet before the Winchester, and Sam wished the chains offered enough slack that he might stand. Instead, he found himself kneeling helpless before the monster that had killed his mother and father and forever cursed his blood and soul.
Finally, the demon broke the silence, "Who's to say, really?" He raised his shoulders in a shrug, "As long as you're alive—as long as my blood's pumping through those pretty little veins… how sure are you, that I'm really dead?"
Sam's face twisted—a motion that wrought a pulsing ache amidst the swelling—and he tried to pull away from the demon, but the chains offered no ground to flee, their rattle mocking his attempt. It wasn't true—the Colt killed Yellow Eyes. He was gone. Sam's mind was just… playing games.
Azazel was silent for an unnerving minute, his eyes raking over Sam's every inch in careful examination, unhurried, unabashed in the slightest. Almost like a sculptor, scrutinizing his work for every merit and flaw—to gauge what was done and what was still left to do. His gaze lingered upon the lines of Sam's veins, tracing them as though he could parse the demon blood pulsing through the skin. Then, his face broke slowly into another toothy grin, his eyes sliding to Sam's. "You're coming along so well, Sammy."
Sam couldn't help his visceral recoil at the unexpected approval, despite the successive reborn echo of clattering iron. Disgust churned his gut and curled his lip, demanding distance from the creature he despised almost more than any other. But it was a demand he couldn't satisfy, a distance he didn't own—and perhaps never would.
"I've gotta say," Azazel continued, his delight swelling in pair with Sam's revulsion, "The blood's taken to you quite nicely." He stretched out a hand as though to raise Sam's chin—the shackles tore at Sam's wrists, but he managed to avoid the touch. Even if all logic swore it couldn't be real. The demon prince smiled, watching Sam with the pride a good father might his son, "Then again, it always has."
"Stay away from me," Sam ordered, but the demand felt flimsy and hollow.
"Come on, Sammy," Azazel affected offense, "It's been so long—I think we deserve a little chit-chat. Relax—I'm not gonna hurt you." His eyes roamed Sam's battered face, and he gestured to it with a circle of his finger—to the swollen bruises that must consume its almost every inch, "Looks like your brother's done that well enough himself." Azazel shook his head in disappointment, chiding, "You really should take better care of our lord's vessel."
Sam winced, trying to ignore the remark as he ignored the persistent throbbing ache of his face. "It wasn't Dean."
Yellow Eyes laughed, cocking his head, "You're really gonna try to tell me it wasn't brother dearest that used your face as a punching bag?"
Sam bit his busted lip—hard enough to rupture the scab and tempt his mouth with a tang of blood and sulfur. He tried to ignore it, but his tongue couldn't resist another taste. "It wasn't him," he insisted when he could finally tear through the haze enough to assemble a coherent reply, "It was the Mark."
"Right—the Mark," Azazel's tone dripped with mockery. "Let me guess—the Mark made him lock you up down here too, hm? Made him leave you to rot, all alone?" The demon prince scrunched his face into a parody of sympathy.
Sam gritted his teeth, "He's… trying to help me."
This time, Azazel's cackle was full and hearty, stirring further unease in Sam's chest. Finally, the demon managed to reign in his laughter, "Don't tell me you actually believe that."
Sam's silence was his only reply.
Azazel slapped Sam's cheek—not exactly violently, but far from gently. Sam recoiled at the sting—unsure if he should be surprised by the contact. It wasn't exactly the first time Sam's hallucinations had defied their intangibility. The first time Sam was forced into a detox, Alastair had seemingly returned from beyond the grave to provide Sam with a generous introduction to hell's torture. At the time, it was among the worst physical agonies Sam had ever suffered—though his body hadn't truly suffered a scratch. Of course, when he fell to the Cage… he would have begged to be returned to Alastair's clutches—if he could've managed a word through the screams that Lucifer mercilessly tore from his body.
Azazel tsked, "Kiddo—you're smarter than that. If he was really trying to help you, Dean would be down here right now. He wouldn't be denying you what you need. He's killing you and expecting you to be grateful. And you're letting him—ever the faithful little brother."
"He's trying to help," Sam repeated, tightening his words in the closest thing to resolve he could manage. It was true—Dean was only doing what he thought was right.
"Tell me—who are you trying to convince?" Azazel cocked an eyebrow, "Do yourself a favor, Sammy—stop trying to justify your brother's actions."
Sam dropped his gaze, releasing a controlled exhale as he tried to ignore the demon before him, to push the words that may as well have been blasphemy from his mind.
"You know, deep down, he doesn't trust you—and he never will." Azazel pressed, his voice too close, the stench of sulfur beginning to cloy Sam's senses. It wasn't there—it wasn't real. And still, the words sank deeper in Sam's chest like lead. He wanted to deny them, to swear they weren't true, but the silence that followed only twisted tighter around his throat, suffocating him.
A warm hand gripped Sam's jaw, holding his skull rigidly in place, forcing him to face the demon. Reflexively, Sam tried to pull away, but the demon tightened his grip, his thumb digging into Sam's cheek.
Azazel's voice was slow, his yellow-eyed gaze unyielding. "Do you know what he sees when he looks at you?"
Sam's eyes searched the demon, silent. Hating the grim curiosity he couldn't subdue.
Yellow Eyes offered a cruel grin, eyes gleaming as his voice dropped to a low murmur, "Every time he looks at you," he paused, allowing the words to sink like poison from a blade, "He sees me."
Sam tried to yank away from the demon prince's grip, but it only constricted tighter. Still, he insisted through gritted teeth, "That's not true."
"You know it's true," his words crawled with an insidious confidence, "He's afraid, Sammy. He's afraid of what you'll become. Of what you've always been. Every time he looks at you, he sees the monster that took away his mommy and daddy." He sneered, "And now, he's scared he won't be able to control you anymore."
Again, Sam jerked against the demon's grip—finally, Azazel released him. Not that it bought him much distance. The chains rattled with the haste and force of his withdrawal, the shackles biting at his wrists once more. He struggled to raise his head to echo, "That's not true."
"Really?" The demon's eyes shone a bright yellow, "It's not even the demonic he's afraid of. He's more than willing to work with demons. He's even willing to flirt with ancient, evil curses. It's just you he doesn't trust."
"It's not true," Sam murmured again, but if his words ever bore the weight of conviction, it had long since fled—no matter how much he wanted to believe it. Now, his voice wavered and crumbled beneath a mountain of doubt.
Azazel's grin sharpened like a predator savoring its kill, "Is that why he's chained you up like a rabid dog? Tell me, when's the last time he actually let you make a decision? When he didn't second-guess every move you made?"
Sam clenched his fists tight, his gaze fixed on the ground, for he couldn't bear to meet the demon's gaze. "He's trying to protect me."
"He's trying to control you. He's scared of the power you hold—of what you might do if you ever decide to stop playing the good little brother and actually embrace what you are."
"I'm not you," Sam whispered, his voice barely a breath.
"You keep telling yourself that," Azazel mused, his tone almost lilting in its confidence, "But how many people have you killed to get what you want? How much more blood will you spill for that feeling?" His lips curled, "You've tasted it, Sammy. The power. The control. The freedom. And you want more. It's just in your nature. It's just what you are. And Dean sees it."
Sam's breath caught, his eyes sealed closed. The ghosts of the lives he'd stolen danced behind his eyelids. Guilt gouged at his heart like a hungry parasite trying to burrow through flesh to freedom.
"And you're scared to look in the mirror, because if you do, you know what you'll see looking back. It's why you can't trust yourself. Why you're so afraid to take what's yours."
"Shut up," Sam twisted his head away, his words not a demand, but a feeble plea.
"It's time to stop pretending, Sammy. Time to stop playing these games—stop fighting what you are." Hands grasped the sides of Sam's face, yet the words themselves proved a tighter vice, rending every breath a labored, shallow heave. "It's time to take what's yours."
"I'm not you." He wasn't sure who he was begging, now. Perhaps his words were a prayer instead. A plea to God to make it true.
"You're something far more," Azazel agreed, his eyes searching the Winchester, his clasp almost fatherly, "You've always been something more, Sam. More than your brother, more than a hunter. You have power—real power. And it's waiting for you." His smile twitched, "Your army is waiting for you."
Sam gritted his teeth. The demons' words drifted in his skull. They were waiting for him. They could be his. Their blood, their strength, their will. Demons the Winchesters once struggled to so much as exorcise, falling at his feet.
He wanted it. He knew Azazel could see it written in the desperation on his face.
How freeing it would be to let go. To let the blood sweep him away in its warm security, how relieving to finally succumb to its relentless call. To embrace the part of him he'd tried to carve out, and when he couldn't, the part he tried to deny—the part he swore didn't exist. The part he prayed for God to kill when he realized he'd never be able to kill it himself. When he realized even death wasn't enough to purge the dark from his soul. The stain he'd felt as long as he could remember—the filth he felt lurking somewhere beneath his skin even before he could read. The shadow like fire at the base of his skull, squirming in his heart, itching at his fingertips. The part that wasn't him—the part that was, to his very core. The part that promised he didn't have to suffer anymore. The part that vowed to cleanse his guilt, his shame, his sorrow, his unending self-hate. The part that whispered softly, like a lover in the dark, that he never had to feel helpless again.
"It doesn't even matter," he tried to dismiss—it was easier than denying the allure of the invitation. And it didn't matter—not really. He wasn't sure why Azazel wasted his breath—or maybe, why his mind conjured the demon to tempt and torment. "If you're right about Dean… I'll die here." He tugged loosely against the chains, their clang highlighting the futility. With the warding etched into the shackles, his powers were meaningless, even if he did embrace them—which he didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't.
"Maybe," Azazel shrugged, his assent a surprise, causing Sam's eyes to flick upward. The demon prince held his gaze, unblinking, "But at least you'd die finally accepting what you really are."
Sam's jaw clenched tight, but he didn't reply. He couldn't. He prayed the demon couldn't hear the thoughts dancing through his skull, as he couldn't help but imagine what Dean would think—the disgust and condemnation on his brother's face. The horrible distance, the coldness, the isolation. As if he were just another monster. His stomach twisted painfully at the thought of Dean's condemning eyes burning into him, sealing his fate as though on the day of judgment. And maybe Dean would be right. Surely embracing this would prove he was nothing more than a monster. But then, maybe wanting it already did.
Yellow Eyes straightened, drawing the nail of his thumb slowly across his wrist—an eerily familiar gesture. Crimson beads chased the line, dripping lazily to the floor in an uneasy rhythm. He proffered his wrist toward Sam's mouth, raising it above his head so the blood drooled inches from Sam's eyes. But he didn't close the distance. He waited, silent.
"You're not even real," Sam murmured, and yet his eyes couldn't part from the blood.
"Then it doesn't matter," he shrugged, his smile casually defying his indifference. Sam's lip curled, the chains rattling beneath the twitch of his arms. The iron scored his wrists, stinging as he twisted against their hold. Azazel's face wrinkled in amusement, "You're dead anyway. What's the harm?"
Sam ground his teeth. It wasn't real. It didn't really matter, did it? It'd help. Maybe it'd dull the drone in his skull, finally let him think. It was no different than something he'd done a dozen times before. Just a drink, and he'd be free.
His eyes lingered on the scarlet bead, on the shine of light glimmering on its edge as it cascaded to the ground like a star blazing through the sky. His mouth felt dry as sand. A shudder tore its way through his body; he felt cold, and yet, sweat began to collect on the back of his neck.
Shakily, his gaze rose from the blood to the yellow eyes behind it, watching him with an almost serene patience. His lips parted, just a fraction, his breath hitching in his throat as he swayed forward—so close, so easy. Even just a single drop… But he recoiled as cold dread and shame traced along his spine. His voice was a hoarse, weak breath, "I can't."
Azazel was utterly still and silent for a minute that felt like an eternity, the quiet deafening. Maybe in disbelief—maybe in wait for Sam to assuredly change his mind. In every second, Sam wasn't sure that he wouldn't in the next.
Finally, Azazel chuckled low, retracting his wrist and stepping back, though his presence still lingered heavy in the air. Sam heaved an exhale he hadn't realized he'd withheld, somehow forcing his gaze to the ground, his body slumping to the floor.
"I'll be here when you change your mind," Azazel's voice reacquired its smooth self-assurance, hinted with not even a fleck of doubt. A smile curled his lips, "Think on it, Sammy. We've got plenty of time."
With that, the demon vanished into the shadows, though Sam could still feel those accursed yellow eyes tracing every twitch of uncertainty threading Sam's skin. He curled tight around himself—as much as the chains allowed—burying his face in his knees. Azazel was right. The inevitability drowned his lungs, gouging at his gut. The bleak, undeniable certainty of just how weak he truly was.
He'd give in—it was only a matter of time.
But Azazel would have to wait a little while longer. He knew he'd give in. But… at least for now, it wouldn't be today.