The incestuous courtship of the antichrist's bride 1/5
masterpost
In June 1943, while serving in the United States Merchant Marines, Jack Kerouac suffered a nervous breakdown and produced the manuscript known as 'The Paths of the Black Messiah'. Though opinion is divided as to whether 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' can in fact be recognized as a literary work and not simply the drug-induced ravings of someone suffering a mental illness, the text did achieve a limited print run in the 1970s, and has been the subject of much discussion among those who have delved deeply enough into Kerouac's biography to be aware of its existence.
'The Paths of the Black Messiah' is divided into two distinct parts. The first section deals with the angel Lucifer and his fall. In accordance with Biblical myth, Lucifer is the brightest and most beautiful of God's angels but, due to his pride and refusal to serve humanity, he is flung out of Heaven. However, where 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' diverges from the Bible is in his fate. Kerouac's text states that God creates Hell out of Lucifer himself, "forging fire and bitter torment from the angel's very skin and bones". Lucifer becomes his own prison and, after eons of agony, he reaches an enlightened awareness of his existence as the underworld, transforming into "the ghost in the hellish machine".
The second part is considerably longer and focuses on the supposed 'Black Messiah' of the title, though he is more frequently labeled by the text as the Boy King. The Boy King is ambiguously described as "human, but not only human," and the paths that he walks are those that will lead him to rule over Hell. If Lucifer is the ship, then the Boy King is the ship's captain. To take his throne, the Boy King must commit several acts, his 'paths', the explanation of which takes up the rest of the text.
Many critics cite the extreme violence, bizarre nature and obscenity of the 'paths' as an argument for dismissing the manuscript as a literary work. In his exploration of 'The Paths of the Black Messiah', Richard Pickman comments, "The acts of genocide, mutilation and wanton cruelty, which are graphically and lovingly described, cannot be the products of a healthy mind in control of itself. To call 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' a literary work is to call Kerouac's mental illness performance art." (R.U. Pickman, 'On the Black Road', Beautiful Minds, pp 32-48.)
Some defenders of the text go so far as to suggest that it contains elements of true prophecy. These claims are widely ridiculed by the academic community. Others are more receptive to the idea but point out that if Kerouac genuinely possessed psychic powers, there would surely be a prophetic nature to his other works.
Jack Kerouac's most famous novel is 'On the Road', in which Sal, a young innocent, joins the slightly crazed Dean on a road trip back and forth across the United States.
"Seriously?" says the clerk in the bookstore. "You seriously tried ordering this from Amazon?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "We tried Barnes and Noble too."
The clerk snorts, rolls his eyes and shakes his head, as if one gesture alone is insufficient to convey the full depth of his contempt. He goes on unpacking one of the many dusty cardboard boxes, stacking ancient paperbacks with garish covers and yellowing pages along the counter.
"Neither of them had it in stock," Sam adds.
The clerk huffs again and gives him a pitying look. "Wow! Big surprise! Amazon and B an' N cater to the sheeple, dude. They don't stock anything that might shock people out of the mindless drone state to which they're all accustomed, anything that might get them thinking. Like I said, sheeple. Are you sheeple?"
"Uh… no?" Sam says.
He angles Dean a slightly helpless look but Dean's easy grin says he's happy enough sitting this one out. On the lower floor, Castiel is scouring the self-help section, probably in search of self-empowerment or self-actualization or maybe just an understanding of the concept of 'self'. He already has an armful of books clutched against the ratty front of his trench coat.
As for Ruby, Sam's not sure where she is and isn't sure he wants to know either.
"No," he says with a little more certainty. "We're definitely not sheeple."
The clerk just gives another of those disdainful noises and continues emptying boxes. So far, it's been nothing but pulp fiction. Sam doesn't dare risk incurring his wrath by pointing out that 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' really doesn't belong in the same box as Biggles, Buck Rogers and Big Nose Serrano. His hopes are lifted when he sees the next box contains ancient paperbacks by Hope Hodgson, Derleth and Bloch. If he had to classify 'The Paths of the Black Messiah', he'd probably pick horror too. Or maybe, because his life sucks just that much, biography.
"You're wasting your money, y'know," the clerk says. "I read the piece of crap you're looking for after I picked it up at a house clearance." He glances back at Sam to give his pronouncement; Sam tries to look suitably receptive. "Derivative and pretentious. I mean, I think Kerouac's a hack, so maybe I'm biased. But Lovecraft did it better. You want dreamy, scary journeys to other places? Try 'The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath'. My girlfriend wouldn't sleep with the lights out for weeks after reading it. In fact, you know what? I'm betting Kerouac read it then ripped it off while he was crazy."
"Yeah, probably," Sam says. He gives Dean another pleading look, which Dean gleefully ignores. "So, uh, you're sure you've still got it? It's not possible you sold it and forgot?"
"Maybe. Wanna go running back to the corporate teat and hit Amazon.com up again?" the clerk says. He slaps a thin book down on the counter between them. "Here's your schlocky, rip-off horror. Five bucks and it's yours."
Sam stares down at the book. It has an orange cover, the precise shade of which reminds him of the cracked Formica benches in the cheaper, more dated diners Dean drags him to. The title is printed in black. It costs five dollars and it holds Sam's destiny.
Sam is still staring at it when Dean says, "C'mon, how about three-fifty? We're taking a piece of shitty writing off your hands, right? Bringing up the literary standards in your fine establishment."
The clerk shrugs. "Yeah, whatever."
Sam is still staring at it when Dean elbows him. "Dude, pay for your book already."
As Sam is hooking out his wallet, Castiel approaches and sets a pile of books on the counter beside 'The Paths of the Black Messiah'. He gives Sam a small, hopeful look. Sam sighs and nods and calls out, "Ruby? You want anything?"
In the end, Castiel's books come to thirty-one dollars, Ruby gets a true-crime book about John Wayne Gacy for twelve ninety-five, and Dean manages to talk the clerk into giving them the Kerouac for fifty cents.
:::
Altogether, there are about twenty-five of them present: ten of Sam's demons, six of his angels, a handful of hunters, and Sam and Dean. It's probably more people than this bar's seen since Woodstock. The Final Countdown is playing on the jukebox, and the expiration stamp on Sam's beer tells him it probably would have tasted better six years ago.
Dean scoops up a handful of moldering peanuts from the bowl, and, chewing on them contentedly, helps himself to a second handful then moves to address the crowd.
"Okay," he says. "You've all seen The Dark Knight, right? C'mon, raise your hand if you've seen it."
The assembled hunters look around at each other, then, raggedly, they raise they hands. Dean grins and claps his hands together.
"So," he says. "The angels in this scenario are Batman."
Castiel brightens slightly at this announcement. He leans in to Uriel and says something in his ear. Across the room, Ruby snickers.
"They're badass and righteous but they're gonna smite you. They think it's for your own good but, y'know, a smiting ain't exactly something you get over in a hurry, whether you needed it or not."
Uriel nods sagely at this.
"Then there are the demons. They'd be the Joker." Dean waits for the demons to stop cheering before he continues his analogy. "Sure, they seem like a fun crowd to hang around with and they've got style, but a joke's not funny to them ‘til it's got a body count." Dean then gestures triumphantly at Sam, who feels a little uncomfortable with the eyes of seven less than friendly hunters on him. "Sammy, here, Sammy's the third way. Sam's our Harvey Dent."
"You mean he's gonna get mentally unhinged and kill a whole load of folks?" one of the hunters asks doubtfully.
It had all been going reasonably well until then, Sam thinks. Dean's expression wavers. "Well…" he says. His eyes flick to Sam, and Sam takes pity and steps in.
"Well, we're gonna try to avoid that happening," Sam says. "Look, all we're saying is, if the demons win, you're screwed. And if the angels win, you're screwed. But if you back me, we can hold things together. I know it probably doesn't seem right to you, siding with demons and the Antichrist, but we're just trying to get a force together that's strong enough for us to stand a chance. You're an important part of that. We want you on our team. I mean, you and the people you protect are the reason we're doing this. So, you in?"
There's a long silence. The jukebox in the corner hums as it switches to the next record, Total Eclipse of the Heart, which is even less appropriate than The Final Countdown was. The soundtrack to the epic battle between Heaven and Hell is pretty cheesy so far.
Finally, one of the hunters, a grizzled old man wearing a battered cowboy hat puts up his hand. It's a pretty miserable situation they're in when even that's a better result than Sam was expecting. Honestly, he wasn't expecting to get out of this without being drenched in holy water, shot with rock salt a couple of times and maybe being chanted in Latin at for good measure.
"Yeah, you?" he says, pointing to the hunter as if the whole room is trying to get his attention.
"Who are we then?" Sam stares at him a little blankly. He looks at Dean but Dean is equally confused, which may not be helpful but is at least slightly reassuring. "Are we the people in the boats who gotta blow each other up?"
Another hunter raises his hand. "Can I be Wolverine?"
Sam and Dean exchange another look and come to a silent agreement. "Yes," Dean says. "If you back my brother on this, you can be Wolverine. You can all be the superhero of your choice."
"But not Batman," Castiel says. "They can't be Batman because we are." Uriel and the other angels nod.
Sam sighs and hides his face in his hands. Dean pats him on the back. He leans in, voice dropped low and says, "You wanna go hide back at the motel before they start in on how Heath Ledger stole that movie?"
"Oh God, please."
As Sam and Dean are going out the door, the demons are raising some angelic ire by loudly mocking Christian Bale's 'Batman' voice and the hunters are discussing whether the portrayal of homosexuality in Brokeback Mountain supported the gay rights movement or damaged it.
It's a cold night and Dean flips the collar of his jacket up as they cross to the Impala. Sam glances back over his shoulder; it's getting pretty noisy in there. He's definitely glad to be out of it but he's not sure they've struck a blow for their cause tonight.
"Think there'll be any casualties?" he says.
"Nah," Dean says. "Ruby and the others aren't gonna mess around with humans when they've got angels to play with. 'Sides, rowdy as it gets, nobody's gonna do anything stupid. They've all still got their eyes on the prize. Cas and Ruby'll keep them in line."
He unlocks the car and Sam slouches in the passenger seat. It's nice, being comfortable around Dean again. It's also nice that Dean's apparently adopted the role of campaign manager for Sam's bid to be Antichrist. He's got angels who've misplaced their god and come to Sam to protect His creation, and he's got demons who are only interested in keeping their playground intact, but the best thing he's got is Dean. Dean doesn't really get him and Dean has some major issues and Dean drives him downright crazy with a minimum amount of effort, but Dean loves him and that counts for a surprising amount when it comes down to it.
As they drive, Sam pulls 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' from his pocket and flips through the pages. He can't read much by the roadside lights but he's not trying. He's just seeing the words flicker by in front of him, smelling the musty antique stink of the paper.
Dean glances over at him. "How's your destiny?"
"Crappy," Sam says. "And rated a pretty extreme triple-x. But, y'know, at least I know what I'm doing now."
"Is it gonna involve the blood of virgins?"
"Only if I want it to." At the mildly perturbed look Dean gives him, Sam says, "I've got choices. It's the same with the seals: thousands of 'em, but only sixty-six had to be broken. There are hundreds of paths, but I only need to do a few of them. I'm trying to pick out the least evil."
Some of it is fairly subjective, Sam has to admit. After all, is it more evil to turn the seas to 'poisonous ichor' or to 'call down a frenzied plague of locusts'? Sam just doesn't really know how to measure these things. And it's not the kind of thing you can ask people's opinions on, not least because the people he's spending time with nowadays are either angels or demons, and both sets tend to have unconventional and unhelpful views on the matter.
"Guess it's something to bring up in your little meet and greet tomorrow, right?" Dean says. He pauses, then says, "You sure you wanna take Ruby for that?"
Sam angles a grin at him. "Why? You think I ought'a take Cas, or maybe Uriel, to say hi to Lucifer?" He shakes his head. "It's gotta be Ruby. For one, she's the one who's got the clearest idea of my paths. The angels all say the book's forbidden knowledge and won't touch it. I'm pretty sure I caught Gaviel having some kind of staring contest with it the other day. And when it comes to demons, Ruby's about the most trustworthy of the bunch."
Dean's laugh is bitterly amused. "Yeah, right, trustworthy." His lips tighten and he keeps his gaze out in front, staring out the windshield at the dust-brown and moonlight-silver highway. "Whatever. Just don't let her go bleeding in your mouth or any freaky shit like that."
"My batteries are fully charged," Sam says quietly. "I don't need to do that anymore."
Sam looks down at his own fingers, which are curiously skeletal in the moonlight, curled around the obnoxiously orange paperback, but he feels Dean glance over at him all the same. He looks up in time to catch Dean's eyes. Dean studies him a moment, not at all fooled by the reassuring smile Sam gives him. Then Dean looks back out the windshield.
After a second, he bumps his shoulder against Sam's. Sam looks down at his hands again and smiles helplessly.
"Good," Dean says. "'Cause you're a hard enough sell as it is right now. Don't need you going all cracked out, demon-blood junkie on me."
Like Sam said, it's nice being comfortable around his brother again. There's nothing like having your big brother around and on your side when you're trying to become the Antichrist.
:::
Despite everything he said to Dean, Sam isn't entirely convinced that taking Ruby when he goes to make communion with Hell is a good idea. Resurrecting a demon and an angel was part of proving he was the Antichrist and it had made sense at the time to bring back people he knew, better the devil you know, which is a phrase which has taken on an unhappily literal sense of late. He'd hesitated longer over bringing Uriel back than he had Ruby. Uriel may not have been the friendliest guy around but he was a warrior and that's what Sam needed. Ruby had been the obvious choice.
In hindsight, maybe Sam should have put a little more thought into bringing back someone who's the worst combination of manipulative demon and hostile ex-girlfriend.
"Deano gone already?" Ruby says, surveying the empty parking lot of the motel. She's wearing black leather, supple and silent when she moves, and her pale skin is flawless even in the baked wilderness of the desert. Sam looks away from her uncomfortably.
"Yeah," he says. "He thinks he's got a lead on Rose Holt. Gonna see if she's growing up psychic after all."
Ruby nods in approval. "Nice. Azazel's kids make a good addition to your little army. And you're gonna want your arsenal fully stocked for what's coming."
She follows Sam over to his motorcycle, where it's parked in the shade of the motel building. When they began making plans for war and the to-do list started growing exponentially, it had become clear that Sam would need his own transportation. Then, when Sam started looking at motorcycles instead of cars, Dean insisted that if the Antichrist were seen cruising around on anything less than some beautiful beast of a machine, they might as well just buy him a tricycle, call him Damien, and be done with it. So Dean picked out a sleek silver and black Suzuki, and Sam has to admit he's grown attached to it. Maybe he's not in the same kind of unhealthily 'involved' relationship as Dean is with the Impala, but he's definitely fond.
His own leathers are black like Ruby's, less showy but making the most of his height and build. It's a good look for the Antichrist. Ruby slides on behind him, pressed tight and firm against him, and her arms around his waist, and Sam sighs and sends a desperate, depressed look heavenward.
"C'mon," she whispers in his ear. "Let's not keep the devil waiting."
It's going to be a long trip.
:::
Excerpt from 'The Paths of the Black Messiah':
On the edge of any city, in any country, you can find the roadhouse. Do not look at the bar's patrons, for they stopped to drink or gamble and their children's children have forgotten them. Speak only to the man behind the bar. Ask him the way to the Hotel California. If he tells you they have no room for you, leave, you are not the one, you never will be. But if he looks at you, long and hard, then turns away, go with him.
You will be led to the backroom. Whispering will follow you in a language you remember but do not speak or understand. So long as the whispering continues, you may go on. But if at any time the whispering should stop, say loudly that you're just passing through. If the whispering resumes, you may continue. If it does not, run. Don't stop for anything, don't stop at the roadhouse, don't stop until your body drops. You will know in the morning if you have escaped.
If you make it to the backroom, you will find a cot and a mirror and a window. Do not look out of the window and do not look in the mirror if you ever wish to leave the room again. Instead, sit on the edge of the bed and wait. If you are chosen, in the blackest darkness it will come to you. You are damned and God turned His face from you before you lived through your first year, but it will come to you.
The only reason Sam is prepared to believe that this roadhouse is somehow more significant than every other miserable, filthy roadhouse he's ever seen is because looking at this one is like standing on the edge of a really really tall cliff and feeling the wind rising behind you.
He swallows, takes a step closer, into one of the pools of musty orange light thrown by the parking lot lights. Then he realizes Ruby still hasn’t moved, is still clinging to the motorcycle. He reaches out to her, catches her cold hand in his and draws her forward. Her teeth are chattering. Her eyes dart to him, shining and black. He tightens his grip on her hand and she seems to find it easier to move.
"So, that thing that got out when the last seal broke," Sam says to distract her. "That's not Lucifer? Because I saw it in Philadelphia and it looked a hell of a lot like Lucifer."
He shudders, just a little, at the memory of seeing It. It was beautiful and terrible, and Sam knew that only he was safe from It, so he tucked Dean's body in under his own to protect him as blood rained down over them both.
And so Dean didn't see when It looked right at Sam.
Sam has been working his way through the necessary trials to prove that he's the Antichrist, but it's a demonstration for everyone else, because Sam doesn't need proof.
"What you saw was…" Ruby stumbles over her words. "Something like an astral projection. That's not the real thing. The real thing is… You saw the shadow, not the guy himself."
She's moving so slowly again now that Sam is pretty much dragging her along. They're almost at the battered wooden door and Sam really doesn't want to go in alone but he can't be hauling her along while trying to hold a conversation with Lucifer either. He glances back at her again and raises an eyebrow.
"You wanna stay out here?" he says.
"No," she says, pulling herself together irritably. "Like I'm gonna let you go in there alone. Someone who's not Lucifer or you should be present at this conversation, don't you think?"
Sam squeezes her fingers briefly in silent gratitude then swings the door open.
The roadhouse smells of cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies and, strangely distinct, something sweet and cloying. It's not busy inside but there's no unnatural quiet. There's a handful of people gathered at different tables, talking in low voices, beer bottles glinting in the dim electric light as they raise them to their mouths. All the same, Sam and Ruby head to the bar without making eye contact with anyone.
At the bar, any lingering doubt that Sam may have had that this was the right place is entirely gone when he looks at the bartender. The guy is dragging a filthy scrap of cloth around a smeared glass that is no better for the attention, and would probably actually benefit from a nice long soak in drain-cleaner or something similarly abrasive. There's a fever sweat on his skin, of which there doesn't seem to be nearly enough to adequately cover his bones. He's gaunt to the degree of being, almost literally, a walking skeleton. He looks at them with watery, red-rimmed eyes.
Sam takes a deep breath and pastes on his best 'we are respectable people in search of Hell' smile. "Hi," he says. "Uh… Can you tell me the way to the Hotel California? Please. Sir."
The silence is long and profound, and Sam doubts himself just long enough to miss Dean.
Then the bartender lets out a disgusted huff of breath. "That fucking book. Look, kid, you want some face-time with Hell, you just gotta ask. No need to be all poetic and cryptic. This isn't some goddamn spy novel, the geese aren't flying low over Moscow tonight or any codeword crap like that. Jesus. Fucking Kerouac. What a fucking hack."
He shuffles out from behind the bar and the acute angles of his body are even more alarming in full sight. He starts to leave then turns back at them. "You kids wanna meet the man or not? I ain't got all night."
They follow him immediately out of the bar. As they walk, the bartender looks down to where Ruby is still hanging on to Sam's hand. He raises an eyebrow at Sam. "This your girlfriend?" His tone conveys how unimpressed he is by Sam's apparent choice of date.
"No," Sam says instantly. "She's not… uh. No."
Ruby casts him a dark look. "Gee, Sam, you think maybe you can disown me a little quicker next time?"
Before Sam can string together an awkward but sincere apology, he’s distracted by the sudden rise of whispering voices in the air. Jack Kerouac was right: Sam doesn’t understand what’s being said, but he recognizes the language in the same way a second-generation immigrant will recognize the language of their homeland. It’s almost frustrating, to react to something on such an instinctive level but to be utterly unable to identify it beyond simply knowing it.
Neither the bartender nor Ruby seem to know the voices the way Sam does. The bartender simply shuffles onwards and they follow, Ruby shadowing Sam a little closer.
Perhaps it’s Sam’s imagination but it seems to him as if the tone of the whispering takes on an edge as he draws closer to the back room. ‘The Paths of the Black Messiah’ mentioned what to do if the whispering stopped, but not if it grew interested, urgent even. Sam’s not sure if this is a good sign. If his luck follows to course, it’s almost certainly a very bad sign.
"In here," the bartender says, opening a door and ushering them in. "It’ll come to you, in the darkness it’ll come to you." He pauses, then adds, "I’ll have a beer waiting for you, y'know, just in case you make it back out."
Then the door is closed and Sam and Ruby are in a room in the rust-brown darkness of night in the desert. It's just a backroom, spartan and maybe a little grubby. Remembering Kerouac's warnings, Sam does not look out of the window nor does he look into the mirror, but he can hear the distant rumble of traffic on the highway outside. He sits down on the end of the cot, which sags alarmingly low beneath him, and Ruby sits beside him, her thigh pressed to his.
They wait.
So gradually it's barely perceptible until it's happened, a deeper, more complete darkness settles over the room. Ruby becomes nothing but the warmth of her body next to Sam. The dimensions of the room seem to change somehow; Sam has the vivid impression of sitting in a space considerably larger than the room he was shown into.
Out of the corner of his eyes he sees orange and bone-white lights appear in the mirror, travel across the cracked glass and disappear again.
Something breathes in the darkness.
"Hello, Sam."
Whoever said it is apparently standing right in front of Sam. Sam does not try to see it. As far as he's concerned, the pitch-blackness is entirely necessary for maintaining whatever sanity he has left. The way it shapes the words strongly suggests its mouth is not designed for human speech. The words are intelligible but warped like sodden paper.
"Hi," he says. "Uh… I guess I don't really need to introduce myself. I'm the one who's going to be the Antichrist."
It laughs and Sam smells sulfur. "You have always been the Antichrist, Sam."
"No," Sam says. "No, see, I was just one of the psychic kids that the yellow-eyed demon, Azazel, made by bleeding in our mouths and I'm the only one who got through his deathmatch, but I didn't really, my brother, see, he's kind of a stage mom and he threw the match so I'd win by, uh, selling his soul to bring me back."
Sam realizes he's rambling, he's rambling at the Devil. It's probably not doing much for his credibility. Who wants an Antichrist with verbal diarrhea?
There is a long silence, a silence that stretches on and outwards and into the darkness that is too massive to fit in the backroom Sam entered.
"You have always been the Antichrist, Sam," it says again. "I was waiting for you before the world even imagined you."
"Oh. Wow. That's…" Sam wets his lips and focuses on what's important, not the sad truth of how absurd it was of him to try to go to Stanford, get married and have a normal life. "So does that mean I have your approval?"
"Walk your paths and I will be waiting at the end of them for you to take your throne, Sam."
It's weird: Sam actually does feel better for having the Devil's approval for his bid to become Antichrist. And yes, he knows that kind of thinking means he's going to Hell - that's the plan, thank you very much. He just has to figure out which of his paths are less genocidal, twisted and evil than the rest, do them, get himself crowned Antichrist and save the world and all celestial and infernal planes of existence. Easy.
"Thank you," Sam says. "Guess I'll talk to you again in a couple of weeks."
"Is she the one you bring with you, Sam?"
Sam blinks at the question and, forgetting for a second that it's complete darkness, looks to Ruby for assistance. She twitches slightly beside him but it's not a helpful twitch.
"Sorry, I don't… What do you mean 'is she the one I'm bringing with me'? I need to bring someone with me?"
"Who is the one who speaks with your voice, whom you raise above all others, whose word is as yours, who loves you as no other and is loved by you as no other, Sam?"
Sam's answer is the obvious one, because there's really one person who ticks those boxes, and maybe if it weren't such an obvious answer he'd have spent a little longer thinking about it and what he might possibly be saying. Instead, his mouth just opens and goes for it.
"Oh, you mean Dean? Well, yeah, I'll be bringing Dean with me. I mean, he's my brother, we're kind of in this together."
"Then you come to me through Dean, Sam. You lie with him upon the altar of my church and in the moment of your joining, my gates will open for you as he opens for you, Sam. You come to me through your Beloved Consort and he shall place my crown on your brow and sit at your left hand, Sam."
"Wait. What?" Sam's voice is a little faint. "No, no, back up a moment. When I said Dean, I was talking in a strictly non-lying-together-on-altars sense. Obviously we're not gonna be doing that." He tries a laugh, to demonstrate how ridiculous the idea is, but it comes out more than slightly hysterical. "Seriously, can I pick someone else? 'Cause I really think I should pick someone else. Someone I'm not related to. Which is, like, anyone in the world who's not Dean. Anyone at all who's not Dean."
"Walk your paths, come to me holding the hand of your Beloved Consort, Sam."
And that's the end of the interview.
Sam isn't aware of the exact moment that it leaves. The whole 'accidentally signing his brother up as his consort' experience has kind of thrown him. He just knows that the darkness is gone and Ruby's sitting next to him, black-eyed and blank-faced.
They sit together in silence as Sam tries to recover.
"I had a plan," he says finally. "It was an awesome plan. And that wasn't it."
:::
They pass the time on the journey back arguing about whose fault it is.
"Maybe it didn't occur to you," says Sam, "but if I was just looking for moral support and someone to hold my hand, a demon who's already betrayed me probably wouldn't have been my first choice. I brought you along because you know the damn book better than anyone and you were supposed to stop anything like…" -Telling the Devil that he was going to have some hot, steamy mansex with Dean on an altar - "this happening."
"Well I'm sorry, Sam. I guess I just didn't realize you'd be in such a hurry to name Dean your favoritest person in the whole wide world."
"He asked! Who else was I gonna say?"
Ruby concentrates on driving one of her fries through a pool of ketchup that glistens sickly red in the raw glare of the diner's lights. Her mouth is set in a pretty, sulky pout. Sam blinks, his jaw unhitching.
"You've got to be kidding me! What part of 'demon that used me and betrayed me' is not getting through to you?"
"Fine," she says. "Buttfuck Dean. I hope you'll be very happy together."
Sam makes a sound that is probably the closest the Antichrist can come to a whimper and proceeds to bang his forehead against the diner tabletop. Ruby finishes her fries while she watches.
When he gets back to their current base, the Morning Star motel, Dean hasn't returned yet - for which Sam really doesn't thank God, except he totally does - and the angels are waiting for him. If he was hoping that the angels would be more helpful about the situation, he's disappointed. Okay, he's able to reassure them that, no, he hasn’t named Ruby as his Beloved Consort, and they're happy about that, but it all goes downhill from there.
"Dean?" Castiel says in a small voice. "You've chosen Dean?" Anna pats him on the shoulder sympathetically.
"No!" says Sam, followed immediately by, "Except… yes. Look, I didn't really choose him. Honestly, Lucifer was kind of vague and I thought I was- It doesn't matter. I'll go back and I'll explain that Dean's my brother, and I probably didn't make that clear enough, and it's gonna be fine, and we're not gonna have any incest in this apocalypse."
The angels look at him skeptically. Uriel cocks his head at Sam in that way that makes it clear he thinks Sam's being a very dumb little mud-monkey and Uriel's going to tell him all about it.
"I'm going to let it pass that you managed to stumble onto the path with apparently no research at all," Uriel says. "It's our failure, we should have properly prepared you. We just none of us thought you'd be walking the path of the Sacred Whore-"
"Beloved Consort," Sam interrupts. On the scale of things, he thinks 'beloved consort' might be a marginally less suicidal sell to Dean than 'sacred whore'.
Uriel flashes his teeth at him. "Whatever. It's a question of pronunciation. My point is, you've said you're walking this path. Even if you can get Lucifer to accept that Dean is not your chosen one, who else are you going to pick? Who do you love more than him?"
"What's love got to do with it?" Sam demands, and is instantly prepared to bitchslap anyone stupid enough to call him on inadvertently quoting Tina Turner. "Isn't love, like, the big heavenly deal? Why does Hell care who I love?"
He gets another of those 'stupid little mud-monkeys' looks. "Right," says Uriel. "Because nobody ever did anything mean or evil because of love. You creatures can do wonderful things when you're in love, but you can do some damn ugly ones as well. Love is a force, not divine or demonic. The Beloved Consort has to be just that, beloved."
Letting out a breath, Sam sits on the chair that Gaviel helpfully nudges towards him. Arranged around the motel room in their various diverse vessels, the angels resemble an AA meeting about to start. Castiel is still staring with mournful intensity into the middle distance, his forehead scrunched up, as if there is something particularly confusing and troubling about the chipped amber bedside lamp, aside from it being on the ugly side of kitsch. The other angels are all looking to Sam.
It's not a question of there being anyone else Sam loves more than Dean. It's not even a question of there being anyone Sam loves anywhere near as much as he loves Dean. It's been Sam and Dean for so long that nobody's had a chance of getting inside that. This is why it's unhealthy to have such a limited social circle, because when it comes time to choose your Beloved Consort, your options aren't exactly unlimited. He has angels he doesn't understand, demons he doesn't like and he has Dean.
He just doesn't love Dean like that. Not wanting to fuck Dean has never been a problem before, and that it is now is no doubt one of the signs of the apocalypse.
"I'm not saying any of us would have chosen this path for you, or for Dean," Anna says finally. "But we trust Dean. He's a good man. We'll rest easier knowing he has a partner's influence over you. It's a good thing."
There are nods from a couple of the angels and Sam supposes that even if he has made his relationship with Dean all kinds of awkward, he's at least consolidated his position with the angels. Now, he just has to find out how the demons are going to take it.
He leaves the room, steps out into the fresh air and takes a deep cleansing breath. The electric lights of the yellow shooting star that sits atop the motel sign flash through one after another, almost invisible in the afternoon glare of sunshine.
Sam and his army have pretty much taken over the motel. A family from Little Rock checked in to Room 8 a few weeks ago but they checked out again soon after; Sam's not sure if it was the demonic rowdiness through the night or the angelic choruses at dawn that were too much for them. There have been a few complaints from housekeeping to the motel manager, but otherwise, considering he's got demons and angels cohabiting, the level of destruction has been impressively low.
Of course, there might be some hardcore destruction once Dean gets back.
The room the demons are currently congregated in is a little family room that probably was a lot less shabby before their occupancy. It stinks of alcohol and shit, the drapes still drawn and muted screaming and tacky dirty talk coming from the pay-per-view porn showing on the TV. Sam's greeted by a lot of raucous laughter. He nods resignedly and waits for them to get over it.
"Guess this means you already told them," he says to Ruby.
She shrugs at him with an unrepentant smile. "Sorry, I just couldn't wait to share. You should'a seen their faces."
Sam nods again, then realizes that if he carries on waiting for them to get over it, there might not be any world left to save. "Okay, yeah," he says. "Incest is funny, can we move on? Seriously, guys, it's just a minor complication. I'm working on it."
"Are you sure you want to?" says Raum. There's something off-putting about the body he's currently possessing, and Sam doesn't think it's just that he knows the guy's a serial rapist. Maybe it's in the close-set eyes or the spider-like thinness of his limbs, something just a little to the left of human.
Raum's tone suggests it's a serious question he's asking so Sam moderates his response and doesn't snap at him; he wants to encourage the demons when they're civil, even if they're asking dumb questions.
"Yeah, I'm really very sure I don't want to have sex with Dean." Then Sam feels bad because maybe demons genuinely don't understand why Sam would have a problem with incest; they don't have a problem with a lot of the other things Sam has problems with. His expression softening, he tries to explain. "He's my big brother and it'd just be weird and we don't think of each other in that way."
"Maybe you should try," Raum says. "In walking the path of the Sacred Whore-"
"We’re going with Beloved Consort," Sam snarls because he really can't have that getting back to Dean.
Raum rolls his eyes, eerily reminiscent of Uriel for a moment. "Whatever you want to call it, walking that path allows you to avoid others you're too squeamish to attempt." The intonation on 'squeamish' is nothing short of contemptuous.
"You mean like the one about raping five hundred virgins?" Sam says sharply, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm a little squeamish about that one. But I'm also concerned about the physical exertion required for something like that and the possibly epic chafing of my dick." He pauses, scrapes his fingers through his hair. He can feel a headache coming on. It's probably something to do with the decision he's about to make.
"What I don't get is if this lets me avoid mass rape of virgins and painting cities with blood and all those other good times I don't want, why didn't you mention it a little sooner?" His eyes narrow. Every demon in the room goes quiet as Sam's fingers start to curl into a fist. "Were you deliberately keeping this information from me?"
"No, no," Raum says. "We…uh… we discussed it and…" He looks a little helpless, which is an interesting look for an archduke of Hell. "We decided you'd probably prefer to rape the virgins."
Raping five hundred virgins or even having to have the conversation about having sex with Dean: Sam honestly doesn't think he can fault the demons' thinking.
His cellphone trills in the silence and Sam doesn't even have to look at it to know it's Dean. Of course it's Dean, calling in to check how Sam's meeting with Lucifer went, and probably to not so subtly check whether Sam accidentally or otherwise allowed Ruby to bleed in his mouth.
Holding his phone while it rings, Sam looks around at them. "Okay, Raum, you and Ruby and Asmodeus are going to go through the book again and see if there are any loopholes that I can fall back on. I want to know how binding this is. And one of you go ask the angels to map out which paths this means I'll have to take and which ones it means I can avoid. Please ask them nicely." Sam moves to answer the call but looks back up again when something occurs to him. "And the first person to mention any of this to Dean gets the Hand of Black Smoke Hurting, do I make myself clear?"
Then he answers the call and tries not to sound like he's having an incestuous crisis.
:::
It's ten o'clock the next morning when the Impala rolls into the parking lot. Sam is sitting on the bench outside the manager's office, leaning forward, arms on his thighs, waiting. He's oddly conflicted by Dean's arrival. On one hand, seeing Dean takes him one step closer to having to tell Dean the mess they're in. On the other hand, Sam's psyche still connects Dean to safety, security. Nothing can be so bad when his big brother is here to fix it.
He stands as Dean parks up and starts to cross the scrubland of the parking lot towards him. Dean climbs out of the car and the sunlight catches on his amulet for a second, a sudden spark of fire in the middle of Dean's black t-shirt.
"Jesus, the fucking assholes on the road today," Dean says. "When you're Antichrist, I'm totally giving you permission to smite the fuck out of anyone too dumb to know how to drive a goddamn car properly. They drive like they think they're at the wheel of a goddamn tank."
Sam stands there and lets him bitch contentedly for a while, before asking, "So how'd it work out with Rose in the end?"
"Total bust," Dean says. "Figure it'll be at least another fifteen years before she's having freaky death visions or putting the mind-whammy on people. Guess we could try triggering her early but, y'know, I'm just not thrilled by the prospect of feeding demon blood to a preteen."
"Yeah, think that's a little too darkside for us." He hesitates awkwardly for a moment, clears his throat. "So, you wanna take a shower, get something to eat? We'll head out for the crossroads demon in a couple of hours, okay?"
Dean nods with an easy grin and shoulders his duffle bag. "Just let me wash the road-dust off, get me a cheeseburger and I'm good to go."
Some of the demons have spilled out of their room and are watching them. While Sam tries to unobtrusively gesture for them to get back inside, Dean frowns at the looks on their faces and rubs a hand over his own face almost self-consciously. Sam drops back a step behind him and switches from unobtrusive gesturing to meaningfully brandishing his fist at them. That gets them moving.
He wonders whether he can convince Dean to skip eating and pick something up on the road instead.
:::
The only thing that makes this time Dean wanders around a motel room, still dripping wet from the shower and with only a towel tied loosely about his hips, different from the thousands of other times he's done it, is that this is the first time it's been within a thirty-six hour period of Sam agreeing to have gay incestuous sex with him. On an altar. The altar part shouldn't be forgotten. Because it's not just gay incestuous sex; it's gay incestuous sex on an altar.
He pretends to read a newspaper while he watches Dean drip all over the floor.
Objectively, he knows that Dean is hot. It's one of those givens that he just grew up with, like the sky is blue, John lives on a liquid diet and ghouls smell really really bad.
He's aware of the effect of Dean's face, his body. He was thirteen the first time he heard someone comment on what they'd like to do to Dean's mouth. He can remember more than one occasion, growing up, when John felt the need to step in and assure someone that they really could take Dean's 'no' for an answer. He's used to Dean turning heads. But the only time he's ever properly given consideration to Dean's prettiness was going into the Green River County Detention Center when he was mildly concerned that someone was going to try to make his brother their bitch and how embarrassing that might be.
Knowing that Dean is hot is an entirely separate concept to wanting to jump his bones. On an altar, don’t forget the altar.
"Hey, do you think this is infected?" Dean says and opens his towel.
Sam stares fixedly at the ugly red gash of claws on Dean's thigh, a souvenir from a battle a few days ago, and does not allow his gaze to wander.
"Uh… could be," he says in a strangled voice.
Dean frowns and fingers the flesh. "Hurts like a bitch."
"I'm interrupting," Castiel says.
Castiel is standing in the middle of the room where he wasn't just a second ago. Sam is not sure whether Castiel is more horrified to see Sam, or Sam is to be seen, on the bed with Dean apparently displaying his junk at him.
The only one who doesn't seem to be affected is Dean, who pulls a face at Castiel and reknots his towel. "See, that's another reason you guys should walk more, 'stead of pulling this appearing out of nowhere bullshit, it'd help you remember to knock. Not to mention, y'know, it's good for your heart. Or Jimmy's heart. Though I guess getting shot and me sticking a knife in his chest that time probably wasn't real good for his health, huh?"
Castiel is still frozen in horror.
"It’s not," Sam says to him. "We weren't. I wasn't. Oh god. Oh god."
Castiel edges towards the door. He shakes his head and holds up a hand to cut Sam off. "I apologize. I should have knocked. Clearly, with recent events, you need privacy. I will guard the door for you. Or, maybe, I can find one of those little signs for you to hang from the knocker. Yes. Do not disturb. I will make sure everyone knows you are not to be disturbed."
"Please don't do that," Sam says, but it’s too late, Castiel is already making his escape.
There's a perplexed expression on Dean's face as he watches Castiel go. Finally, he turns to Sam and Sam is all ready to launch into an explanation about how nothing at all happened in his meeting with Hell that would require them to need privacy.
But all Dean says is, "Did the angels switch to a new brand of crazy while I was gone?" before he pads back into the bathroom to towel dry his hair, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind.
:::
"It's a hunt," Sam says. He prods a finger at the newspaper page. "Eight people have gone missing already, and two skeletons, stripped of all meat, have turned up. I'm thinking some kind of swamp creature, like the one in Florida when we were kids. Remember?"
Dean scratches his head then angles a look at Sam. "You know me, always up for a good down and dirty hack and slash but… aren't we kinda busy? I mean, this whole 'let's make you the Antichrist' thing feels kind of pressing."
Outside, there's a handful of Sam's demons gathered in the shade of the motel veranda, watching them. Sam does his best to ignore them and their leering. He's all for improving the morale of his troops, but he feels pretty strongly that it shouldn't be at his own expense and it definitely shouldn't involve incest.
"It's close by to the crossroads. Take a couple of hours. Just-" He lets out a breath and shifts in his seat. Registering his frustration, Dean's face softens slightly, his expression moving from incredulity to concern. "I just think it'd be good for us."
Dean looks back at the newspaper article and nods slowly. "Sure, Sammy, sure. Hell, I could probably do with a break from the routine. All this angel and demon crap is getting old." He gets to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can tell you've been in an apocalypse too long when angels running around all over the place stops being a novelty." He stretches and his skin still glows a little from the shower, clean pink and gold. "Get your bag in the car and we'll go."
The prospect of escape is so very wonderful that Sam can't stop grinning the whole time it takes to pack the car. Part of him suspects that looking so very pleased to be getting some alone-time with Dean probably sends the wrong message to the angels and demons, but he is currently very past caring. He is going to go hunt a swamp creature far, far from here, where it will be dirty and mostly dull with only a few moments of excitement, and he doubts he has ever looked forward to a hunt as much as he is looking forward to this one.
They're nearly in the car when Anna approaches. Sam is all in favor of jumping into the car, gunning the engine and taking off, but Dean, of course, stops and looks back at her. She smiles as she reaches them, brushes her hair off her face, back behind her ears.
"Castiel wanted you to have this," she says. "He'd have given it to you himself but I think he's still a little embarrassed for walking in on you earlier."
Dean raises his eyebrows. "Really? Wow, I mean, I know he's an angel but I had no idea he was such a prude."
He takes the 'Do not disturb' sign Anna presses into his hand. Even from here, Sam can see the silver, seventies-porno silhouette of a naked woman on it. He guesses Castiel didn’t have enough time to find something a little classier. Dean is still giving it a bewildered look when Anna reaches up and kisses his cheek.
"I think it's wonderful," she says.
Dean turns the sign over in his hand doubtfully. "Yeah," he says. "It's, well, it's nice. Thanks."
As she leaves, Dean stares between her back and the sign she put in his hands. He turns to Sam and Sam braces for it.
"Dude," Dean says. "I think I just got hit up for an angelic booty call! I did, didn't I?"
Sam is able to catch Dean's arm and swing him back around towards the car before he can go after her.
"Pretty sure you didn't, man. Just get in the car."
He tugs the sign out of Dean's hands and tosses it in the backseat. He's more than a little tempted to drop it under the tires of the Impala and reverse over it a couple of times but, for the sake of politeness, he thinks he'll wait until Castiel can't see him do it.
:::
As they drive, the weather changes. Smoky blue-gray clouds curl in over the sun. The air takes on the heavy intensity that presages rain. But the landscape becomes a little less barren and a little more green. It feels healthy, like there's still a world to save.
Once they're on the highway, Sam finds himself watching the other cars moving by them. It's very likely, he thinks, that not a single one of them is having the bad day he is. Not a single one of them is having to worry about whether or not they should fuck their big brother on an altar, and, if they should, how they should broach the subject to the aforementioned big brother.
Of course, not a single one of them is the nascent Antichrist either but that's an issue that's been dwarfed by the incest crisis. It's an impressive crisis that can put being the Antichrist number two on the list.
Dean is drumming the steering wheel in time to the Megadeth cassette tape playing. His body is loose, expression unworn, and Sam doesn't have the first idea what he's thinking about.
He bets it's not how much Dean would like Sam to fuck his ass. On an altar.
:::
"Are there gonna be leeches in there? There are, aren't there?" Dean surveys the swamp with deep dissatisfaction. He sighs. "I hate leeches."
"Leeches suck," Sam agrees happily. He kicks around in the undergrowth until he finds a suitably sturdy stick then begins to wade into the murky wetland. Wet ickiness instantly seeps into his boots, and his jeans cling stickily to his legs. It's disgusting; Sam is still grinning.
"Someone's perky," Dean says, watching. "Care to share with the rest of the class why this swamp creature's put such a smile on your face?"
Sam shrugs and moves a little deeper, testing his path with the stick. "I'm just enjoying getting back to basics. How things used to be. You and me, brothers, hunting evil stuff and kicking its ass."
The look on Dean's face says he suspects a trick, but he at least follows Sam's example and heads into the swamp. He grimaces at the slurping sound the swamp makes as it swallows his feet. Already waist deep, Sam looks back at him and laughs.
"C'mon, man, I promise there's a bubble bath in this for you after."
"Oh fuck you," Dean says.
Sam laughs even louder. It's probably the laughter that attracts the swamp creature's attention.
Something grabs Sam's leg and yanks him right under. Stinking swamp water floods his nostrils and mouth. Whatever it is that's got him, it's moving at some speed, dragging him along with it, down into the blackness. They probably didn't do enough research on this one because Sam isn't entirely sure what it is they're dealing with. He doesn't know what its weaknesses are, but he does know that there's a good proportion of things that don't like a knife to the chest.
He drives the knife through the water, aiming for the thick, leathery flank of the creature's side, but the creature shakes him roughly like a dog shaking a rabbit. Lack of oxygen is fast becoming an issue and Sam would switch from attack to retreat if only he could get free.
There's something almost reassuring about panicking. It proves he's still human, demon blood and freaky-ass mindpowers aside. Part of him even finds it pretty funny that the Antichrist is going to drown in a swamp in Georgia.
Then there are fingers on his leg, prying away whatever hold the swamp creature has on him. Through the shifting, dark green murkiness, he catches sight of Dean's face. Together, they work Sam's leg free. Dean tries to push him to the surface but Sam knows that Dean means to take the swamp creature on himself as soon as he's got Sam to safety. It's an out-dated protocol in Dean's circuitry that fires up at the worst times.
Sam grips his knife tighter and slams it into the creature, in and down and hard, until black clouds of blood bubble free. It thrashes the water in its death throes and Dean is thrust backwards, away from Sam. Sam's fingers strain towards him as Dean disappears out of reach. Shoving the creature's still twitching carcass aside, Sam pushes forwards, chases after Dean.
For one heart-stopping moment, Dean is lost in the watery gloom.
Then Sam's arms close around him. Dean's dazed, more pliant than he should be, sags against Sam's chest as Sam hauls them to the surface. Spluttering, he drags Dean onto the shore by the waistband of his jeans. His lungs burn with the reintroduction of oxygen and Sam tips his head back simply to breathe. Dean is hacking beside him and, instinctively, Sam curls an arm around his back and pulls him farther out of the swamp.
Right then, with their clothes sticking to their skin, Sam's arm against the strong curve of Dean's shoulders, an aching prickling sensitivity where they touch, Sam is shockingly able to contemplate the idea of fucking Dean, even on an altar. Just for a second, he can imagine what it would be like.
Then the acceptance is gone, as quickly and unhelpfully as it arrived. Sam is instantly horrified at himself and has to abandon all body contact with Dean.
He brings his knees up to his chest, shivering on the bank of the swamp, and watches the monster's corpse bob slowly to the surface. Dean rolls over onto his back, mud smeared on his face and in his hair. His chest heaves. His lower lip is split, blood dribbling slowly from the corner of his mouth.
"You were right," he says breathlessly. "That was awesome."
part two
In June 1943, while serving in the United States Merchant Marines, Jack Kerouac suffered a nervous breakdown and produced the manuscript known as 'The Paths of the Black Messiah'. Though opinion is divided as to whether 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' can in fact be recognized as a literary work and not simply the drug-induced ravings of someone suffering a mental illness, the text did achieve a limited print run in the 1970s, and has been the subject of much discussion among those who have delved deeply enough into Kerouac's biography to be aware of its existence.
'The Paths of the Black Messiah' is divided into two distinct parts. The first section deals with the angel Lucifer and his fall. In accordance with Biblical myth, Lucifer is the brightest and most beautiful of God's angels but, due to his pride and refusal to serve humanity, he is flung out of Heaven. However, where 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' diverges from the Bible is in his fate. Kerouac's text states that God creates Hell out of Lucifer himself, "forging fire and bitter torment from the angel's very skin and bones". Lucifer becomes his own prison and, after eons of agony, he reaches an enlightened awareness of his existence as the underworld, transforming into "the ghost in the hellish machine".
The second part is considerably longer and focuses on the supposed 'Black Messiah' of the title, though he is more frequently labeled by the text as the Boy King. The Boy King is ambiguously described as "human, but not only human," and the paths that he walks are those that will lead him to rule over Hell. If Lucifer is the ship, then the Boy King is the ship's captain. To take his throne, the Boy King must commit several acts, his 'paths', the explanation of which takes up the rest of the text.
Many critics cite the extreme violence, bizarre nature and obscenity of the 'paths' as an argument for dismissing the manuscript as a literary work. In his exploration of 'The Paths of the Black Messiah', Richard Pickman comments, "The acts of genocide, mutilation and wanton cruelty, which are graphically and lovingly described, cannot be the products of a healthy mind in control of itself. To call 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' a literary work is to call Kerouac's mental illness performance art." (R.U. Pickman, 'On the Black Road', Beautiful Minds, pp 32-48.)
Some defenders of the text go so far as to suggest that it contains elements of true prophecy. These claims are widely ridiculed by the academic community. Others are more receptive to the idea but point out that if Kerouac genuinely possessed psychic powers, there would surely be a prophetic nature to his other works.
Jack Kerouac's most famous novel is 'On the Road', in which Sal, a young innocent, joins the slightly crazed Dean on a road trip back and forth across the United States.
"Seriously?" says the clerk in the bookstore. "You seriously tried ordering this from Amazon?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "We tried Barnes and Noble too."
The clerk snorts, rolls his eyes and shakes his head, as if one gesture alone is insufficient to convey the full depth of his contempt. He goes on unpacking one of the many dusty cardboard boxes, stacking ancient paperbacks with garish covers and yellowing pages along the counter.
"Neither of them had it in stock," Sam adds.
The clerk huffs again and gives him a pitying look. "Wow! Big surprise! Amazon and B an' N cater to the sheeple, dude. They don't stock anything that might shock people out of the mindless drone state to which they're all accustomed, anything that might get them thinking. Like I said, sheeple. Are you sheeple?"
"Uh… no?" Sam says.
He angles Dean a slightly helpless look but Dean's easy grin says he's happy enough sitting this one out. On the lower floor, Castiel is scouring the self-help section, probably in search of self-empowerment or self-actualization or maybe just an understanding of the concept of 'self'. He already has an armful of books clutched against the ratty front of his trench coat.
As for Ruby, Sam's not sure where she is and isn't sure he wants to know either.
"No," he says with a little more certainty. "We're definitely not sheeple."
The clerk just gives another of those disdainful noises and continues emptying boxes. So far, it's been nothing but pulp fiction. Sam doesn't dare risk incurring his wrath by pointing out that 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' really doesn't belong in the same box as Biggles, Buck Rogers and Big Nose Serrano. His hopes are lifted when he sees the next box contains ancient paperbacks by Hope Hodgson, Derleth and Bloch. If he had to classify 'The Paths of the Black Messiah', he'd probably pick horror too. Or maybe, because his life sucks just that much, biography.
"You're wasting your money, y'know," the clerk says. "I read the piece of crap you're looking for after I picked it up at a house clearance." He glances back at Sam to give his pronouncement; Sam tries to look suitably receptive. "Derivative and pretentious. I mean, I think Kerouac's a hack, so maybe I'm biased. But Lovecraft did it better. You want dreamy, scary journeys to other places? Try 'The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath'. My girlfriend wouldn't sleep with the lights out for weeks after reading it. In fact, you know what? I'm betting Kerouac read it then ripped it off while he was crazy."
"Yeah, probably," Sam says. He gives Dean another pleading look, which Dean gleefully ignores. "So, uh, you're sure you've still got it? It's not possible you sold it and forgot?"
"Maybe. Wanna go running back to the corporate teat and hit Amazon.com up again?" the clerk says. He slaps a thin book down on the counter between them. "Here's your schlocky, rip-off horror. Five bucks and it's yours."
Sam stares down at the book. It has an orange cover, the precise shade of which reminds him of the cracked Formica benches in the cheaper, more dated diners Dean drags him to. The title is printed in black. It costs five dollars and it holds Sam's destiny.
Sam is still staring at it when Dean says, "C'mon, how about three-fifty? We're taking a piece of shitty writing off your hands, right? Bringing up the literary standards in your fine establishment."
The clerk shrugs. "Yeah, whatever."
Sam is still staring at it when Dean elbows him. "Dude, pay for your book already."
As Sam is hooking out his wallet, Castiel approaches and sets a pile of books on the counter beside 'The Paths of the Black Messiah'. He gives Sam a small, hopeful look. Sam sighs and nods and calls out, "Ruby? You want anything?"
In the end, Castiel's books come to thirty-one dollars, Ruby gets a true-crime book about John Wayne Gacy for twelve ninety-five, and Dean manages to talk the clerk into giving them the Kerouac for fifty cents.
:::
Altogether, there are about twenty-five of them present: ten of Sam's demons, six of his angels, a handful of hunters, and Sam and Dean. It's probably more people than this bar's seen since Woodstock. The Final Countdown is playing on the jukebox, and the expiration stamp on Sam's beer tells him it probably would have tasted better six years ago.
Dean scoops up a handful of moldering peanuts from the bowl, and, chewing on them contentedly, helps himself to a second handful then moves to address the crowd.
"Okay," he says. "You've all seen The Dark Knight, right? C'mon, raise your hand if you've seen it."
The assembled hunters look around at each other, then, raggedly, they raise they hands. Dean grins and claps his hands together.
"So," he says. "The angels in this scenario are Batman."
Castiel brightens slightly at this announcement. He leans in to Uriel and says something in his ear. Across the room, Ruby snickers.
"They're badass and righteous but they're gonna smite you. They think it's for your own good but, y'know, a smiting ain't exactly something you get over in a hurry, whether you needed it or not."
Uriel nods sagely at this.
"Then there are the demons. They'd be the Joker." Dean waits for the demons to stop cheering before he continues his analogy. "Sure, they seem like a fun crowd to hang around with and they've got style, but a joke's not funny to them ‘til it's got a body count." Dean then gestures triumphantly at Sam, who feels a little uncomfortable with the eyes of seven less than friendly hunters on him. "Sammy, here, Sammy's the third way. Sam's our Harvey Dent."
"You mean he's gonna get mentally unhinged and kill a whole load of folks?" one of the hunters asks doubtfully.
It had all been going reasonably well until then, Sam thinks. Dean's expression wavers. "Well…" he says. His eyes flick to Sam, and Sam takes pity and steps in.
"Well, we're gonna try to avoid that happening," Sam says. "Look, all we're saying is, if the demons win, you're screwed. And if the angels win, you're screwed. But if you back me, we can hold things together. I know it probably doesn't seem right to you, siding with demons and the Antichrist, but we're just trying to get a force together that's strong enough for us to stand a chance. You're an important part of that. We want you on our team. I mean, you and the people you protect are the reason we're doing this. So, you in?"
There's a long silence. The jukebox in the corner hums as it switches to the next record, Total Eclipse of the Heart, which is even less appropriate than The Final Countdown was. The soundtrack to the epic battle between Heaven and Hell is pretty cheesy so far.
Finally, one of the hunters, a grizzled old man wearing a battered cowboy hat puts up his hand. It's a pretty miserable situation they're in when even that's a better result than Sam was expecting. Honestly, he wasn't expecting to get out of this without being drenched in holy water, shot with rock salt a couple of times and maybe being chanted in Latin at for good measure.
"Yeah, you?" he says, pointing to the hunter as if the whole room is trying to get his attention.
"Who are we then?" Sam stares at him a little blankly. He looks at Dean but Dean is equally confused, which may not be helpful but is at least slightly reassuring. "Are we the people in the boats who gotta blow each other up?"
Another hunter raises his hand. "Can I be Wolverine?"
Sam and Dean exchange another look and come to a silent agreement. "Yes," Dean says. "If you back my brother on this, you can be Wolverine. You can all be the superhero of your choice."
"But not Batman," Castiel says. "They can't be Batman because we are." Uriel and the other angels nod.
Sam sighs and hides his face in his hands. Dean pats him on the back. He leans in, voice dropped low and says, "You wanna go hide back at the motel before they start in on how Heath Ledger stole that movie?"
"Oh God, please."
As Sam and Dean are going out the door, the demons are raising some angelic ire by loudly mocking Christian Bale's 'Batman' voice and the hunters are discussing whether the portrayal of homosexuality in Brokeback Mountain supported the gay rights movement or damaged it.
It's a cold night and Dean flips the collar of his jacket up as they cross to the Impala. Sam glances back over his shoulder; it's getting pretty noisy in there. He's definitely glad to be out of it but he's not sure they've struck a blow for their cause tonight.
"Think there'll be any casualties?" he says.
"Nah," Dean says. "Ruby and the others aren't gonna mess around with humans when they've got angels to play with. 'Sides, rowdy as it gets, nobody's gonna do anything stupid. They've all still got their eyes on the prize. Cas and Ruby'll keep them in line."
He unlocks the car and Sam slouches in the passenger seat. It's nice, being comfortable around Dean again. It's also nice that Dean's apparently adopted the role of campaign manager for Sam's bid to be Antichrist. He's got angels who've misplaced their god and come to Sam to protect His creation, and he's got demons who are only interested in keeping their playground intact, but the best thing he's got is Dean. Dean doesn't really get him and Dean has some major issues and Dean drives him downright crazy with a minimum amount of effort, but Dean loves him and that counts for a surprising amount when it comes down to it.
As they drive, Sam pulls 'The Paths of the Black Messiah' from his pocket and flips through the pages. He can't read much by the roadside lights but he's not trying. He's just seeing the words flicker by in front of him, smelling the musty antique stink of the paper.
Dean glances over at him. "How's your destiny?"
"Crappy," Sam says. "And rated a pretty extreme triple-x. But, y'know, at least I know what I'm doing now."
"Is it gonna involve the blood of virgins?"
"Only if I want it to." At the mildly perturbed look Dean gives him, Sam says, "I've got choices. It's the same with the seals: thousands of 'em, but only sixty-six had to be broken. There are hundreds of paths, but I only need to do a few of them. I'm trying to pick out the least evil."
Some of it is fairly subjective, Sam has to admit. After all, is it more evil to turn the seas to 'poisonous ichor' or to 'call down a frenzied plague of locusts'? Sam just doesn't really know how to measure these things. And it's not the kind of thing you can ask people's opinions on, not least because the people he's spending time with nowadays are either angels or demons, and both sets tend to have unconventional and unhelpful views on the matter.
"Guess it's something to bring up in your little meet and greet tomorrow, right?" Dean says. He pauses, then says, "You sure you wanna take Ruby for that?"
Sam angles a grin at him. "Why? You think I ought'a take Cas, or maybe Uriel, to say hi to Lucifer?" He shakes his head. "It's gotta be Ruby. For one, she's the one who's got the clearest idea of my paths. The angels all say the book's forbidden knowledge and won't touch it. I'm pretty sure I caught Gaviel having some kind of staring contest with it the other day. And when it comes to demons, Ruby's about the most trustworthy of the bunch."
Dean's laugh is bitterly amused. "Yeah, right, trustworthy." His lips tighten and he keeps his gaze out in front, staring out the windshield at the dust-brown and moonlight-silver highway. "Whatever. Just don't let her go bleeding in your mouth or any freaky shit like that."
"My batteries are fully charged," Sam says quietly. "I don't need to do that anymore."
Sam looks down at his own fingers, which are curiously skeletal in the moonlight, curled around the obnoxiously orange paperback, but he feels Dean glance over at him all the same. He looks up in time to catch Dean's eyes. Dean studies him a moment, not at all fooled by the reassuring smile Sam gives him. Then Dean looks back out the windshield.
After a second, he bumps his shoulder against Sam's. Sam looks down at his hands again and smiles helplessly.
"Good," Dean says. "'Cause you're a hard enough sell as it is right now. Don't need you going all cracked out, demon-blood junkie on me."
Like Sam said, it's nice being comfortable around his brother again. There's nothing like having your big brother around and on your side when you're trying to become the Antichrist.
:::
Despite everything he said to Dean, Sam isn't entirely convinced that taking Ruby when he goes to make communion with Hell is a good idea. Resurrecting a demon and an angel was part of proving he was the Antichrist and it had made sense at the time to bring back people he knew, better the devil you know, which is a phrase which has taken on an unhappily literal sense of late. He'd hesitated longer over bringing Uriel back than he had Ruby. Uriel may not have been the friendliest guy around but he was a warrior and that's what Sam needed. Ruby had been the obvious choice.
In hindsight, maybe Sam should have put a little more thought into bringing back someone who's the worst combination of manipulative demon and hostile ex-girlfriend.
"Deano gone already?" Ruby says, surveying the empty parking lot of the motel. She's wearing black leather, supple and silent when she moves, and her pale skin is flawless even in the baked wilderness of the desert. Sam looks away from her uncomfortably.
"Yeah," he says. "He thinks he's got a lead on Rose Holt. Gonna see if she's growing up psychic after all."
Ruby nods in approval. "Nice. Azazel's kids make a good addition to your little army. And you're gonna want your arsenal fully stocked for what's coming."
She follows Sam over to his motorcycle, where it's parked in the shade of the motel building. When they began making plans for war and the to-do list started growing exponentially, it had become clear that Sam would need his own transportation. Then, when Sam started looking at motorcycles instead of cars, Dean insisted that if the Antichrist were seen cruising around on anything less than some beautiful beast of a machine, they might as well just buy him a tricycle, call him Damien, and be done with it. So Dean picked out a sleek silver and black Suzuki, and Sam has to admit he's grown attached to it. Maybe he's not in the same kind of unhealthily 'involved' relationship as Dean is with the Impala, but he's definitely fond.
His own leathers are black like Ruby's, less showy but making the most of his height and build. It's a good look for the Antichrist. Ruby slides on behind him, pressed tight and firm against him, and her arms around his waist, and Sam sighs and sends a desperate, depressed look heavenward.
"C'mon," she whispers in his ear. "Let's not keep the devil waiting."
It's going to be a long trip.
:::
Excerpt from 'The Paths of the Black Messiah':
On the edge of any city, in any country, you can find the roadhouse. Do not look at the bar's patrons, for they stopped to drink or gamble and their children's children have forgotten them. Speak only to the man behind the bar. Ask him the way to the Hotel California. If he tells you they have no room for you, leave, you are not the one, you never will be. But if he looks at you, long and hard, then turns away, go with him.
You will be led to the backroom. Whispering will follow you in a language you remember but do not speak or understand. So long as the whispering continues, you may go on. But if at any time the whispering should stop, say loudly that you're just passing through. If the whispering resumes, you may continue. If it does not, run. Don't stop for anything, don't stop at the roadhouse, don't stop until your body drops. You will know in the morning if you have escaped.
If you make it to the backroom, you will find a cot and a mirror and a window. Do not look out of the window and do not look in the mirror if you ever wish to leave the room again. Instead, sit on the edge of the bed and wait. If you are chosen, in the blackest darkness it will come to you. You are damned and God turned His face from you before you lived through your first year, but it will come to you.
The only reason Sam is prepared to believe that this roadhouse is somehow more significant than every other miserable, filthy roadhouse he's ever seen is because looking at this one is like standing on the edge of a really really tall cliff and feeling the wind rising behind you.
He swallows, takes a step closer, into one of the pools of musty orange light thrown by the parking lot lights. Then he realizes Ruby still hasn’t moved, is still clinging to the motorcycle. He reaches out to her, catches her cold hand in his and draws her forward. Her teeth are chattering. Her eyes dart to him, shining and black. He tightens his grip on her hand and she seems to find it easier to move.
"So, that thing that got out when the last seal broke," Sam says to distract her. "That's not Lucifer? Because I saw it in Philadelphia and it looked a hell of a lot like Lucifer."
He shudders, just a little, at the memory of seeing It. It was beautiful and terrible, and Sam knew that only he was safe from It, so he tucked Dean's body in under his own to protect him as blood rained down over them both.
And so Dean didn't see when It looked right at Sam.
Sam has been working his way through the necessary trials to prove that he's the Antichrist, but it's a demonstration for everyone else, because Sam doesn't need proof.
"What you saw was…" Ruby stumbles over her words. "Something like an astral projection. That's not the real thing. The real thing is… You saw the shadow, not the guy himself."
She's moving so slowly again now that Sam is pretty much dragging her along. They're almost at the battered wooden door and Sam really doesn't want to go in alone but he can't be hauling her along while trying to hold a conversation with Lucifer either. He glances back at her again and raises an eyebrow.
"You wanna stay out here?" he says.
"No," she says, pulling herself together irritably. "Like I'm gonna let you go in there alone. Someone who's not Lucifer or you should be present at this conversation, don't you think?"
Sam squeezes her fingers briefly in silent gratitude then swings the door open.
The roadhouse smells of cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies and, strangely distinct, something sweet and cloying. It's not busy inside but there's no unnatural quiet. There's a handful of people gathered at different tables, talking in low voices, beer bottles glinting in the dim electric light as they raise them to their mouths. All the same, Sam and Ruby head to the bar without making eye contact with anyone.
At the bar, any lingering doubt that Sam may have had that this was the right place is entirely gone when he looks at the bartender. The guy is dragging a filthy scrap of cloth around a smeared glass that is no better for the attention, and would probably actually benefit from a nice long soak in drain-cleaner or something similarly abrasive. There's a fever sweat on his skin, of which there doesn't seem to be nearly enough to adequately cover his bones. He's gaunt to the degree of being, almost literally, a walking skeleton. He looks at them with watery, red-rimmed eyes.
Sam takes a deep breath and pastes on his best 'we are respectable people in search of Hell' smile. "Hi," he says. "Uh… Can you tell me the way to the Hotel California? Please. Sir."
The silence is long and profound, and Sam doubts himself just long enough to miss Dean.
Then the bartender lets out a disgusted huff of breath. "That fucking book. Look, kid, you want some face-time with Hell, you just gotta ask. No need to be all poetic and cryptic. This isn't some goddamn spy novel, the geese aren't flying low over Moscow tonight or any codeword crap like that. Jesus. Fucking Kerouac. What a fucking hack."
He shuffles out from behind the bar and the acute angles of his body are even more alarming in full sight. He starts to leave then turns back at them. "You kids wanna meet the man or not? I ain't got all night."
They follow him immediately out of the bar. As they walk, the bartender looks down to where Ruby is still hanging on to Sam's hand. He raises an eyebrow at Sam. "This your girlfriend?" His tone conveys how unimpressed he is by Sam's apparent choice of date.
"No," Sam says instantly. "She's not… uh. No."
Ruby casts him a dark look. "Gee, Sam, you think maybe you can disown me a little quicker next time?"
Before Sam can string together an awkward but sincere apology, he’s distracted by the sudden rise of whispering voices in the air. Jack Kerouac was right: Sam doesn’t understand what’s being said, but he recognizes the language in the same way a second-generation immigrant will recognize the language of their homeland. It’s almost frustrating, to react to something on such an instinctive level but to be utterly unable to identify it beyond simply knowing it.
Neither the bartender nor Ruby seem to know the voices the way Sam does. The bartender simply shuffles onwards and they follow, Ruby shadowing Sam a little closer.
Perhaps it’s Sam’s imagination but it seems to him as if the tone of the whispering takes on an edge as he draws closer to the back room. ‘The Paths of the Black Messiah’ mentioned what to do if the whispering stopped, but not if it grew interested, urgent even. Sam’s not sure if this is a good sign. If his luck follows to course, it’s almost certainly a very bad sign.
"In here," the bartender says, opening a door and ushering them in. "It’ll come to you, in the darkness it’ll come to you." He pauses, then adds, "I’ll have a beer waiting for you, y'know, just in case you make it back out."
Then the door is closed and Sam and Ruby are in a room in the rust-brown darkness of night in the desert. It's just a backroom, spartan and maybe a little grubby. Remembering Kerouac's warnings, Sam does not look out of the window nor does he look into the mirror, but he can hear the distant rumble of traffic on the highway outside. He sits down on the end of the cot, which sags alarmingly low beneath him, and Ruby sits beside him, her thigh pressed to his.
They wait.
So gradually it's barely perceptible until it's happened, a deeper, more complete darkness settles over the room. Ruby becomes nothing but the warmth of her body next to Sam. The dimensions of the room seem to change somehow; Sam has the vivid impression of sitting in a space considerably larger than the room he was shown into.
Out of the corner of his eyes he sees orange and bone-white lights appear in the mirror, travel across the cracked glass and disappear again.
Something breathes in the darkness.
"Hello, Sam."
Whoever said it is apparently standing right in front of Sam. Sam does not try to see it. As far as he's concerned, the pitch-blackness is entirely necessary for maintaining whatever sanity he has left. The way it shapes the words strongly suggests its mouth is not designed for human speech. The words are intelligible but warped like sodden paper.
"Hi," he says. "Uh… I guess I don't really need to introduce myself. I'm the one who's going to be the Antichrist."
It laughs and Sam smells sulfur. "You have always been the Antichrist, Sam."
"No," Sam says. "No, see, I was just one of the psychic kids that the yellow-eyed demon, Azazel, made by bleeding in our mouths and I'm the only one who got through his deathmatch, but I didn't really, my brother, see, he's kind of a stage mom and he threw the match so I'd win by, uh, selling his soul to bring me back."
Sam realizes he's rambling, he's rambling at the Devil. It's probably not doing much for his credibility. Who wants an Antichrist with verbal diarrhea?
There is a long silence, a silence that stretches on and outwards and into the darkness that is too massive to fit in the backroom Sam entered.
"You have always been the Antichrist, Sam," it says again. "I was waiting for you before the world even imagined you."
"Oh. Wow. That's…" Sam wets his lips and focuses on what's important, not the sad truth of how absurd it was of him to try to go to Stanford, get married and have a normal life. "So does that mean I have your approval?"
"Walk your paths and I will be waiting at the end of them for you to take your throne, Sam."
It's weird: Sam actually does feel better for having the Devil's approval for his bid to become Antichrist. And yes, he knows that kind of thinking means he's going to Hell - that's the plan, thank you very much. He just has to figure out which of his paths are less genocidal, twisted and evil than the rest, do them, get himself crowned Antichrist and save the world and all celestial and infernal planes of existence. Easy.
"Thank you," Sam says. "Guess I'll talk to you again in a couple of weeks."
"Is she the one you bring with you, Sam?"
Sam blinks at the question and, forgetting for a second that it's complete darkness, looks to Ruby for assistance. She twitches slightly beside him but it's not a helpful twitch.
"Sorry, I don't… What do you mean 'is she the one I'm bringing with me'? I need to bring someone with me?"
"Who is the one who speaks with your voice, whom you raise above all others, whose word is as yours, who loves you as no other and is loved by you as no other, Sam?"
Sam's answer is the obvious one, because there's really one person who ticks those boxes, and maybe if it weren't such an obvious answer he'd have spent a little longer thinking about it and what he might possibly be saying. Instead, his mouth just opens and goes for it.
"Oh, you mean Dean? Well, yeah, I'll be bringing Dean with me. I mean, he's my brother, we're kind of in this together."
"Then you come to me through Dean, Sam. You lie with him upon the altar of my church and in the moment of your joining, my gates will open for you as he opens for you, Sam. You come to me through your Beloved Consort and he shall place my crown on your brow and sit at your left hand, Sam."
"Wait. What?" Sam's voice is a little faint. "No, no, back up a moment. When I said Dean, I was talking in a strictly non-lying-together-on-altars sense. Obviously we're not gonna be doing that." He tries a laugh, to demonstrate how ridiculous the idea is, but it comes out more than slightly hysterical. "Seriously, can I pick someone else? 'Cause I really think I should pick someone else. Someone I'm not related to. Which is, like, anyone in the world who's not Dean. Anyone at all who's not Dean."
"Walk your paths, come to me holding the hand of your Beloved Consort, Sam."
And that's the end of the interview.
Sam isn't aware of the exact moment that it leaves. The whole 'accidentally signing his brother up as his consort' experience has kind of thrown him. He just knows that the darkness is gone and Ruby's sitting next to him, black-eyed and blank-faced.
They sit together in silence as Sam tries to recover.
"I had a plan," he says finally. "It was an awesome plan. And that wasn't it."
:::
They pass the time on the journey back arguing about whose fault it is.
"Maybe it didn't occur to you," says Sam, "but if I was just looking for moral support and someone to hold my hand, a demon who's already betrayed me probably wouldn't have been my first choice. I brought you along because you know the damn book better than anyone and you were supposed to stop anything like…" -Telling the Devil that he was going to have some hot, steamy mansex with Dean on an altar - "this happening."
"Well I'm sorry, Sam. I guess I just didn't realize you'd be in such a hurry to name Dean your favoritest person in the whole wide world."
"He asked! Who else was I gonna say?"
Ruby concentrates on driving one of her fries through a pool of ketchup that glistens sickly red in the raw glare of the diner's lights. Her mouth is set in a pretty, sulky pout. Sam blinks, his jaw unhitching.
"You've got to be kidding me! What part of 'demon that used me and betrayed me' is not getting through to you?"
"Fine," she says. "Buttfuck Dean. I hope you'll be very happy together."
Sam makes a sound that is probably the closest the Antichrist can come to a whimper and proceeds to bang his forehead against the diner tabletop. Ruby finishes her fries while she watches.
When he gets back to their current base, the Morning Star motel, Dean hasn't returned yet - for which Sam really doesn't thank God, except he totally does - and the angels are waiting for him. If he was hoping that the angels would be more helpful about the situation, he's disappointed. Okay, he's able to reassure them that, no, he hasn’t named Ruby as his Beloved Consort, and they're happy about that, but it all goes downhill from there.
"Dean?" Castiel says in a small voice. "You've chosen Dean?" Anna pats him on the shoulder sympathetically.
"No!" says Sam, followed immediately by, "Except… yes. Look, I didn't really choose him. Honestly, Lucifer was kind of vague and I thought I was- It doesn't matter. I'll go back and I'll explain that Dean's my brother, and I probably didn't make that clear enough, and it's gonna be fine, and we're not gonna have any incest in this apocalypse."
The angels look at him skeptically. Uriel cocks his head at Sam in that way that makes it clear he thinks Sam's being a very dumb little mud-monkey and Uriel's going to tell him all about it.
"I'm going to let it pass that you managed to stumble onto the path with apparently no research at all," Uriel says. "It's our failure, we should have properly prepared you. We just none of us thought you'd be walking the path of the Sacred Whore-"
"Beloved Consort," Sam interrupts. On the scale of things, he thinks 'beloved consort' might be a marginally less suicidal sell to Dean than 'sacred whore'.
Uriel flashes his teeth at him. "Whatever. It's a question of pronunciation. My point is, you've said you're walking this path. Even if you can get Lucifer to accept that Dean is not your chosen one, who else are you going to pick? Who do you love more than him?"
"What's love got to do with it?" Sam demands, and is instantly prepared to bitchslap anyone stupid enough to call him on inadvertently quoting Tina Turner. "Isn't love, like, the big heavenly deal? Why does Hell care who I love?"
He gets another of those 'stupid little mud-monkeys' looks. "Right," says Uriel. "Because nobody ever did anything mean or evil because of love. You creatures can do wonderful things when you're in love, but you can do some damn ugly ones as well. Love is a force, not divine or demonic. The Beloved Consort has to be just that, beloved."
Letting out a breath, Sam sits on the chair that Gaviel helpfully nudges towards him. Arranged around the motel room in their various diverse vessels, the angels resemble an AA meeting about to start. Castiel is still staring with mournful intensity into the middle distance, his forehead scrunched up, as if there is something particularly confusing and troubling about the chipped amber bedside lamp, aside from it being on the ugly side of kitsch. The other angels are all looking to Sam.
It's not a question of there being anyone else Sam loves more than Dean. It's not even a question of there being anyone Sam loves anywhere near as much as he loves Dean. It's been Sam and Dean for so long that nobody's had a chance of getting inside that. This is why it's unhealthy to have such a limited social circle, because when it comes time to choose your Beloved Consort, your options aren't exactly unlimited. He has angels he doesn't understand, demons he doesn't like and he has Dean.
He just doesn't love Dean like that. Not wanting to fuck Dean has never been a problem before, and that it is now is no doubt one of the signs of the apocalypse.
"I'm not saying any of us would have chosen this path for you, or for Dean," Anna says finally. "But we trust Dean. He's a good man. We'll rest easier knowing he has a partner's influence over you. It's a good thing."
There are nods from a couple of the angels and Sam supposes that even if he has made his relationship with Dean all kinds of awkward, he's at least consolidated his position with the angels. Now, he just has to find out how the demons are going to take it.
He leaves the room, steps out into the fresh air and takes a deep cleansing breath. The electric lights of the yellow shooting star that sits atop the motel sign flash through one after another, almost invisible in the afternoon glare of sunshine.
Sam and his army have pretty much taken over the motel. A family from Little Rock checked in to Room 8 a few weeks ago but they checked out again soon after; Sam's not sure if it was the demonic rowdiness through the night or the angelic choruses at dawn that were too much for them. There have been a few complaints from housekeeping to the motel manager, but otherwise, considering he's got demons and angels cohabiting, the level of destruction has been impressively low.
Of course, there might be some hardcore destruction once Dean gets back.
The room the demons are currently congregated in is a little family room that probably was a lot less shabby before their occupancy. It stinks of alcohol and shit, the drapes still drawn and muted screaming and tacky dirty talk coming from the pay-per-view porn showing on the TV. Sam's greeted by a lot of raucous laughter. He nods resignedly and waits for them to get over it.
"Guess this means you already told them," he says to Ruby.
She shrugs at him with an unrepentant smile. "Sorry, I just couldn't wait to share. You should'a seen their faces."
Sam nods again, then realizes that if he carries on waiting for them to get over it, there might not be any world left to save. "Okay, yeah," he says. "Incest is funny, can we move on? Seriously, guys, it's just a minor complication. I'm working on it."
"Are you sure you want to?" says Raum. There's something off-putting about the body he's currently possessing, and Sam doesn't think it's just that he knows the guy's a serial rapist. Maybe it's in the close-set eyes or the spider-like thinness of his limbs, something just a little to the left of human.
Raum's tone suggests it's a serious question he's asking so Sam moderates his response and doesn't snap at him; he wants to encourage the demons when they're civil, even if they're asking dumb questions.
"Yeah, I'm really very sure I don't want to have sex with Dean." Then Sam feels bad because maybe demons genuinely don't understand why Sam would have a problem with incest; they don't have a problem with a lot of the other things Sam has problems with. His expression softening, he tries to explain. "He's my big brother and it'd just be weird and we don't think of each other in that way."
"Maybe you should try," Raum says. "In walking the path of the Sacred Whore-"
"We’re going with Beloved Consort," Sam snarls because he really can't have that getting back to Dean.
Raum rolls his eyes, eerily reminiscent of Uriel for a moment. "Whatever you want to call it, walking that path allows you to avoid others you're too squeamish to attempt." The intonation on 'squeamish' is nothing short of contemptuous.
"You mean like the one about raping five hundred virgins?" Sam says sharply, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm a little squeamish about that one. But I'm also concerned about the physical exertion required for something like that and the possibly epic chafing of my dick." He pauses, scrapes his fingers through his hair. He can feel a headache coming on. It's probably something to do with the decision he's about to make.
"What I don't get is if this lets me avoid mass rape of virgins and painting cities with blood and all those other good times I don't want, why didn't you mention it a little sooner?" His eyes narrow. Every demon in the room goes quiet as Sam's fingers start to curl into a fist. "Were you deliberately keeping this information from me?"
"No, no," Raum says. "We…uh… we discussed it and…" He looks a little helpless, which is an interesting look for an archduke of Hell. "We decided you'd probably prefer to rape the virgins."
Raping five hundred virgins or even having to have the conversation about having sex with Dean: Sam honestly doesn't think he can fault the demons' thinking.
His cellphone trills in the silence and Sam doesn't even have to look at it to know it's Dean. Of course it's Dean, calling in to check how Sam's meeting with Lucifer went, and probably to not so subtly check whether Sam accidentally or otherwise allowed Ruby to bleed in his mouth.
Holding his phone while it rings, Sam looks around at them. "Okay, Raum, you and Ruby and Asmodeus are going to go through the book again and see if there are any loopholes that I can fall back on. I want to know how binding this is. And one of you go ask the angels to map out which paths this means I'll have to take and which ones it means I can avoid. Please ask them nicely." Sam moves to answer the call but looks back up again when something occurs to him. "And the first person to mention any of this to Dean gets the Hand of Black Smoke Hurting, do I make myself clear?"
Then he answers the call and tries not to sound like he's having an incestuous crisis.
:::
It's ten o'clock the next morning when the Impala rolls into the parking lot. Sam is sitting on the bench outside the manager's office, leaning forward, arms on his thighs, waiting. He's oddly conflicted by Dean's arrival. On one hand, seeing Dean takes him one step closer to having to tell Dean the mess they're in. On the other hand, Sam's psyche still connects Dean to safety, security. Nothing can be so bad when his big brother is here to fix it.
He stands as Dean parks up and starts to cross the scrubland of the parking lot towards him. Dean climbs out of the car and the sunlight catches on his amulet for a second, a sudden spark of fire in the middle of Dean's black t-shirt.
"Jesus, the fucking assholes on the road today," Dean says. "When you're Antichrist, I'm totally giving you permission to smite the fuck out of anyone too dumb to know how to drive a goddamn car properly. They drive like they think they're at the wheel of a goddamn tank."
Sam stands there and lets him bitch contentedly for a while, before asking, "So how'd it work out with Rose in the end?"
"Total bust," Dean says. "Figure it'll be at least another fifteen years before she's having freaky death visions or putting the mind-whammy on people. Guess we could try triggering her early but, y'know, I'm just not thrilled by the prospect of feeding demon blood to a preteen."
"Yeah, think that's a little too darkside for us." He hesitates awkwardly for a moment, clears his throat. "So, you wanna take a shower, get something to eat? We'll head out for the crossroads demon in a couple of hours, okay?"
Dean nods with an easy grin and shoulders his duffle bag. "Just let me wash the road-dust off, get me a cheeseburger and I'm good to go."
Some of the demons have spilled out of their room and are watching them. While Sam tries to unobtrusively gesture for them to get back inside, Dean frowns at the looks on their faces and rubs a hand over his own face almost self-consciously. Sam drops back a step behind him and switches from unobtrusive gesturing to meaningfully brandishing his fist at them. That gets them moving.
He wonders whether he can convince Dean to skip eating and pick something up on the road instead.
:::
The only thing that makes this time Dean wanders around a motel room, still dripping wet from the shower and with only a towel tied loosely about his hips, different from the thousands of other times he's done it, is that this is the first time it's been within a thirty-six hour period of Sam agreeing to have gay incestuous sex with him. On an altar. The altar part shouldn't be forgotten. Because it's not just gay incestuous sex; it's gay incestuous sex on an altar.
He pretends to read a newspaper while he watches Dean drip all over the floor.
Objectively, he knows that Dean is hot. It's one of those givens that he just grew up with, like the sky is blue, John lives on a liquid diet and ghouls smell really really bad.
He's aware of the effect of Dean's face, his body. He was thirteen the first time he heard someone comment on what they'd like to do to Dean's mouth. He can remember more than one occasion, growing up, when John felt the need to step in and assure someone that they really could take Dean's 'no' for an answer. He's used to Dean turning heads. But the only time he's ever properly given consideration to Dean's prettiness was going into the Green River County Detention Center when he was mildly concerned that someone was going to try to make his brother their bitch and how embarrassing that might be.
Knowing that Dean is hot is an entirely separate concept to wanting to jump his bones. On an altar, don’t forget the altar.
"Hey, do you think this is infected?" Dean says and opens his towel.
Sam stares fixedly at the ugly red gash of claws on Dean's thigh, a souvenir from a battle a few days ago, and does not allow his gaze to wander.
"Uh… could be," he says in a strangled voice.
Dean frowns and fingers the flesh. "Hurts like a bitch."
"I'm interrupting," Castiel says.
Castiel is standing in the middle of the room where he wasn't just a second ago. Sam is not sure whether Castiel is more horrified to see Sam, or Sam is to be seen, on the bed with Dean apparently displaying his junk at him.
The only one who doesn't seem to be affected is Dean, who pulls a face at Castiel and reknots his towel. "See, that's another reason you guys should walk more, 'stead of pulling this appearing out of nowhere bullshit, it'd help you remember to knock. Not to mention, y'know, it's good for your heart. Or Jimmy's heart. Though I guess getting shot and me sticking a knife in his chest that time probably wasn't real good for his health, huh?"
Castiel is still frozen in horror.
"It’s not," Sam says to him. "We weren't. I wasn't. Oh god. Oh god."
Castiel edges towards the door. He shakes his head and holds up a hand to cut Sam off. "I apologize. I should have knocked. Clearly, with recent events, you need privacy. I will guard the door for you. Or, maybe, I can find one of those little signs for you to hang from the knocker. Yes. Do not disturb. I will make sure everyone knows you are not to be disturbed."
"Please don't do that," Sam says, but it’s too late, Castiel is already making his escape.
There's a perplexed expression on Dean's face as he watches Castiel go. Finally, he turns to Sam and Sam is all ready to launch into an explanation about how nothing at all happened in his meeting with Hell that would require them to need privacy.
But all Dean says is, "Did the angels switch to a new brand of crazy while I was gone?" before he pads back into the bathroom to towel dry his hair, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind.
:::
"It's a hunt," Sam says. He prods a finger at the newspaper page. "Eight people have gone missing already, and two skeletons, stripped of all meat, have turned up. I'm thinking some kind of swamp creature, like the one in Florida when we were kids. Remember?"
Dean scratches his head then angles a look at Sam. "You know me, always up for a good down and dirty hack and slash but… aren't we kinda busy? I mean, this whole 'let's make you the Antichrist' thing feels kind of pressing."
Outside, there's a handful of Sam's demons gathered in the shade of the motel veranda, watching them. Sam does his best to ignore them and their leering. He's all for improving the morale of his troops, but he feels pretty strongly that it shouldn't be at his own expense and it definitely shouldn't involve incest.
"It's close by to the crossroads. Take a couple of hours. Just-" He lets out a breath and shifts in his seat. Registering his frustration, Dean's face softens slightly, his expression moving from incredulity to concern. "I just think it'd be good for us."
Dean looks back at the newspaper article and nods slowly. "Sure, Sammy, sure. Hell, I could probably do with a break from the routine. All this angel and demon crap is getting old." He gets to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can tell you've been in an apocalypse too long when angels running around all over the place stops being a novelty." He stretches and his skin still glows a little from the shower, clean pink and gold. "Get your bag in the car and we'll go."
The prospect of escape is so very wonderful that Sam can't stop grinning the whole time it takes to pack the car. Part of him suspects that looking so very pleased to be getting some alone-time with Dean probably sends the wrong message to the angels and demons, but he is currently very past caring. He is going to go hunt a swamp creature far, far from here, where it will be dirty and mostly dull with only a few moments of excitement, and he doubts he has ever looked forward to a hunt as much as he is looking forward to this one.
They're nearly in the car when Anna approaches. Sam is all in favor of jumping into the car, gunning the engine and taking off, but Dean, of course, stops and looks back at her. She smiles as she reaches them, brushes her hair off her face, back behind her ears.
"Castiel wanted you to have this," she says. "He'd have given it to you himself but I think he's still a little embarrassed for walking in on you earlier."
Dean raises his eyebrows. "Really? Wow, I mean, I know he's an angel but I had no idea he was such a prude."
He takes the 'Do not disturb' sign Anna presses into his hand. Even from here, Sam can see the silver, seventies-porno silhouette of a naked woman on it. He guesses Castiel didn’t have enough time to find something a little classier. Dean is still giving it a bewildered look when Anna reaches up and kisses his cheek.
"I think it's wonderful," she says.
Dean turns the sign over in his hand doubtfully. "Yeah," he says. "It's, well, it's nice. Thanks."
As she leaves, Dean stares between her back and the sign she put in his hands. He turns to Sam and Sam braces for it.
"Dude," Dean says. "I think I just got hit up for an angelic booty call! I did, didn't I?"
Sam is able to catch Dean's arm and swing him back around towards the car before he can go after her.
"Pretty sure you didn't, man. Just get in the car."
He tugs the sign out of Dean's hands and tosses it in the backseat. He's more than a little tempted to drop it under the tires of the Impala and reverse over it a couple of times but, for the sake of politeness, he thinks he'll wait until Castiel can't see him do it.
:::
As they drive, the weather changes. Smoky blue-gray clouds curl in over the sun. The air takes on the heavy intensity that presages rain. But the landscape becomes a little less barren and a little more green. It feels healthy, like there's still a world to save.
Once they're on the highway, Sam finds himself watching the other cars moving by them. It's very likely, he thinks, that not a single one of them is having the bad day he is. Not a single one of them is having to worry about whether or not they should fuck their big brother on an altar, and, if they should, how they should broach the subject to the aforementioned big brother.
Of course, not a single one of them is the nascent Antichrist either but that's an issue that's been dwarfed by the incest crisis. It's an impressive crisis that can put being the Antichrist number two on the list.
Dean is drumming the steering wheel in time to the Megadeth cassette tape playing. His body is loose, expression unworn, and Sam doesn't have the first idea what he's thinking about.
He bets it's not how much Dean would like Sam to fuck his ass. On an altar.
:::
"Are there gonna be leeches in there? There are, aren't there?" Dean surveys the swamp with deep dissatisfaction. He sighs. "I hate leeches."
"Leeches suck," Sam agrees happily. He kicks around in the undergrowth until he finds a suitably sturdy stick then begins to wade into the murky wetland. Wet ickiness instantly seeps into his boots, and his jeans cling stickily to his legs. It's disgusting; Sam is still grinning.
"Someone's perky," Dean says, watching. "Care to share with the rest of the class why this swamp creature's put such a smile on your face?"
Sam shrugs and moves a little deeper, testing his path with the stick. "I'm just enjoying getting back to basics. How things used to be. You and me, brothers, hunting evil stuff and kicking its ass."
The look on Dean's face says he suspects a trick, but he at least follows Sam's example and heads into the swamp. He grimaces at the slurping sound the swamp makes as it swallows his feet. Already waist deep, Sam looks back at him and laughs.
"C'mon, man, I promise there's a bubble bath in this for you after."
"Oh fuck you," Dean says.
Sam laughs even louder. It's probably the laughter that attracts the swamp creature's attention.
Something grabs Sam's leg and yanks him right under. Stinking swamp water floods his nostrils and mouth. Whatever it is that's got him, it's moving at some speed, dragging him along with it, down into the blackness. They probably didn't do enough research on this one because Sam isn't entirely sure what it is they're dealing with. He doesn't know what its weaknesses are, but he does know that there's a good proportion of things that don't like a knife to the chest.
He drives the knife through the water, aiming for the thick, leathery flank of the creature's side, but the creature shakes him roughly like a dog shaking a rabbit. Lack of oxygen is fast becoming an issue and Sam would switch from attack to retreat if only he could get free.
There's something almost reassuring about panicking. It proves he's still human, demon blood and freaky-ass mindpowers aside. Part of him even finds it pretty funny that the Antichrist is going to drown in a swamp in Georgia.
Then there are fingers on his leg, prying away whatever hold the swamp creature has on him. Through the shifting, dark green murkiness, he catches sight of Dean's face. Together, they work Sam's leg free. Dean tries to push him to the surface but Sam knows that Dean means to take the swamp creature on himself as soon as he's got Sam to safety. It's an out-dated protocol in Dean's circuitry that fires up at the worst times.
Sam grips his knife tighter and slams it into the creature, in and down and hard, until black clouds of blood bubble free. It thrashes the water in its death throes and Dean is thrust backwards, away from Sam. Sam's fingers strain towards him as Dean disappears out of reach. Shoving the creature's still twitching carcass aside, Sam pushes forwards, chases after Dean.
For one heart-stopping moment, Dean is lost in the watery gloom.
Then Sam's arms close around him. Dean's dazed, more pliant than he should be, sags against Sam's chest as Sam hauls them to the surface. Spluttering, he drags Dean onto the shore by the waistband of his jeans. His lungs burn with the reintroduction of oxygen and Sam tips his head back simply to breathe. Dean is hacking beside him and, instinctively, Sam curls an arm around his back and pulls him farther out of the swamp.
Right then, with their clothes sticking to their skin, Sam's arm against the strong curve of Dean's shoulders, an aching prickling sensitivity where they touch, Sam is shockingly able to contemplate the idea of fucking Dean, even on an altar. Just for a second, he can imagine what it would be like.
Then the acceptance is gone, as quickly and unhelpfully as it arrived. Sam is instantly horrified at himself and has to abandon all body contact with Dean.
He brings his knees up to his chest, shivering on the bank of the swamp, and watches the monster's corpse bob slowly to the surface. Dean rolls over onto his back, mud smeared on his face and in his hair. His chest heaves. His lower lip is split, blood dribbling slowly from the corner of his mouth.
"You were right," he says breathlessly. "That was awesome."
part two