Through A Glass Darkly 1/4
Title: Through A Glass Darkly 1/4
Rating: R, NC-17 in later parts
Pairing/characters: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~3500 for this part/~20K total
Summary: Inadvertently, the crocotta had been right. But the demon was much closer than either of the Winchesters could’ve thought. This results in major repercussions for Dean’s deal, and in the lives of both brothers. Set late S3, goes AU soon after.
A/N: After a year of on and off writing, I’m finally posting this thing. It’s the first long fic I’ve ever written. This whole thing grew out of one throwaway line in “Long Distance Call.” It’s been fun to write, but I’m glad to see it done. :) I hope you enjoy it.
Here they were, back in Black Rock. Dad’s storage room was just as dingy as Dean remembered. They’d hardly had time for a look last time they were here, so Sam insisted on dragging them here to see what other dubious treasures Dad had accumulated. As much as he’d trusted Bobby, there was probably stuff in there that he’d told no one about.
Actually, given that the last time Bobby had seen John he’d chased him off with a shotgun, it was pretty much a certainty. Hunters mostly kept to themselves as it was, but it seemed like their dad had more secrets than most.
Dean was distracted by the sound of Sam apparently attempting to hack up a lung.
“You okay?” he called.
“Yeah, just the dust.”
Served him right, dragging them all the way to New York again when there was only a few months left on Dean’s deal. But maybe this was Sam’s distraction, like the Morton House had been his. Shit, it had been hard enough with those Ghostfacer idiots trying to interfere, playing at ghosthunting. But they’d managed to survive. Almost all of them. Sometimes no matter how hard you tried, people died.
Dean dispelled the memory and went back to exploring, taking comfort in the soft sounds of Sam investigating the large storage room, rustling papers and poking various items. No doubt trying to catalogue it all, comparing the array of stuff against the inventory list that Bobby had given them. They’d found some pretty interesting stuff so far.
This black mirror was probably one of the many things not on the list. Dean frowned at the sight of it as he took down the white sheet covering it. Small black mirrors weren’t that uncommon and usually used in some forms of magic, for scrying and focusing energy. This one gave him the creeps.
Instead of being about the size of a make-up mirror, like most black mirrors were, this one was a large freestanding oval nearly five feet tall. The frame was simple, made of carved and polished sections of dark reddish wood.
Oddly large size aside, what set the thing apart was the reflection. A mirror was a mirror, but it didn’t seem to work like most did. The black-tinted reflection seemed fuzzy and insubstantial, like the things reflected in it weren’t all there.
Dean moved in front of it to examine it more closely. Oh. Well, no wonder Dad picked it up. What kind of mirror didn’t show a reflection? Instead there was a just a dark smear, like that left by a dirty eraser, in the air where he was supposed to be.
He reached up and brushed the frame, and then the image suddenly snapped into view. A cold pit formed in his stomach.
It was his reflection all right, but twisted. The only clear image in the mirror was of a monster. The thing had his face, looked just like him, but what made it undeniably terrible were the large dark bat-like wings behind him, the curved horns…and what was that there, near the edge…oh, a pointed tail too. The whole devilish package.
At least my eyes aren’t black, Dean thought bitterly. The whole thing with the dreamroot had stirred up some old issues, but he was happily beyond them, thank you very much. Really.
But the knowledge of his impending fate still intruded onto his thoughts at times, and goddamnit, it scared him. A grim smile quirked one corner of his mouth. That was the problem, wasn’t it. There was no God, and he was damned, and nothing could change that. Dad had a trove of esoteric stuff in his own little Batcave, but it wasn’t like they’d find some miraculous artifact in here that would save his ass at the eleventh hour.
Curious hands came up to touch. The thing mirrored the action, of course, dark curved claws meeting soft pink fingers at the cool glass boundary. It held a grim fascination, this doppelganger under glass. Familiar as his reflection, yet so inhuman.
Hand still on the glass, he made a fist and turned away. He’d already faced his demons. Better go bug Sam, see if he found anything interesting.
Before his fingertips left the surface, the black mirror shattered outwards, raining shards out of its frame. Dean yelled in surprise and jerked away, though not soon enough to avoid the sharp flashes of pain as the glass cut into his hands.
Sam was at his side in seconds. “Damnit, Dean, what the hell did you do?”
“Nothing, I barely touched the damn thing!”
Sam used a handkerchief to try and clean up the blood. The cuts weren’t too deep, but there were several of them, and that made it messy. A quick trip to the car for bandages and rubbing alcohol, and Dean was good as new. The gauze would be off by the next morning, he healed fast.
Sam carefully cleaned up the shards. The thing was made of obsidian, and he knew the edges could be sharper than a steel scalpel, cut your fingers open before you could even feel it. It could’ve been worse. He left the pieces in the cloth that had covered the mirror. If it was in the locker, it was probably for a reason. Best to leave it here. He frowned at the small jagged plates throwing back fragments of his reflection at him. Who knew why it was kept here though, aside from being made of black stone it seemed like a perfectly normal mirror.
In the end they found nothing useful, well, not towards getting out of the deal anyway. A couple of books on demons and some rediscovered memories were all they took with them out of Black Rock.
~*~*~*~*~
“What the hell is that?” he heard Sam ask as Dean rummaged in his duffel for clean clothes, fresh from a hot shower after a messy salt-and-burn in the rain.
“What?”
“On your back. Some sorta mark. You get a tattoo when I wasn’t looking?”
“The hell?”
Dean abandoned the search for clean underwear. He stood closer to the vanity table and twisted around, trying to see whatever the hell Sam was talking about. He hadn’t been drinking...well, not recently. That thing with the crocotta, hearing what was apparently the voice of his dead father, sending him on a wild goose chase for a non-existent demon - yeah, he’d certainly had a few after that.
But this one wasn’t fresh; he remembered how tender the skin was just after they’d gotten the anti-possession wards done. Besides, Sam would never have let him hear the end of it if he’d gotten one while drunk.
This one was simpler, and much more puzzling - just a simple sweep of dark gray across the shoulder, a line following his spine, swirls and spiky angles spotting his back. Shit. Unexplained markings showing up on his skin, looking as if they’d always been there? Not good. The only unusual thing they’d done in the past few weeks was go to Black Rock…nah, it couldn’t be. It was just a mirror, no special warnings on it or anything. Dad had probably purified it and squirreled it away so no one else could use it for evil again.
“Huh,” Dean finally said. “I’ve got no idea. Might be something I picked up from the locker, but why would it take this long to show up? Not to mention, anything volatile would’ve been in a curse box.”
“Yeah. Looks kinda like symbols, but I don’t recognize any. Let’s see if Bobby can dig something up.” Sam quickly took a few shots of the odd squiggles, making sure to get a clear picture. In the morning they’d find somewhere to print them and send them off to Bobby by courier.
Dean watched Sam bustle around as he settled into bed. It’s not like it matters, he thought darkly. He’d probably be dragged downstairs before any curse or whatever had time to take effect. Then it wouldn’t matter what he looked like.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“You boys sure got a knack for getting into trouble.”
“Hey Bobby. Nice to hear from you,” Sam greeted him over his cell phone, amused.
“Well, I’ve taken a look at those pictures you sent over. You’ve got me stumped. Could be a curse, but I don’t even know. I don’t remember coming across anything like this, but they don’t look demonic.”
“Well, that’s good! Isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I suppose so, but I’m gonna keep looking, see if there’s anythin’ in the older books. Try to keep yourselves outta trouble in the meanwhile.”
“We’ll try. Thanks Bobby.”
“No problem, Sam.”
Click went the phone line. They still barely knew anything more than they did when the markings had first appeared. If it was a curse or spell or whatever, at least it wasn’t hurting Dean.
Sam sighed. He had bigger things to worry about.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Three weeks. There were barely three weeks left and Dean was scared. A year seemed like so much time, but it really wasn’t. He was just waiting for the howls to start.
And the Doc Benton case…how could Sam ever even think about something like that? He made the deal; he had to live with it. Losing his self was too high a price for life…no, not even a life. Benton was trapped in a twisted half-life, reduced to that murdering patchwork creature. No thanks.
But old Benton was…well, not dead, but at least buried. Wrapped in chains and under a whole lotta dirt.
Dean stripped off his T-shirt. Damn, it was hot in here. Sam was still wearing a few layers, but heat seemed to surround Dean. He’d noticed it while they were still in Erie. He didn’t feel sick or anything, so he said nothing to Sam. He’d probably just fret for no reason.
He must’ve noticed it though - they spent a lot of time in close quarters, especially in the car. In the early afternoon he’d made him stop the car so he could take Dean’s temperature. One look at the strangely high number and Sam had forcibly taken over driving, and pulled into the next motel. Dean protested, naturally, aside from feeling kinda warm he was perfectly fine. But Sam could not be argued with.
Though it would be cruelly ironic if he died of a fever on the cusp of summer, just a few short weeks before he was due for Hell.
Fuck, the heat was more intense now. He was down to his boxers, and he hardly felt any more comfortable. He wasn’t tired and he felt restless, completely unable to find a comfortable position. Sam had pretty much shoved him into bed and threatened cruel and unusual punishments if he tried to leave, so he couldn’t do much else.
He’d just managed to slip into a light doze when it hit, startling him awake. It felt like heated sand was being poured onto him. It was vaguely like being in a Jacuzzi, but with the increase in warmth came a heavy feeling all over his body. No doubt it was used in a spa somewhere, but it was no picnic for Dean. The hot sand first covered his chest, then the heat-fatigued feeling spread down his limbs. He gasped, he was getting kinda hard to breathe, oppressive…
He barely had time to choke out “Sam!” to the worried face above him before everything went black.
~*~*~*~
Who knows where Dean picked it up, maybe from any of the numerous scratches and scrapes he’d gotten on hunts in the past few weeks. He’d been running warm the last couple of days, probably attributing it to the intensity of their last hunt, the struggle against Doc Benton. But now, not even halfway to South Dakota, Dean’s skin felt like an inferno.
It was June (his last month, whispered a tiny voice in Sam’s mind). Who the hell got the flu or whatever in June?
The fact remained, Dean was burning up. He’d been perfectly fine the first day, but now he was deep within the fever. Sam had rushed over when his breathing changed, just before he’d gone under, but it was too late to do anything. He’d slipped into unconsciousness much too quickly. Sam tried everything, but nothing was working.
And now…now Sam was scared. Dean had gone still. Not like in death (he tried not to think about how soon he might have to face that), but more like sleep. He still felt unnaturally hot though.
Unable to rouse him and get any sort of medicine into him, all Sam could do was wait. He settled in for an all-night vigil.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sam woke up with a start, and found himself slumped across the bed. It was past noon and the sun was fairly high in the sky, sending hot beams of sunlight creeping through the messy curtains. He’d intended to stay up all night watching over Dean. The fever had broken sometime in the middle of the night, but he couldn’t be too careful. He couldn’t lose Dean with so little time left. But the stress and exhaustion had gotten to him.
He sat up quickly, focusing on the lump of blankets that lay on the other bed. Heh. Dean tended to burrow when he was feeling crappy. He cautiously poked the pile. “You okay, man?” A muffled sleepy complaint issued forth.
Sam took that as a sign that Dean was feeling much better, and tugged down the layers of cloth. It took more pulling than he expected, how the hell did Dean get so tangled up in these things?
Then Sam’s heart caught in his throat, blood running cold as the being curled up on the bed was revealed. It looked like Dean, but…it wasn’t. How could it be?
This creature was terrifying and beautiful. Dean’s amulet shone against the black and red creating swirling patterns on its skin, arcane symbols traced among the spirals and lines. The wings were a sculpture of soft darkness stretched over bone and muscle. The black pointed tail twitched sleepily, like a cat’s. Equally dark horns showed through his cropped hair, small ones that curved backwards to a point.
He staggered backwards, making a choked-off noise as he sat down heavily on the bed, wide eyes staring at the impossible thing that looked like his brother. It was Dean. It was also a demon.
Sure, most manifested as clouds of smoke or looked just like regular people (except for the eyes of course). But Sam had read the legends and knew many had a grain of truth to them - there were bound to be stereotypically demony-looking creatures out there somewhere. And one of them was in Dean’s bed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean was having a nice dream for once. No running from hellhounds tonight. He was floating, immersed in a warm dark sea. Red-gold light shone quietly through the darkness, like the last rays of sunset. Tendrils of the subdued light wrapping around him, leaving a pleasant tingle, like the bubbles from a Jacuzzi. It was nice, peaceful, a welcome break from the nightmares and creepy dreams he usually had.
A muffled voice broke his calm.
“Dean!”
He reluctantly woke up, recognizing the anxious tones of his brother. He squinted against the lamplight and saw Sam relax marginally. Huh. Why would he seem worried enough to be that tense in the first place? Well, aside from the whole deal thing.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Christo.”
“Dude, what the fuck, I’m not a demon! And we can’t be possessed anyway, did you forget the tattoos? Stop looking at me like that!”
Dean suddenly became fully aware of his body, and a chilling realization set in. There was an odd sorta rustling noise coming from behind him. He stretched, trying to get out those early morning kinks. Which, come to think of it, felt less achy than he remembered.
He yelped as something dark and leathery moved in his peripheral vision. Wings. Oh fucking hell, wings! He tensed up and the shadows spread, reaching several feet beyond his reach, large and powerful and ominous.
He relaxed his muscles, drew them inward, and the wings folded up neatly, but twitched now and then in his agitation. He tried to ignore all the other unusual feelings intruding onto his consciousness as he stood.
“What the fuck? Sam! What happened!? I’m…”
He buried his head in his hands, flinching as fingers found the hard curve of horns. Great. It just kept getting better and better. Or freakier, rather.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed quietly.
Dean ran his fingers over the surface of the horns again. His gut gave an odd twinge as his hands moved from normal hair to the textured surface of horn. Not too obtrusive (he thought briefly of having to keep them filed down a la Hellboy; now that would’ve been a pain), but just big enough to be immediately noticeable, to be undeniably inhuman.
“Get the holy water,” Dean commanded as he walked towards the bathroom.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean gripped the edges of the sink, arms shaking as he leaned in to examine his reflection. The cold paralysis of his nerves had receded, leaving him jittery. He looked just like the monster he’d glimpsed in that damn black mirror before it shattered all over him. In the bright artificial light he could see the changes. Shiny black horns peeked above red-brown hair. He ran a finger along the smooth curve.
The wings were large, black and leathery; the stretched webbing between the arcs of bone was strong and smooth. Bat-like seemed too weak a word to describe them - dragon-like seemed more appropriate for the black shadows standing out strongly from everything else. Folded up, they peaked a bit above his head (am I taller than Sam now? he thought briefly), with a claw at the joint.
The odd black and red markings had spread and darkened from the pale sketches they’d been before. They swept across his torso, spirals and arcs and lines of sigils. To his surprise the sun and star anti-possession tattoo was still there, the rays turning into jagged zigzags that incorporated themselves into the larger design.
In between the wings a clean line of black swept along his spine, continuing down to yet another oh-so-nifty demonic feature. He could feel the odd sensation as his tail - a fucking tail! - waved idly. Goddamn, it was weird. He eyed the pointed arrowhead at the end, almost like an exclamation point.
Fuck. As if it hadn’t been bad enough knowing he was going to become a demon when he went to hell, now he already was one. Damnation guaranteed.
He examined his eyes, of course. They were darker, but thankfully far from black, closer to forest green. Still human enough. Well, except for the dark red flecks.
Just like bloodstone. He felt a flicker of dark amusement at how appropriate that was.
He dropped his gaze to his hands. The peppering of markings spread from his shoulders, down the arms, fading off towards the elbows. His hands were the same - rough, callused and faintly scarred. No claws.
Yet.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Many miles away, Ruby froze in mid-chew, half-eaten fries falling from her fingers. Oh no. Oh FUCK this was bad.
There had been a flash of power, not any of the demons she knew of, certainly not Lilith. This power was new, wild as a storm. What she felt were just the ripples from a boulder dropped into a pond, a whole lot of raw energy settling into the earthly plane. She had to get to Sam.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean finished his perusal of his body quickly enough and completed most of his usual ablutions. Being a demon was bad enough without having nasty muzzy morning breath. Plus, he found that the tail was prehensile, which was both utterly freaky and very useful.
Settling back on the bed, he contemplated his newly inhuman state of being. How was he supposed to go out like this? He could hardly retreat into the shadows like some lame TV vampire. He was much too handsome to lurk.
His muscles twitched. He looked up at the mirror on the dresser.
Huh. That was a pleasant surprise. The red tone in his hair was still there, and the tattoos, but the other demonic traces were gone. How convenient.
Dean stretched, but the tension under his skin remained. It felt kinda like he was wearing jeans that were a little too snug - not unpleasant, but he wouldn’t mind getting them off and breathing freely. The sensation was centered around his upper back, where two black squiggles were set off from the rest on either side of his back, right around where…ah. The wings didn’t just disappear, they were still there, curled up under his skin.
He closed his eyes and wished them back, feeling the slight pressure under his skin release and spread out. He opened them again, and there the wings were again.
Oooo. Magical.
He fell back on the covers and waited for Sam, trying to deal with the peripheral awareness of several new limbs. It was vaguely disturbing - they moved naturally and easily, like an arm or leg, but he couldn’t forget that they shouldn’t be there.
Part II