Fic: Repo Men: The Upside-Down Apocalypse 1/?
This fic is the flashback/followup/presickle/longfic spawn of REPO MEN. READ REPO MEN HERE.
Repo Men: The Upside-Down Apocalypse
Author: tahirire
Rating: R
Wordcount: 2932 (This chapter)
Beta: blacklid
Genre: Gen. Angst. H/C.
Spoilers: Goes a/u from 3.16, but there will be spoilers for all aired episodes.
Warnings: My generic major character death fic list. This fic contains dark imagery, excessive gore, language, violence, torture, memories of torture, and gleeful pretzelfication of canon, WIP.
Author's Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JARED!!!! \o/
Chapter One : Hell
There have been murmurs in the Pit for years. As long as he’s had the ability of memory - for a hundred years, maybe more - the demons have spoken of coming war. He tries not to concern himself with those things as a general rule. The blood of souls is too thick and rich on his hands, and his blades are too bright and perfectly honed for him not to play the music of his craft.
Eternity may stretch on forever for the damned, but for a Disciple like him, forever will never be time enough.
He takes pleasure in perfecting his skills, not just physical but mental, emotional, spiritual as well. He can get deep inside and rip out the core of a soul, turn it to poison, put it back, and watch it eat a victim alive.
He no longer knows, nor cares, what his true name used to be. He no longer remembers being one of the tortured souls. He no longer knows how he got here, when he came, or why. He only knows this is who he is, and that eternity is not enough time to vent the left-over agony and rage, mysterious internal scars from a long-forgotten past.
There is no day or night here, but if there was, this would be the closing shift. He turns away from the quivering pulp before him with some regret, leaving it to regenerate for its next tormentor. The current soul will be lucky if a demon comes; anything a demon can think up will be a slap on the wrist compared to what they accomplished together today.
He leaves the room satisfied with his work and steps into a long, cramped corridor lined with barred doors similar to the one he just came out of. His next stop, in a while, will be a sweet little thing that by topside reckoning has been here since the 1820s, and still thinks that killing the man who owned her shouldn’t have counted as murder. He chuckles to himself.
House rules, sweetheart. No exceptions.
He smiles gently about her naiveté. One day he’ll convince her it’s useless, begging for forgiveness down here. He’s not in a hurry, though - he has all the time in the underworld to make her see the error of her ways.
His thoughtful grin turns to a scowl as he walks. This close to the exit, the twist of the tunnel creates a serious bottleneck. There are demons here, too many demons, and no matter how many times he brushes against their leather skin as he walks, no matter how deep the scent of sulfur sinks into his skin, it always makes him shudder with revulsion. They are disgusting lesser beasts, feral perversions of humanity - what happens when a soul goes into the pressure cooker - a diamond turning into blackened, scalding coal.
His fingers curl into sharp-nailed fists at the feel of them. If there is actually anything he remembers from before, it is that he hated demons with every fiber of his being. Now, buried deep under the firmer layers of his outer spirit, the dead black ash of his decaying soul has already started to form a solid core, but it doesn’t matter. Not even knowing that he’ll be one of them soon enough can quiet his hatred.
They usually part for him, steering carefully out of his way as he walks, but today one of them is approaching him purposefully. It’s a drone, a simple messenger class. He frowns. Whatever errand it’s running is inconsequential. He doesn’t want it breathing his air.
As it approaches, others join it. He does a quick mental count. There are a few drones, four workers, and seven soldiers. Soldiers don’t spend much time down here these days. If he was an admitting being, he’d reluctantly admit that he’s impressed by their presence.
The closest demon steps to within range of his blade, and he thinks about it. His blow wouldn’t kill the demon, but it would maim it. It would be worth the effort just to hear the smoke-lizard shriek.
“Disciple,” the demon rasps out. Its voice grates, the multilayered bass slide of rock on rock, the tones rolling over each other in an effort to be the sound on top. “We are under attack. You must come.” Its insectoid eyes stare blankly at him as it speaks.
Short sentences so it doesn’t lose its train of thought, he thinks. Out loud he says, “Like I’m going anywhere with you. Move.”
He goes to push the slimy filaments of its wings away, brushing it aside as he would have any other bug, but the others step in behind it, blocking his path. The echoing legion of soldiers' voices cut off the drone’s weak protest.
“Your Master sent us.”
His spine goes stiff, snapping to attention immediately. “Alastair sent for me?”
A ripple of uneasy motion moves through the demonic circle at the sound of his master’s name. He loves his work, he really does - but his fingertips tremble at the thought of being called up, moved out of this wretched basement, away from the reek of sulfur and into the warfront.
The soldier stares flatly into his eyes. The black skin that stretches across the heavy frame of its face is like a shrunken, ill-fitting glove. Scars from holy water and Devil only knows what else criss-cross the frayed hide of its chest. Its sunken arterial red pupils begin to gleam in the dim light of the corridor.
“Heaven has sent for you.“
The demons flinch and duck their heads at the soldier’s words as they drop like acid rain, sizzling in the close air.
He blinks and shakes his head. He doesn’t understand - or believe.
The soldier tries again, but any comfort in the words is overshadowed by a sneering tone. “Your Master wants you taken someplace... safe.”
As the meaning sinks in, he remembers what fear feels like.
There is only one safe place in Hell, and he’s been there. He’s not looking to go back.
He backs away from the group, reaching for his knives and readying them with barely a conscious thought, the motion practiced and fluid. He knows how much weight Alastair carries, and he knows that any demon who failed to carry out his orders would spend eternity wishing it were dead. He tenses for a fight.
“Fuck you.”
The demons growl and hiss, and the seven soldiers move to the front of the group. Talons and wings and fangs extend, reaching for him, and he chokes on the smell of their breath. All hate is born of fear, and his rises to the surface from inside his dark core. Irrational terror sweeps through him for a single instant; it’s enough to give them an opening.
The second soldier lunges through the mob and sinks its claws deep into his left shoulder. He clenches his jaw, refusing to cry out from the pain as brimstone and flame lance out from the demon’s palm, branding his soul to the core.
The soldier’s weight overbears his and he stumbles, buffeted on all sides by the wingbeats of the others as each one struggles to get their hands on him, too. Blackened eyes and gaping jowls slick with drool reflect his image in the dim light of the passageway. The stagnant air is thick with sweat and blood and fear.
His knives seek targets and they both hit their marks, but in the press of bodies it is impossible to tell if any real damage is caused. He suddenly loses his grip on them both. Yellow ichor splashes out from their wounds, stinging his eyes. The soldier’s other hand reaches for his throat and he can see its sunken face morphing into a hideous grin.
The blackness of the Void hovers on the edges of his vision and his soul flutters: the frantic parody of a rapidly beating heart. The burning fire deep inside his upper arm is the only heat he feels as the portal begins to open, because the Nothing of the Void turns everything else the Shadow touches into ice.
He gasps for breath, a useless reflex now. Words fail him, stopping short of taking the form of sound.
I won’t go back! Let me go, let me go, HELP!
He doesn’t even know who he’s calling. The silent call goes out like a punch, but the dank walls of the tunnel absorb all sound, reflecting nothing back. He may as well take a swan dive straight into the Void for all the good it does to try to scream.
The soldier’s gnarled fingers crush his throat. It hauls him off the ground and raises him high above its head, offering him to the Void above. The other demons claw at him from below, making good use of what is left of him, tearing and leeching at his soul wherever they can reach.
Help, he thinks weakly, his resolve useless in the face of fear. Please …
The gravity of the Void reaches for him, and the soldier releases its grip on his throat and rips its claws from his arm.
Somebody help me!
He flies up toward the black. He can feel the permafrost beginning to form in his core. With the return of his fear comes one last single plea, a name he does not even know.
Sam.
He closes his eyes and gives in to the pull. The wind that lifts him crescendos into a roar, screaming as it whips his body back and forth. He waits for the deafening vibrations to descend into crushing silence, for all sound to be obliterated as though it never was. He falls, up and up, into the endless Void above. He clings to the name, because even though he doesn’t remember who it belongs to, he knows it used to bring him hope. The call goes out a second time.
Sam!
Light splashes across his closed eyelids.
Sam…
The wind intensifies, billowing up against him from below and pinning him securely to something rough and solid. The icy feeling vanishes, replaced by a fierce wash of heat. His grasping fingertips feel stone where only the Void existed just seconds before.
“Dean!”
His eyes snap open at the sound of his name. He knows it is his name the same way he knows who Sam is - not from remembering, but from instinct. He opens his eyes to acknowledge the insistent tug on his soul, power like he’s never felt before, demanding his attention.
They stay open in shock at the sight of the fire.
A wave of flames thunders toward him. Bracing against the ceiling above, he watches the drones get incinerated by the waves of heat rolling ahead of it. Splinters of flame follow the heat, their tips sharpening like spears as they seek their targets.
The pure fire sweeps the corridor, shimmering colors of red and yellow intertwined with blues and whites. It meets the blackened hides of the remaining worker demons and turns them instantly to ash. The soldiers twist and writhe, shrieking their unearthly screams up at him. Their dark red eyes burst into flames first, then the rest of their skulls follow suit. Their skeletons are still burning as they fall.
The heat is almost unbearable and he yells against it, powerless to stop it from coming any closer. He can feel things beginning to boil.
The invisible grip on him slackens, and he holds his breath and shields his face as he is slowly lowered into the flames.
He shuts his eyes tight and waits for the feeling of his skin peeling off of his bones, but as he comes to rest on a musty floor, he feels nothing. He risks a look.
The flames hover just outside his reach, their heat dissipated. They dance and sway like bolts of lightning that at one point had some job to do, but now have completely forgotten what it was. The ferocity of the blaze is gone, and he is filled with a kind of fear and wonder he has never felt downstairs. He swallows hard.
Heaven has sent for you.
A dark shape parts the shimmering curtain in front of him and he crouches down, wishing he still had his blades. The shape moves closer, and he can see that it has one hand stretched out in front of it.
From the palm of its hand comes the light that feeds the fire.
“What are you?” he yells, mustering all of his courage. Whatever it is, it can’t want him for anything good. On the other hand, it saved him from the Void and it killed at least ten demons. He’s going to roll with what he knows for now. “What do you want from me?”
The shape stills and drops its hand. Instantly the constant wave of power is gone. The shape takes the form of a man, solidifying as an after-image of the blinding fire.
He blinks a little in the absence of the light and looks up at the creature of Heaven. It has broad shoulders and long dark hair. Its eyes glow as brightly as its palm had; a shining iridescence that seems to be no color and all colors at the same time.
It takes small steps toward him and stumbles, barely catching itself. With some surprise, he feels his hands reaching out to catch it if it falls. The feel of power in the air is subtly building up again, but right now the creature looks exhausted from the attack.
“Dean,” it whispers. Its eerie pearlescent eyes drift over him, taking in the deep wound that the soldier left on his arm, as if it wished it could do something about that or the other cuts and bruises that the demons left behind. He feels strangely exposed and struggles not to move away.
There is a feel like a sigh in the air and the creature sinks to its knees, almost close enough to touch him. The light fades from its eyes, leaving a peculiarly worldly shade of green behind. Without the wash of power lighting its face, he can see now that the creature has blood plastered to its lips, its chin, the curves of its neck; some dried and flaking, some slick and new in places.
It reaches out a hand for him and he flinches back, not knowing what to expect.
“Dean,” it says again, and it sounds exultant and somehow sad at the same time. “I know you don’t remember me, but you will. I promise. And I need you to trust me, because everyone is coming for you, and I’ve got to get you out of here now.”
Before he realizes his mouth is open, he hears himself ask, “How?”
It smiles. The air starts to constrict around him, and the invisible grip reaches for him one more time. He shudders, but the grip is nothing like the grip of the Void, cold and implacable. There is a dark edge to the power, a raw energy that hungers for blood, but when he lets it take hold, he knows that the hunger is not for him.
Below the hunger is something else, vicious and absolute in its conviction, a feeling he suddenly remembers grasping for with every tattered shred of the last of his humanity - knowledge he lost a long, long time ago. Something shifts uncomfortably deep inside his soul.
The creature shuffles closer and offers both hands. Its wrists are scarred and bloodstained. He thinks twice, but something in the simple offering gesture intrigues him. He places his hands in the creature’s. Distant growls begin to filter down the passage, and he senses demons. He grips the creature’s hands tighter. It nods tensely and takes a breath.
The glow comes back into its face and the fire begins to build again, surrounding them in a spiral of light and sound that cuts off all pursuit.
The acrid walls of Hell dissolve. He smells something sweet and fresh; air without sulfur, grass, flowers. He feels things against his skin; t-shirt, jacket, jeans. He hears a reckless, abandoned sound from his right side; laughter, cruelty, madness.
His brain snaps the definitions into place faster than he can receive them, and the sky above him spins dangerously.
He is back; Earth, life, people.
He is saved; Lilith, Alastair, Hell.
His whole body should hurt. It doesn’t.
He tips his head towards the sound of the laughter. The creature is crouched over him. Its chest is heaving with the effort of breathing and its eyes are dissolving from the infinite color to a flat, chilling black. It is completely covered in blood, and it clutches a red leather-bound book in its hand.
Dean looks at his brother and finally sees him for who, and what, he really is.
Angel. Demon. Sammy.
Dean looks away, his stomach churning at the sound of Sam’s ragged, desperate cackling. His gaze falls to several still shapes lying at jagged angles in the grass.
People, he thinks.
There are at least four of them, and their mutilated torsos spill dark lumpy smudges out onto the earth. He gags at the smell, bile and iron, feels his hand sink with a squelching slurp into the remains as he tries to sit up.
Sam’s laughter rips apart, transforming into hysterical screaming sobs of horrified exultation.
Sammy, what have you done.
The world, and everything in it, disappears.
Chapter Two: The Book
Repo Men: The Upside-Down Apocalypse
Author: tahirire
Rating: R
Wordcount: 2932 (This chapter)
Beta: blacklid
Genre: Gen. Angst. H/C.
Spoilers: Goes a/u from 3.16, but there will be spoilers for all aired episodes.
Warnings: My generic major character death fic list. This fic contains dark imagery, excessive gore, language, violence, torture, memories of torture, and gleeful pretzelfication of canon, WIP.
Author's Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JARED!!!! \o/
Chapter One : Hell
There have been murmurs in the Pit for years. As long as he’s had the ability of memory - for a hundred years, maybe more - the demons have spoken of coming war. He tries not to concern himself with those things as a general rule. The blood of souls is too thick and rich on his hands, and his blades are too bright and perfectly honed for him not to play the music of his craft.
Eternity may stretch on forever for the damned, but for a Disciple like him, forever will never be time enough.
He takes pleasure in perfecting his skills, not just physical but mental, emotional, spiritual as well. He can get deep inside and rip out the core of a soul, turn it to poison, put it back, and watch it eat a victim alive.
He no longer knows, nor cares, what his true name used to be. He no longer remembers being one of the tortured souls. He no longer knows how he got here, when he came, or why. He only knows this is who he is, and that eternity is not enough time to vent the left-over agony and rage, mysterious internal scars from a long-forgotten past.
There is no day or night here, but if there was, this would be the closing shift. He turns away from the quivering pulp before him with some regret, leaving it to regenerate for its next tormentor. The current soul will be lucky if a demon comes; anything a demon can think up will be a slap on the wrist compared to what they accomplished together today.
He leaves the room satisfied with his work and steps into a long, cramped corridor lined with barred doors similar to the one he just came out of. His next stop, in a while, will be a sweet little thing that by topside reckoning has been here since the 1820s, and still thinks that killing the man who owned her shouldn’t have counted as murder. He chuckles to himself.
House rules, sweetheart. No exceptions.
He smiles gently about her naiveté. One day he’ll convince her it’s useless, begging for forgiveness down here. He’s not in a hurry, though - he has all the time in the underworld to make her see the error of her ways.
His thoughtful grin turns to a scowl as he walks. This close to the exit, the twist of the tunnel creates a serious bottleneck. There are demons here, too many demons, and no matter how many times he brushes against their leather skin as he walks, no matter how deep the scent of sulfur sinks into his skin, it always makes him shudder with revulsion. They are disgusting lesser beasts, feral perversions of humanity - what happens when a soul goes into the pressure cooker - a diamond turning into blackened, scalding coal.
His fingers curl into sharp-nailed fists at the feel of them. If there is actually anything he remembers from before, it is that he hated demons with every fiber of his being. Now, buried deep under the firmer layers of his outer spirit, the dead black ash of his decaying soul has already started to form a solid core, but it doesn’t matter. Not even knowing that he’ll be one of them soon enough can quiet his hatred.
They usually part for him, steering carefully out of his way as he walks, but today one of them is approaching him purposefully. It’s a drone, a simple messenger class. He frowns. Whatever errand it’s running is inconsequential. He doesn’t want it breathing his air.
As it approaches, others join it. He does a quick mental count. There are a few drones, four workers, and seven soldiers. Soldiers don’t spend much time down here these days. If he was an admitting being, he’d reluctantly admit that he’s impressed by their presence.
The closest demon steps to within range of his blade, and he thinks about it. His blow wouldn’t kill the demon, but it would maim it. It would be worth the effort just to hear the smoke-lizard shriek.
“Disciple,” the demon rasps out. Its voice grates, the multilayered bass slide of rock on rock, the tones rolling over each other in an effort to be the sound on top. “We are under attack. You must come.” Its insectoid eyes stare blankly at him as it speaks.
Short sentences so it doesn’t lose its train of thought, he thinks. Out loud he says, “Like I’m going anywhere with you. Move.”
He goes to push the slimy filaments of its wings away, brushing it aside as he would have any other bug, but the others step in behind it, blocking his path. The echoing legion of soldiers' voices cut off the drone’s weak protest.
“Your Master sent us.”
His spine goes stiff, snapping to attention immediately. “Alastair sent for me?”
A ripple of uneasy motion moves through the demonic circle at the sound of his master’s name. He loves his work, he really does - but his fingertips tremble at the thought of being called up, moved out of this wretched basement, away from the reek of sulfur and into the warfront.
The soldier stares flatly into his eyes. The black skin that stretches across the heavy frame of its face is like a shrunken, ill-fitting glove. Scars from holy water and Devil only knows what else criss-cross the frayed hide of its chest. Its sunken arterial red pupils begin to gleam in the dim light of the corridor.
“Heaven has sent for you.“
The demons flinch and duck their heads at the soldier’s words as they drop like acid rain, sizzling in the close air.
He blinks and shakes his head. He doesn’t understand - or believe.
The soldier tries again, but any comfort in the words is overshadowed by a sneering tone. “Your Master wants you taken someplace... safe.”
As the meaning sinks in, he remembers what fear feels like.
There is only one safe place in Hell, and he’s been there. He’s not looking to go back.
He backs away from the group, reaching for his knives and readying them with barely a conscious thought, the motion practiced and fluid. He knows how much weight Alastair carries, and he knows that any demon who failed to carry out his orders would spend eternity wishing it were dead. He tenses for a fight.
“Fuck you.”
The demons growl and hiss, and the seven soldiers move to the front of the group. Talons and wings and fangs extend, reaching for him, and he chokes on the smell of their breath. All hate is born of fear, and his rises to the surface from inside his dark core. Irrational terror sweeps through him for a single instant; it’s enough to give them an opening.
The second soldier lunges through the mob and sinks its claws deep into his left shoulder. He clenches his jaw, refusing to cry out from the pain as brimstone and flame lance out from the demon’s palm, branding his soul to the core.
The soldier’s weight overbears his and he stumbles, buffeted on all sides by the wingbeats of the others as each one struggles to get their hands on him, too. Blackened eyes and gaping jowls slick with drool reflect his image in the dim light of the passageway. The stagnant air is thick with sweat and blood and fear.
His knives seek targets and they both hit their marks, but in the press of bodies it is impossible to tell if any real damage is caused. He suddenly loses his grip on them both. Yellow ichor splashes out from their wounds, stinging his eyes. The soldier’s other hand reaches for his throat and he can see its sunken face morphing into a hideous grin.
The blackness of the Void hovers on the edges of his vision and his soul flutters: the frantic parody of a rapidly beating heart. The burning fire deep inside his upper arm is the only heat he feels as the portal begins to open, because the Nothing of the Void turns everything else the Shadow touches into ice.
He gasps for breath, a useless reflex now. Words fail him, stopping short of taking the form of sound.
I won’t go back! Let me go, let me go, HELP!
He doesn’t even know who he’s calling. The silent call goes out like a punch, but the dank walls of the tunnel absorb all sound, reflecting nothing back. He may as well take a swan dive straight into the Void for all the good it does to try to scream.
The soldier’s gnarled fingers crush his throat. It hauls him off the ground and raises him high above its head, offering him to the Void above. The other demons claw at him from below, making good use of what is left of him, tearing and leeching at his soul wherever they can reach.
Help, he thinks weakly, his resolve useless in the face of fear. Please …
The gravity of the Void reaches for him, and the soldier releases its grip on his throat and rips its claws from his arm.
Somebody help me!
He flies up toward the black. He can feel the permafrost beginning to form in his core. With the return of his fear comes one last single plea, a name he does not even know.
Sam.
He closes his eyes and gives in to the pull. The wind that lifts him crescendos into a roar, screaming as it whips his body back and forth. He waits for the deafening vibrations to descend into crushing silence, for all sound to be obliterated as though it never was. He falls, up and up, into the endless Void above. He clings to the name, because even though he doesn’t remember who it belongs to, he knows it used to bring him hope. The call goes out a second time.
Sam!
Light splashes across his closed eyelids.
Sam…
The wind intensifies, billowing up against him from below and pinning him securely to something rough and solid. The icy feeling vanishes, replaced by a fierce wash of heat. His grasping fingertips feel stone where only the Void existed just seconds before.
“Dean!”
His eyes snap open at the sound of his name. He knows it is his name the same way he knows who Sam is - not from remembering, but from instinct. He opens his eyes to acknowledge the insistent tug on his soul, power like he’s never felt before, demanding his attention.
They stay open in shock at the sight of the fire.
A wave of flames thunders toward him. Bracing against the ceiling above, he watches the drones get incinerated by the waves of heat rolling ahead of it. Splinters of flame follow the heat, their tips sharpening like spears as they seek their targets.
The pure fire sweeps the corridor, shimmering colors of red and yellow intertwined with blues and whites. It meets the blackened hides of the remaining worker demons and turns them instantly to ash. The soldiers twist and writhe, shrieking their unearthly screams up at him. Their dark red eyes burst into flames first, then the rest of their skulls follow suit. Their skeletons are still burning as they fall.
The heat is almost unbearable and he yells against it, powerless to stop it from coming any closer. He can feel things beginning to boil.
The invisible grip on him slackens, and he holds his breath and shields his face as he is slowly lowered into the flames.
He shuts his eyes tight and waits for the feeling of his skin peeling off of his bones, but as he comes to rest on a musty floor, he feels nothing. He risks a look.
The flames hover just outside his reach, their heat dissipated. They dance and sway like bolts of lightning that at one point had some job to do, but now have completely forgotten what it was. The ferocity of the blaze is gone, and he is filled with a kind of fear and wonder he has never felt downstairs. He swallows hard.
Heaven has sent for you.
A dark shape parts the shimmering curtain in front of him and he crouches down, wishing he still had his blades. The shape moves closer, and he can see that it has one hand stretched out in front of it.
From the palm of its hand comes the light that feeds the fire.
“What are you?” he yells, mustering all of his courage. Whatever it is, it can’t want him for anything good. On the other hand, it saved him from the Void and it killed at least ten demons. He’s going to roll with what he knows for now. “What do you want from me?”
The shape stills and drops its hand. Instantly the constant wave of power is gone. The shape takes the form of a man, solidifying as an after-image of the blinding fire.
He blinks a little in the absence of the light and looks up at the creature of Heaven. It has broad shoulders and long dark hair. Its eyes glow as brightly as its palm had; a shining iridescence that seems to be no color and all colors at the same time.
It takes small steps toward him and stumbles, barely catching itself. With some surprise, he feels his hands reaching out to catch it if it falls. The feel of power in the air is subtly building up again, but right now the creature looks exhausted from the attack.
“Dean,” it whispers. Its eerie pearlescent eyes drift over him, taking in the deep wound that the soldier left on his arm, as if it wished it could do something about that or the other cuts and bruises that the demons left behind. He feels strangely exposed and struggles not to move away.
There is a feel like a sigh in the air and the creature sinks to its knees, almost close enough to touch him. The light fades from its eyes, leaving a peculiarly worldly shade of green behind. Without the wash of power lighting its face, he can see now that the creature has blood plastered to its lips, its chin, the curves of its neck; some dried and flaking, some slick and new in places.
It reaches out a hand for him and he flinches back, not knowing what to expect.
“Dean,” it says again, and it sounds exultant and somehow sad at the same time. “I know you don’t remember me, but you will. I promise. And I need you to trust me, because everyone is coming for you, and I’ve got to get you out of here now.”
Before he realizes his mouth is open, he hears himself ask, “How?”
It smiles. The air starts to constrict around him, and the invisible grip reaches for him one more time. He shudders, but the grip is nothing like the grip of the Void, cold and implacable. There is a dark edge to the power, a raw energy that hungers for blood, but when he lets it take hold, he knows that the hunger is not for him.
Below the hunger is something else, vicious and absolute in its conviction, a feeling he suddenly remembers grasping for with every tattered shred of the last of his humanity - knowledge he lost a long, long time ago. Something shifts uncomfortably deep inside his soul.
The creature shuffles closer and offers both hands. Its wrists are scarred and bloodstained. He thinks twice, but something in the simple offering gesture intrigues him. He places his hands in the creature’s. Distant growls begin to filter down the passage, and he senses demons. He grips the creature’s hands tighter. It nods tensely and takes a breath.
The glow comes back into its face and the fire begins to build again, surrounding them in a spiral of light and sound that cuts off all pursuit.
The acrid walls of Hell dissolve. He smells something sweet and fresh; air without sulfur, grass, flowers. He feels things against his skin; t-shirt, jacket, jeans. He hears a reckless, abandoned sound from his right side; laughter, cruelty, madness.
His brain snaps the definitions into place faster than he can receive them, and the sky above him spins dangerously.
He is back; Earth, life, people.
He is saved; Lilith, Alastair, Hell.
His whole body should hurt. It doesn’t.
He tips his head towards the sound of the laughter. The creature is crouched over him. Its chest is heaving with the effort of breathing and its eyes are dissolving from the infinite color to a flat, chilling black. It is completely covered in blood, and it clutches a red leather-bound book in its hand.
Dean looks at his brother and finally sees him for who, and what, he really is.
Angel. Demon. Sammy.
Dean looks away, his stomach churning at the sound of Sam’s ragged, desperate cackling. His gaze falls to several still shapes lying at jagged angles in the grass.
People, he thinks.
There are at least four of them, and their mutilated torsos spill dark lumpy smudges out onto the earth. He gags at the smell, bile and iron, feels his hand sink with a squelching slurp into the remains as he tries to sit up.
Sam’s laughter rips apart, transforming into hysterical screaming sobs of horrified exultation.
Sammy, what have you done.
The world, and everything in it, disappears.
Chapter Two: The Book