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justinedelargeAuthor:
justinedelargeFandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest; events alluded to in Season 5 are moved up a number of years to take place before this story, rather than after.
Spoilers: Seasons 1-5
Word Count:3400
Disclaimer: I don't own what I don't own. But I do own what I do own, such as my original characters and my plot.
Summary: Boss Battle.
Master post of all chapters here
Some people are born to a purpose.
Some objects are born to a purpose as well.
The knives resonated, near each other again as they were made to be. Without consciousness, being inanimate objects, they nonetheless gave off an inaudible hum that if brought into the spectrum of detection by the human ear would sound like contented purring. Knives forged from the same chunk of metal, designed by their creator to be a matched set. Stronger together than apart, a gleaming, deadly whole greater than the sum of its parts.
The knives purred, waited, so close to achieving their purpose.
~
John Winchester’s head hung forward, limp, neck devoid of strength. The silence of the room was interrupted only by the soft click of the antique grandfather clock ticking off the seconds.
After an eternity, John Winchester raised his head and looked at his sons. His skin was ashen, reddened eyes blinking, the weight of two decades more than his biological age pressing him down.
Sam and Dean Winchester looked into the eyes of their father, holding onto each other like the only real thing in a sea of chaos.
John’s eyelid twitched. “Dean.” His voice was a whisper, ragged and half-formed. “Sam’s sixteen.” Suddenly the fire roused him. “He’s sixteen!” His mouth warped, an ugly movement. “How could you.”
Dean bent under the accusation, but did not break, holding onto Sam.
Sam did not let go of Dean. “Don’t blame him. I’m the one who pushed him. He wanted to wait until my birthday.”
John laughed, a bitter sound ringing hollow in the hard surfaces of the hallway. “He wanted to wait. That’s great. Waiting. That would make it ok.”
“You don’t understand.” Bobby spoke up.
John’s head whipped around, looking at Bobby as best he could, his body trapped in place by Azazel. “You. How long have you known?”
Azazel sat in a cross-legged position in front of Bobby and rested his chin in his hands, waiting for him to speak.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is Sam is right. It’s not like that. It’s not… wrong.”
“What part of this isn’t wrong?” John struggled, desperate to move. “What part of…” John fought to bring himself to utter the word. “…of incest isn’t wrong?” He couldn’t look at Sam and Dean, swallowing hard to keep his gorge from rising.
Azazel leapt to his feet. “Sam, you should hear the things he’s thinking. Can you?” Sam shook his head no. “Let me boost the signal for ya.”
Sam suddenly went stiff, like an electrical current was running through him. His eyes went wide in horror. “You can’t. You can’t. I won’t let you send him away!”
“Sam, he’s molesting you! It’s child abuse!”
“No. No. It’s not like that. ” Dean pulled himself to his feet, holding onto Sam, doggedly shaking his head. “I love him. I’d do anything for Sam. I’d die for Sam.”
“You should have killed yourself before you laid a finger on him.” John’s eyes were fire and judgment, pain stretched thin on the verge of snapping.
“You’re wrong, Dad.” Sam pressed himself tight to Dean’s side like he was trying to become one flesh, one body. “It’s not wrong. It’s not. God says it’s ok.”
Azazel gave Sam a curious glance.
John stared in horror, then weak laughter was choked out of him. “You’re crazy. You’ve gone crazy.”
“He’s right, John,” Bobby interjected. “The angel told me.”
“You’re all crazy. Fucking nuts.” John’s eyes glazed over, head falling onto his chest. “My fault. It’s my fault.”
Azazel breathed in through his nose like the aroma of John’s despair was the most appetizing thing he’d ever smelled. He walked directly in front of John, just breathing in.
Azazel out of hearing range, Dean whispered, “Sam. We gotta…” Dean gestured with the knife at Azazel’s back.
“I tried already,” Sam whispered. “It didn’t work. He’s too strong.”
Dean’s face fell, hopelessness beginning to take root.
Azazel’s face and neck were flushed red, like he was deriving sexual pleasure from tormenting John. “That’s what you get for trying to hunt the Big White Whale, John. Your sons turning to each other for love and comfort they can’t get any other way.” Azazel paused, mouth twitching like he was savoring what he was about to say. “But you’re doing so much better with your other boy.”
John raised his head, horror in his eyes.
“What’s his name again?”
“Don’t,” John begged.
Azazel gazed up at the ornate ceiling in a parody of deep thought. “Oh yes.” He snapped his fingers. “Adam.”
Sam and Dean searched the face of their father, of Bobby. In Bobby’s face, they saw a slow-dawning realization of something he hadn’t known before. In John’s face, they saw naked guilt.
“Dad?” Dean asked, his voice soft and high, like the plea of a small child.
“Just turned nine, didn’t he?” Azazel looked over his shoulder at Sam and Dean and winked at them. “Virgo. September baby.” He whipped his head back to John. “Just started Little League, right? Boy, his first game was a hell of a thing. Wasn’t it.”
Dean’s face drained of all color. “Dad?” His voice was a whisper. Sam began to shake.
“I can explain,” John began.
“See, a man gets lonely…” Azazel began.
“Shut up.” John stared down the demon.
“Make me,” Azazel spat. He resumed speaking to Sam and Dean. “See, your daddy met this pretty little nurse. She stitched his tummy right up. Great bedside manner,” he said with a leer.
Sam and Dean looked at each other, remembering that hunt where Dad stayed gone over Christmas yet again, and came home with newspaper-wrapped presents from 7-Eleven and a thick line of sutures across his abdomen.
“Knocked her up real good.” He winked at John. “Strong little swimmers.”
Dean opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“She wanted to get rid of it.” John shook his head (no no no) but Azazel kept going. “But John begged her to keep it. Said he wanted a son. He didn’t tell her a thing about the sons he already had. That seems odd.” He frowned. “Doesn’t it? Why would he keep that a secret, I wonder? What purpose could he have had?”
Dean kept his face impassive, but a lone tear spilled down his face.
“Ah, you can’t blame a man for wanting to start over when he fucked up so spectacularly the first time.” Azazel watched the tear fall down Dean’s cheek. “You see, Dean, he wasn’t always on a hunt when he took off and left you two all alone, or stuck you with your weird uncle Bobby. Leaving you to steal wallets or get your dick sucked in a filthy restroom to keep the two of you in mac ‘n cheese.” His teeth gleamed yellow. “He was with his new family. Singing his baby boy to sleep. Buying him Pampers. Teaching him how to ride a bicycle. Decorating the Christmas tree. Throwing the ball for him in the back yard while mommy made lemonade.” More tears joined the first running down Dean’s face as Sam and Dean listened, helpless, to how their father left them behind to give this other boy everything they never had.
“I’m getting real tired of listening to you yammer,” Reggie drawled.
Azazel hissed in annoyance, and stalked across the hall to face him. “Are you volunteering? You want to be the one to die?”
“If that means I don’t have to listen to you squawk anymore, it sounds like a good deal.” Reggie’s long silver hair spilled over his shoulders, a look of quiet defiance on his face.
Azazel grinned, a short, sharp gesture that bared his teeth. “Let’s play a new game. See who the lucky boy or girl’s gonna be.” He surveyed the lineup before him: Reggie, Bobby, John, Juliane and Danny, counting off each one in turn. “Eeny meeny miny mo, catch a—fuck it. You.” He swung his hand back and pointed straight at John. “You’re tonight’s big winner.” He waved his hand behind him, and Sam and Dean were suddenly unable to move. “Hush, little ones. You won’t really miss him. Will ya?”
“Don’t. Don’t hurt him,” Sam pleaded.
“I’m not gonna hurt him, Sam. I’m gonna kill him.” Azazel licked his lips. “Unless you want to do the honors.”
Sam shook his head, horrified at the thought.
“Samuel. You saw it. Inside his tortured little mind. If he lives, he’s going to send Dean away. He’s going to take you to where Dean can never ever find you.”
Dean’s mouth trembled.
“If you let him walk out of here alive, Sam, you’ll never see Dean again.” His voice was light, almost gleeful. “So come on over here and take care of daddy dearest.” Sam found himself released from Azazel’s hold.
“I can’t. I won’t. I won’t become what you want me to. I’d rather die.” Sam put his hand on Dean’s shoulder, eyes huge. “I’d rather die.”
Dean swallowed hard, reading Sam’s intent. He looked across the hall, every ally they had frozen in place, unable to fight. The unbeatable foe, arrogant and gleeful, intent on making Sam his creature. He saw the intent in Sam’s eye, the Plan C Sam had always held in reserve for how this night was going to end. He put his left hand, still marked with Sam’s blood, on Sam’s neck. “Not alone, you don’t.”
Sam knew better than to tell Dean no, knew now that they were in it together. In sickness and health. Till death do them part. He nodded his acquiescence. Dean released the breath he’d been holding, knowing Sam was going to keep his word and never leave him alone again.
“Sam. Remember.” Reggie’s voice issued through the hall, low and warm. “Fidus et audax.”
Azazel fixed Reggie with a withering glance. “I do speak Latin, you mouth-breathing monkey.”
Sam inhaled sharply, remembering. Their twin knives. Etched into the flat of the blade was a phrase in Latin. “Fidus et audax.” Dean read it out loud. “Faithful and brave.” Reggie and Sam spoke in unison.
Azazel waved his hand at Sam. “Faithfulness. Bravery.” Azazel gestured to himself. “Knight of Hell. Not really a fair match-up, Sam.”
Reggie’s eyes shone, blue like the deep waters of a clear lake. Fidux et audax.
Faithful, like Sam was to Dean. Like Dean was to Sam.
Brave, like Dean taking on a roomful of demon sympathizers to rescue Sam. Like Sam walking into a demon’s nest to keep Dean from being tainted by the evil thrust into his veins.
Sam’s hand dropped to the handle of his knife, secured inside its blood-red leather sheath. It seemed to vibrate in his hands, resonating in tune with Dean’s knife, still clutched in Dean’s right hand, like he could feel Dean’s knife in his hand too, doubling them. Strengthening them.
It felt right.
He looked into Dean’s eyes. Dean blinked once, understanding. His eyes traced the distance between them and Azazel, and looked back at Sam. Get him to come closer. Arm’s reach.
Sam gave Dean a tiny nod—and found himself pulled away from Dean, moving across the room against his volition until he was next to Azazel, across from his father.
“Ah, patricide…” Azazel purred. “It’s my favorite ‘cide.” He murmured in Sam’s ear. “Come on, Sam. He deserves it. What he reduced Dean to having to do, to keep food in your belly.” Sam winced, the revelation still freshly bleeding. “For the neglect. For the abuse. For throwing you over for a new kid. For what he’s going to do to you and Dean if you don’t stick that knife in his chest.” The voice, syrupy and thick in his head. Never telling you he loved you. Not until it was too late. How hard he was on you. Never good enough. He never loved you, Sam. And now he’s going to take away the only thing you ever had, the only one you ever wanted right when you finally have him. He’s going to take away Dean.
Azazel slipped his arm around Sam’s shoulders, his fingers on his neck. Sam recoiled from his touch. Azazel grinned, wiping his hand off on his black pants. “Messy little Dean. Bleeding all over his little brother.”
Dean snapped, “That’s not my blood, you son of a bitch.”
Azazel did a double take. “What did you say?”
“Sam hit his head. That’s his blood.”
Azazel dropped the bottle of Champagne he’d been holding. It fell to the bamboo floor and bounced, spilling the remainder of its contents. He shook his head. “No.”
He moved, viper-quick, locked his hand on Sam’s throat and held him in place. He sniffed the blood at the back of Sam’s head, and pulled back with a look of absolute disbelief. “It’s not possible.” He dragged his finger through the bloodied hair at the base of his neck, picking up a smear of blood, and sniffed it, inhaling deeply, evaluating, measuring, quantifying. His attention snapped to Dean, mouth curling into a snarl so ferocious Dean would have recoiled if he had been able to move from the spot in which he was fixed. “It’s gone. All of it. Fucking gone.”
Sam’s mouth fell open. He didn’t dare to breathe.
“It’s. Not. POSSIBLE!” Azazel erupted in a rage, picking up the bottle and smashing it against the wall. He raised his hands overhead with a scream. The walls shook, dust raining down from the ceiling. Lights popped in flashes of electricity, paintings toppled from the walls, glass artwork splintering, heavy antique furniture screeching across the floor.
The hallway was plunged into darkness, lit only by the flickering candles and the fireplace in the living room spilling out through the open door.
A deadly calm settled over Azazel. He walked down the hall, stepping over the unconscious bodies of the recently exorcised, hands clasped behind his back. He paced back down the hall fixing Dean with a black stare. “Brother-fucking. Purified him.” His shoulders shook once, twice, and he started to laugh. “Incestuous faggotry. Purified him.” He threw his head back and howled with laughter, mutating into harsh barks, elongating into a howl of rage. “That’s against the rules!” he screamed to the heavens.
Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, all sound in the room fading away. The only thing he could hear was the rushing of blood through his veins. His blood, clean and pure, pulsing through him. He closed his hand over Dean’s wrist.
Azazel snarled, “My blood was working in you for 16 years, Samuel. A few months clean doesn’t make a fucking bit of difference. I’ll just fill you up again.” He shrugged, a parody of ruefulness. “But your pet’s gonna have to go, so he doesn’t fuck up our plans again.” He raised his hand and Dean was airborne, smashing against the giant gilt-framed mirror secured to the wall, glass exploding in a hail of shards and razor-sharp powder, tumbling to the ground, his knife clattering across the floor.
He landed hard, not bracing his fall in any way, all dead weight and motionless limbs.
He did not move.
“Dean?” Sam raced to his side and knelt over him, knees crunching in the broken glass. He rolled Dean onto his back carefully, keeping his neck supported. Blood trickled down Dean’s face. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing.
He did not move.
“Dean!” Sam lifted Dean, cradled him in his arms, pressing his head into his chest. Dean’s arms lay limp at his sides. He did not breathe. He did not move.
Azazel made a soft sound of pleasure.
John screamed, struggling in his invisible bonds, screamed his son’s name, again and again. Danny and Juliane stared in disbelief. Bobby closed his eyes, all hope lost. Reggie kept his eyes on Dean, alert and watchful. Sam rocked Dean in his arms, helpless sobs racking him, pleading with Dean to wake up.
He did not wake up.
Sam looked up at Azazel, radiating hate so virulent it sent a shiver through those who were watching.
“You’re mine, Samuel. Mine forever. Gonna top you up and then you’ll be right as rain.”
Behind Sam’s back, unseen by Azazel, undetected by Sam, Dean’s fingers twitched, quickly tugging the shoelace, pulling his knife toward him in the dim light of the hallway.
Azazel walked toward Sam, adjusting his blood-red tie. “I’m going to give you my blood. You’re going to drink it. Every drop I give you. And then I’m going to kill your father.” He shot John a look almost sexual in its intensity. “Because I want to. And after that… we start your training. Turn you into a good little Boy King. Just like you’re destined to become. You’re going to be so beautiful, Samuel. You’re going to serve Lucifer so perfectly.”
Sam dropped his head down, holding Dean’s limp body tight, unable to function, to think, to draw breath if Dean could not.
Azazel stood right next to Sam, bit his wrist and extended it. “Open your mouth, Sammy.”
Sam erupted, letting go of Dean and lunging forward, stabbing his knife into Azazel’s gut, screaming in rage and agony.
Azazel winced as the blade entered his flesh, but then tipped his head back and laughed.
His laugh stopped in mid-chortle.
His eyes flew open wide, gleaming sickly yellow.
Dean clung to his leg, green eyes gleaming in the fire-lit hallway, digging his knife deeper into Azazel’s thigh. “Only I get to call him that.
Azazel’s mouth hung open in a perfect O.
Sam and Dean hung on the knives, hands driving them in as deep as they would go, eyes locked on each other. The knives, deep inside him, began to sing. They resonated within his body, the mingled blood magic of Sam and Dean released into him. The singing split into harmonics, vibrating throughout him, augmenting the perfect union of Sam and Dean’s blood, joined in moments of absolute love and devotion such as the world had never seen. The resonance wracked Azazel, rattled him, infiltrated him, flooding him with the taste and scent and meaning of their love. The chord sang through him, unmoored him, sank into the black, mangled morass he kept in the place of a soul.
There was no humanity left to save. The love of Sam and Dean spread through him like a fever, burning, devouring, negating the evil in him. Erasing it utterly.
The twin blades sang their song of love and beauty, sang it within a vessel of utter corruption. When the song was finished, nothing remained of the black, twisted soul. Not even a gasp of black smoke to slip from the lips of the long-suffering vessel.
What was Azazel was gone from the earth, from all planes of existence.
His vessel collapsed to the floor, brown eyes closing.
Sam and Dean pulled their knives free at the exact same time. Sam’s eyes searched Dean’s face, like he couldn’t believe he was alive. “I thought…you were dead.”
“Played dead. So he’d come close.”
Sam’s mouth quivered, eyes filling with tears, in absolute agony at having thought he’d lost Dean, a flicker of anger that Dean hadn’t trusted him enough to let him on the secret, but all of that vanished when Dean reached up, placed his hand on Sam’s cheek, and gently pulled Sam’s face down for a kiss.
Their lips met with a surge of heat, skin the perfect temperature, the perfect shape, the touch of their mouths triggering a wave of rightness that made time stop. Forgetting who else was in the room with them, Dean kissed Sam, kissed him like it was a holy sacrament. Sam gasped, exhaled into Dean’s mouth, cupped Dean’s cheek with his left hand and kissed him like he was a gift from God himself, sacred, impossibly important and cherished.
John witnessed this kiss, just as he had witnessed his nemesis fall, slain at long last by the love of Sam and Dean. Even he could not turn from the beauty of the kiss, tears driven from his eyes at the sight of such love. Could not deny the rightness of it.
Collapsed at their feet was the proof.
He fell to his knees, no longer held up by Azazel’s bonds. Bobby staggered and nearly fell, but was caught by Reggie. Juliane and Danny collapsed into each other’s arms.
Only John was alone, held in the arms of no one.
