Chapter Text
The screams of humans were just as irritating as the creatures themselves. Only as they fell silent did Sam feel any thrill or joy in his task.
Two hundred souls. That was a low estimate, of course, considering Meg’s bloodlust and Abaddon’s command of Persephone, who ripped off as many heads as she could crunch between her teeth. Sam’s own hounds howled their joy as they were let loose to hunt as they would, only after dragging the first of many screaming, yet-living corpses-to-be to the feet of Hell’s newest prince, holding his small blade in shaking hands as he learned what it was to split skin and force out life. Jesse was a natural at killing, and it was after that first kill that Sam let the hounds go, keeping his charge at his side as he cut his way through humans and Croatoan-infected beasts alike.
He liked the mindlessness of the killing. He liked the peace it afforded him. He liked the scent of blood in the night air, steadily creeping toward dawn in the first several hours of the twenty-four allotted.
His warriors strayed, but never too far, each claiming kills as varied as themselves. Ava preferred quick, concentrated cuts to slice open arteries; Jake favored guns and no-fuss shots; Andy cracked skulls with an iron rod, casual and at his own pace; Lily whirled and shrieked with laughter as she let loose the terrors of her skin, touching the terrified humans only to see their relief—at least before their hearts seized and they collapsed, eyes wide and horrified in death. Jesse preferred the surprise, running to those not yet changed and begging for help before he would slip a blade through the cracks in their spine, downing his victims before he opened their skin. Meg preferred using her hands to cause fear and panic, throwing people and objects into the air with barely a thought, directing various projectiles to pierce flesh, whether debris from the battle or parts of other humans. Abaddon simply killed one and all in any way she could.
And Sam—Sam killed deftly with his angel blade and his borrowed Grace, each and every one in Lucifer’s name. He pledged each soul to another broken Seal. Another sacrifice in the name of his God.
And he would do anything for his God.
A stab to the gut. Lucifer. A slice to the jugular. Lucifer. A shove through the spine. Lucifer.
All for Lucifer.
In a way, the killing was monotonous. There was no challenge in it. It was the slaughter of animals, plain and simple; stupid animals who had no defenses. Sam knew it was stupid to wish for a real fight, considering the types of enemies that a true fight would bear, but it didn’t stop him from thinking that any demon could have made these kills. If it weren’t for his job of holding together the perimeter wards, he wouldn’t bother to be here at all.
A quick sweep of the eyes found his warriors holding their own. That, at least, was a relief. He was thankful for the time he’d put in to train them. Maybe they would all make it out of here, after all.
And then he felt an impossible wash of power, a crash against the barrier that Sam held together with his Grace. And he knew.
He’d spoken too soon.
Dean...
Dean...
There was pressure all around him, the sort of terrible tension that predated the most awful sort of migraines. Dean couldn’t feel his body, but he figured it felt unbearably heavy. When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by light, by fire—but a fire that didn’t burn so much as glow. It was... soothing.
Dean, you must awake. I need your consent.
The voice that spoke in his ears was absolutely lovely.
“Who are you?” Dean asked, his voice barely a whisper of breath.
I am Michael. I am here to help you. Let me in, Dean. You must say yes.
“Why?”
He got the feeling that the voice was less than pleased with his curiosity—but Dean couldn’t manage much more than that when he felt so weighed-down and drugged.
Because your brother threatens the safety of the world my father built. But it is not too late for his redemption. I must make him try to see reason.
Dean struggled against the force that held him. “I can do that.”
No, Dean. You must not. If you try to face him alone, your life will be forfeit. Allow me the use of your vessel and I will do all I can to save him. No harm will come to you if you allow me in. It will be temporary.
Dean stilled, exhausted. “How do I know that for sure?”
You have my word.
“Words don’t mean shit.”
The voice—Michael—sounded insulted... and angry.
I am offering you safety, Dean, and your brother mercy. Mercy that he does not yet deserve. This is your best chance of peace. This is your best chance of averting the Apocalypse. I am your best chance. Despite your favor for Castiel, there is little he can offer you. I can give you what I promise. You were built to contain me when I walk the Earth, and I will not abuse that. Allow me in, Dean. Give me your consent. Say yes.
Dean wanted to resist, but he was so tired, and that voice was so nice; almost like a song—
“Okay,” Dean breathed. “Sure. Yes.”
He could feel the fire’s pride. It started to brighten, to immerse Dean in a blinding void, and it tore at his body, at his skin, clawing to get in, and Dean screamed—
He felt the moment he clicked into place, so secure, held inside the warmth of the human, of Dean Winchester, and felt the tarnish of his soul against his Grace—
Michael’s eyes opened, taking in the barren trees above, the branches casting shadows into the ice and snow, cold in a way Michael hadn’t felt since—
He stood, brushing the snow from the back of Dean’s pants, inspecting the man’s hands; scarred, calloused, but strong. A worker’s hands. A hunter’s hands.
He looked up.
Castiel stood before him, vessel’s face impassive, but Grace fluctuating wildly. Uncertain, then. And angry. Yes, he was most certainly angry.
“Control yourself,” Michael said, then paused—what a strange thing it was to have to channel sound through a mouthpiece. He frowned and carried on, directing his attention at Castiel. “You are protective; it’s understandable. But you know who he was created for. And you know he will come to no harm.”
Castiel pursed his lips (a human gesture, and perhaps Michael has making a mistake to allow him on the surface for such a duration if his soldier was picking up human traits). He lowered his chin, but his shoulders tensed, and Michael instinctively reflected that posture when Castiel’s wings flared on the ethereal plane, a crackle of energy that expanded tumultuously around his vessel; a challenge that he clearly wished to make, but had none of the power to follow through with. They both knew that. It didn’t make it any less insulting—or any less alarming that his subordinate would so obviously contemplate rebellion.
“Dean Winchester was created for no one,” Castiel said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “And seeing as it was I that put him back together, I would know.”
Michael’s temper bubbled, but in that instant, Castiel was gone.
Michael took the split-second he needed to find his control before, with a beat of his six massive wings, he pulled himself through reality to River Grove, Oregon—and impatiently sent his Grace crashing into the wards that held him out.
He wanted the Hellchild to know he was there.
He wanted him scared.
Because barring the option to talk the boy out of his foolish and dangerous actions, Michael could not allow this to continue. The seals may have already been broken, but that was no reason for Lucifer to have the advantage of obtaining his true vessel when the battle for the world commenced.
When he escaped, he would find his boy dead and scattered across the ever-expanding multiverse.
It was no less than his traitorous brother deserved.