Chapter Text
It was dark; the house across the street—a simple, two-story ranch-type affair—was quiet and still, aside from a light flickering downstairs, filtering pale through the curtains of the living room. It had been days since he’d began watching them, standing on the corner of the block, smoking under a streetlamp. The light pulsed and sputtered with the disturbance of his presence, and yet, no one noticed the strange man who had returned every night for the past week.
His gaze moved to the upper level, a window on the corner of the house; and there. That was what he was here for, what he had been searching and waiting for, now, for years. And now was the time to strike.
It took barely a thought before he was inside, sharp eyes surveying the room—small, framed illustrations on the walls of historic automobiles, patterned curtains, a lantern hung high on the wall in the shape of a glowing crescent moon. The clock on the wall, which depicted the evolution of transportation in tiny, colored images, stopped ticking upon his arrival.
Murky, bile-colored eyes turned with rapt fascination to the crib, and the glorious creature that lay within. The human boy was small, and despite the late hour, his eyes were open and curious. Both boy and... man watched each other with the same sort of curiosity. Tiny hands reached toward the mysterious figure standing over his crib; the man, in turn, offered one finger for the child to latch onto with a surprisingly strong grip.
Embroidered onto the blanket that held the boy was the name Samuel.
“Samuel,” said the man, testing the name he knew would one day be more important than any of the other insignificant fleas on the planet. “Sammy, Sam. Sam Winchester.”
When he heard the noise in the hall, the man took a moment to weigh his options—stay, and kill the intruder? No. Just like his once-plan to tap a vein to feed the human child, this was discarded. It took little more than a thought for him to blend into the darkness and watch as the woman entered, pretty and blonde and holding Sam like she had every right to do so. The minutes he stood watching, unknown, were the longest of his life; he itched to slaughter the human bitch and take his charge, but he had to be patient. Patience would win the day, here.
In the short eternity between Mary Winchester entering and leaving the room, Azazel made up his mind and knew what he would have to do. He waited, watched, as Mary gathered her husband from the downstairs and brought him up to bed, and did the same for herself. And, finally, when all the lights were out and the doors were locked, Azazel reached into the crib to take hold of the cooing child and disappeared into the night.
For most demons, the descent into Hell was a painful thing wrought with screaming and cursing and wailing that was nothing short of pathetic. For Azazel, though, it was much like coming home; passing through the boundaries between Hell and Earth, from greens and blues into rust-reds and dried-blood-browns, the stench of sulfur and fire and smoke more a balm than any cool breeze could ever provide. And the heat—well, it was all-around much preferred.
His vessel had been left topside, discarded; the vessel of Sam, though, was nothing short of sacred. With strict instructions and a veritable army watching over the infant’s physical form, Azazel had delicately extracted the bright, pure soul and held it close as he descended. Now, inside the depths of his domain, the sight was something strange and new.
Hell had always been dark, hot, rent with the smoke of sulfur and demons and the waves of heat that would be torture to any human soul, alone. However, the soul of Sam did not so much as stir, the echo of Sam’s physical form still curled, content, in the arms of Hell’s most feared demon. Instead of crying and sniveling, as most humans were wont to do in the presence of the torture of Hell, this child dreamed peacefully and silently.
A special child, indeed.
And more, the glow from the infant’s fragile form was something even Azazel had never seen—inside this place of red and brown and gray and black, this soul was radiant with an aura of white, like a singular light in the center of a dark room. Here in Hell, it was clear that Sam Winchester did not belong among the filth, and his purity was such potency that he cast a glow onto even the most tortured and tormented. That it even cast reflection onto Azazel, the de facto King of Hell, was only proof that this child was truly sacred and that Azazel had made the right choice.
The journey to the Cage was long and arduous, even in his own territory, but Azazel took care if only for the soul in his grasp. It was true that Hell was made of Levels, with the deepest and darkest left for the very worst of Earth’s sinners; that was the Eighth Level. The Ninth was held at the very core of Hell and Earth, a prison never meant to be opened but for by God himself. The bars were tall and strong and mighty, made of the most pure light; it was rumored by those very few demons that had ever seen the Cage that its bars were made from Heaven’s Gates—a thing of purity that demons could never touch for fear of burning and purging from the inside out; but also to keep the Cage’s singular charge trapped and locked inside, powerless and obedient to the whims of the great Father of All Creation.
And wasn’t that term laughable? Azazel approached and stared with loathing at the Cage that held his creator in eternal torment and sorrow. Lucifer, God’s own light-bringer, was kept trapped in the bowels of this place. Azazel had even wondered once if, had Lucifer never been trapped here, Hell would have remained in the very pitch-black.
He had no way of knowing, not for sure. In truth, the only way he had found the Cage at all was because Lucifer had told him once more than an Earth-decade ago, when Azazel had earned his title as the Most-Feared: the one who desecrated Holy Ground with the blood of the worshipful. It was that act that truly gained Azazel his crown—a burden which he wished he truly could pass over.
But, now. He had completed his task on this day, collected the Child. It was a day of triumph and glory.
It was the Beginning of the End.
“Father,” Azazel nearly crooned to the Cage, still alight with his own triumph. “I’ve done it, I stole you the boy.”
The response he felt was thrilling; a sharp wave of potent feeling, curiosity, surprise, fathomless interest. And, inside, Azazel saw the glow of Lucifer’s essence, a glow to outshine even the sacred boy, condense and take form. From inside the Cage, a massive light no longer strained for freedom, but the shaped and molded image of a man—tall, strong, brunette, and Azazel knew not who this man was, only that it was the first time he had ever seen his Father resembling human—stood silent and expectant.
The look, now, was strange; no longer was the Cage a huge thing bearing residence to a huge creature, but a prison cell far too large for the man who was trapped inside it now, hands curled tightly around the bars and backlit by a white and empty void that led he knew not where.
“Show me,” Lucifer demanded, eyes locked on that tiny glow that Azazel held close.
Azazel would never begrudge his creator this, despite that it was Azazel who had just triumphed. No, this was not his victory, not really. This was a victory that was purely in Lucifer’s name, carried out by Azazel’s hand.
Cautiously, Azazel drew closer to the Cage, hovering as closely as he dared without facing repercussion. In his arms, he rearranged the infant’s soul, cradled as a parent might. Lucifer’s eyes, unfamiliar and beautifully hazel, traced the features of the child again and again, drinking in the sight as though he’d been starved for this—and, Azazel thought, maybe he had.
“Whose is that face?” Azazel asked curiously.
“It’s the face that will be mine,” Lucifer replied, and the yellow-eyed demon was floored when Lucifer reached through the bars, his fingertips drifting over the child’s rounded cheek. Lucifer’s eyes narrowed. “Give him to me.”
Azazel felt the burn of the Cage’s light against his hands as he held out the child, who Lucifer had taken and drawn into the Cage only moments later.
“How?” Azazel asked.
“He’s pure,” Lucifer answered. “Not a demon, so he can pass through, but he’s not an angel, so he can also leave. But his soul is faltering.” Cradling the child in one arm, Lucifer raised the other to him, biting down sharply on the pad of his thumb. Azazel nearly expected light to spill forth, but instead, it was blood—blood that Lucifer then lowered to the infant’s mouth, both angel and demon watching with rapt fascination as the tiny human soul latched on as it might to a mother and fed.
“My Grace,” Lucifer answered to the unasked question. “He’ll be sustained, nourished, as fledgling souls must be.” Then, with the unfamiliar face and eyes of a man claimed to be Lucifer’s future, the archangel commanded, “Leave. Return at tomorrow’s eve; I’ll have instructions for his care. For now, he will stay until such a time as he no longer can. And spread the word, Azazel—Hell’s Boy-King has arrived.”