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amberdreamsBack to Part 1
0x0x0x0
Two weeks later and Sam was standing in yet another anonymous warehouse, knee deep in the dead and dying. Just another day in the office, darling. His angel blade dripped with red this time, the sulphuric stench of so much demon blood leaving him unmoved. Deep down, Sam still felt a frisson of relief every time he shed demon blood without any consequence, other than the satisfaction of terminating some evil son of a bitch.
Maybe, just maybe, he could finally allow himself the luxury of believing he was clean.
He was getting frustratingly close to Abaddon, but close was no cigar. Fuck, he really had to stop thinking in clichés all the time. He was in danger of turning into a pantomime villain.
He turned his attention back to the minor demon he had pinned to the wall. The one thing Sam did regret about the loss of his demon blood issues was his inability to expel a demon without harming the host body. This demon was possessing a skinny youth, probably no more than fourteen. The kid should be down the Mall with his stupid buddies, trying to buy Alco pops and cigarettes, not squirming and screaming under the touch of angel fire. But, it is what it is, Sam thought as he brought his hand up again, ready to deliver the killer burst that would burn this evil son of a bitch out of its contemptible existence.
“Wait! Wait! I’ve got information, I have!” It was pleading and Sam lowered his hand, a sceptical expression on his face.
“You said you couldn’t tell me where Abaddon is, so what other information can you offer that is worth your miserable life?”
“I can’t tell you where Abaddon is, no. But I do know where your brother is.” The fucking thing actually smirked when Sam started. He tried to compose his expression, but it was hard not to look too eager, especially after so long without any leads of any kind. Also, what the hell did it mean? How could Dean be somewhere other than where Abaddon was? Unless…
“Yeah, that’s right, she’s ditched his pretty meat suit and gone retro again, back wearing that 1950s redhead. You’ve got her worried with all your smiting and wrath and such, so she’s stashed your big brother away where you can’t reach him, hoping…”
“Hoping I’ll waste my time searching for him instead of going after her.” Sam finished the line of thought for the demon. It made sense; it was classic distraction tactics, and of course she was right. Sam had to find Dean first.
“It’s a delaying tactic at best,” he said, musing out loud, while the demon watched him warily through the frightened teenager’s watering eyes. “She must know after I’ve got Dean back, I’ll be coming for her.”
Sam honed back in on the demon, who gave a very gratifying flinch under the weight of Sam’s gaze.
“Where is he?”
0x0x0x0
“Where am I? Who the hell are you, and why won’t you show yourselves?”
Dean was getting a little hoarse from shouting, but he refused to just lie down and wait for his only regular visitor, the fucking magic wolf, to decide it didn’t want a snuggle buddy after all, and would rather try a tasty man-sized snack instead. This cave - chamber, prison cell, whatever you wanted to call it – was sealed up tighter than Bobby’s liquor cabinet when they’d been kids. Dean had been over every inch of wall and floor, and even the ceiling as far as he could reach, and there wasn’t the tiniest crack or fissure to indicate an entrance or exit. It was like Merlin’s cave without the added benefits of a sexy witch, and yeah, he’d read T H White, though he’d never admit it to Sam.
When he’d woken up that first time to find the wolf had gone, he’d have dismissed it as a dream if is wasn’t for the smell of dog that lingered in his nostrils, and the fact that his shirt was covered with short white hairs that certainly were not his. He wasn’t that decrepit yet, thank you very much. He had also woken up ravenously hungry, which he took to be a sign that he was recovering from the after effects of having Abaddon ride him hard and put him up wet. And that was an image he wanted to scrub from his brain as soon as possible.
At least whoever his jailers were, they were feeding him on a regular basis. He’d started measuring the time passing by the number of meals that appeared out of nowhere. It was difficult to measure any other way as the light never changed to indicate whether it was night or day, and his frustration levels were increasing as time passed. Though Dean no longer hoped that his brother would be searching for him, not after Purgatory, he hated the thought that Sam was out there somewhere, fighting on alone.
And now that Abaddon was out of his system, he could feel the Mark.
While the Knight of Hell had been riding him, she must have been preventing Cain’s scar from healing itself, because every day since he’d woken up here, when Dean looked at his forearm, the jagged scar tissue from the damage Abaddon’s minions had inflicted to destroy the Mark was fading in a way that was completely and disturbingly unnatural. Every day the shape of the Mark was that little bit more distinct.
He paced from one side of the chamber to the other, the Mark sending a constant buzzing though his veins that stopped him relaxing, even for a second. He hadn’t been able to sleep for the last two nights – or for two visits of the wolf, which was his measure of a night.
He rubbed one palm across his face, feeling the rasp of stubble that should have been a full beard by now, if his counting was right. Nothing here made much sense, so he didn’t know why this stupid little detail bothered him so much, not when there were so many other things to worry about, but yeah, the lack of hair growth bothered him more than the lack of clothing. Really, the issue of shaving or not shaving should be a minor concern, but it niggled at him as one anomaly too many.
Not Purgatory, not Hell. He didn’t think this was Heaven, though now Metatron was in charge who knew what you’d find when you entered the Pearly Gates these days. Not earth, unless it was a part of earth where normal rules had no meaning and… oh my god, now he was remembering Broward County and that was not a good memory to be having right now. Or any time.
What the fuck was this place?
He opened his mouth to yell again and nearly brained himself on a rocky outcrop when a voice from immediately behind pre-empted him.
“Welcome to Helvíti, mortal. I’m Hel.”
0x0x0x0
“He’s not in Hell, I’ve kept an eye on that and I have sources there now,” Sam said, though he couldn’t help the chill that ran through him hearing the demon’s words. His grip on the demon’s scrawny neck tightened and its voice grew shriller and more urgent as it struggled.
“Please! No, not in Hell, it’s not what you think. He’s in Hel’s place of punishment; it’s sometimes called Helvíti, or Helheim.”
Sam relaxed a little, allowing the demon to breathe again.
“Tell me everything and I might let you live,” he said.
The demon spilled, but Sam killed it anyway. It was spineless and obsequious and had outlived its usefulness, though he did spare a thought for the kid as he burned both meat suit and demon from the inside out with purifying fire. Hopefully once Cas had sorted Heaven’s business out the dead vessel’s soul would find peace in whatever new, reconstituted version of Paradise followed Metatron’s one-angel-only rule.
Sam wiped the greasy soot off his hand with a grimace of distaste. Although death by angel fire was relatively clean, he found that sometimes that unpleasant burnt smell could linger for hours.
Helvíti. Sam knew a little but not enough. He was going to have to do some serious research because Abaddon was right about one thing. Sam would move Heaven and Earth and any realm in between to get Dean back this time. This time there was no corrupting demon blood to cloud his judgement, no overwhelming terror of an unbearable loss to send him hurtling over the edge into despair. This time he was strong, Hail Sam, full of grace.
He would not make the same mistakes again.
0x0x0x0
Dean spun round so fast his dick bounced and slapped into his thigh with an audible thwack, reminding him he was bare-ass naked. He’d been there so long he’d almost gotten used to having everything dangling in the non-existent wind. The wolf certainly didn’t care.
It appeared that the woman who had so suddenly materialised inside Dean’s personal space might not be bothered about Dean’s exposure either, as her piercing gaze captured his and never wavered downwards. Which actually wounded Dean’s pride, just a little. She was almost as tall as him, her skin so pale it was almost a blue-white, like their Mom’s favourite bone china Dean remembered from the high shelf in the kitchen he couldn’t reach. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, her face was too long, her brows dark and thick, and her mouth a little too wide and stern. Her hair was long and strangely streaked jet black and albino white, and those eyes were stunning, just like…oh.
“You’re the wolf!” Dean blurted, then blushed. Now realisation had dawned, he was even more embarrassed that he hadn’t recognised those ice-blue eyes straightaway. He manfully resisted the urge to cover his junk; after all, she’d seen it all before.
The woman, (Hel? What kind of a name is that?) frowned. Shit. Dean hoped she wasn’t too pissed. He’d become accustomed to the wolf, almost to the extent of feeling friendly towards it – come on, it was the only company he’d had for what must be weeks, a guy’s entitled to get attached. But this version of it was clearly supernatural and Dean had to take a step back and get his head in the game before he ended up dead. Again.
Besides, he was angry. He didn’t like being toyed with and he’d been left alone without answers for far too long.
“I am Hel,” she repeated, “daughter of Loki, and this is my realm.”
Her expression was clearly saying that Dean should recognise the significance of her name, which if he were a giant geek-brain like Sam, or maybe Kevin, he would have. Being more a man of action, Dean did not have a fucking clue who she was. What he did know was that he’d landed here when Abaddon had dumped his ass, so it was highly unlikely she or her weird name meant anything good. Even though a tiny portion of Dean’s brain was busy pointing out that no harm had been done to him since his arrival – well, other than the whole keeping him locked in solitary confinement with only a wolf for company until he was literally climbing the walls to get out of there. Climbing had got him nothing but a few spectacular bruises, several broken fingernails and a long scrape down his left thigh, by the way.
He took a step back and tensed. The Mark burned like a fresh brand and he felt the whiskey-flow of adrenaline buzzing through his veins.
“What do you want? Why are you keeping me here? What are you? And where the fuck are my clothes?”
“So many questions, mortal, so impatient.”
She made a small gesture, and Dean couldn’t help letting out a small gasp when the stone walls that had surrounded him for so long just dissolved into nothing. He looked around the wide, open space he found himself in, immediately alert and scanning for exits, but of course, typical Dean Winchester luck, there looked to be as little chance of getting out of this place as the last. Not least because the collar around his neck, that he’d almost forgotten about, was finally being put to use.
Four slender, silver chains ran through each of the four rings in the collar, and he could see that each chain was tethered to a tall, carved wooden pillar. The pillars appeared to be supporting the high arched roof of a timber framed hall, so vast and dimly lit that it was hard to make out its extremities.
It looked like fucking Edoras, and Dean half expected to see a bunch of Rohirrim come striding in demanding mead, or maybe Gandalf waving his fancy staff. He was a little disappointed to find the hall just as empty as his previous prison had been, just him and Hel.
“Peachy,” he muttered, as he grabbed at one of the chains and yanked on it. Fucker was stronger than it looked. Of course it was.
“You cannot break these chains, Dean Winchester. Even when you cannot see them,” again Hel made a gesture and Dean was free to move again, “they are still there.” And sure enough, Dean could feel the cool metal between his fingers when he touched the rings on the collar, though there seemed to be plenty of slack in the now invisible tethers.
“Well this is great. Now I have a different set of walls to look at. How’s about you just let me out of here, lady, and we can call it quits. I’ve got a demon and a rogue angel to kill.”
“Ah yes, Abaddon. She told me to keep you here.”
Dean opened his mouth but whatever arguments he might have made went unspoken as Hel continued.
“But I don’t like being told what to do. So. I have a gift for you.”
Dean blinked and swayed on his feet. Hel was holding out her hand, and though he could have sworn it had been empty seconds before, her fingers now gripped the First Blade. Whole and unbroken and singing to him louder than any siren.
0x0x0x0
The motel room in the Eco Lodge in Carson National Forest, New Mexico looked like a hunter’s convention. Or maybe a crazed serial killer’s den. The walls were covered in postcards and scraps of paper, and pins were jabbed in everywhere, linked with red string. But if Sam was honest, it was all pretty meaningless.
Storming Helvíti would require some serious juice. That was the main, and not entirely unexpected, finding from Sam’s research. He had two choices that he could see.
The first was to gather an army to support his invasion. He pondered long and hard, and eventually he called Castiel, who turned up within three hours having been only one state away from Sam’s current location. Cas looked, if that was even possible, even more dishevelled than usual. If Sam hadn’t known better, he would have sworn Cas was actually fidgeting while Sam explained his problem.
“I would like to help you, of course, but…” Castiel broke off to tilt his head in that curiously birdlike way he’d never shaken, even when he’d been human. “What have you done, Sam? I detect an active grace in you, yet I removed Gadreel’s when I healed you…” He paused again and a peculiar expression crossed his face; part wonder, part concern and a large part terror.
“Oh. Sam.”
Cas reached out and touched Sam’s cheek very gently with one curious finger, and Sam felt his grace (he thought of it as his own, now, it had been part of him for so many days) uncoil in response to the proximity of another angelic essence. Sam’s breathing stuttered, and his heart speeded up, sending his pulse racing in a way that was almost akin to arousal. In the shock of Castiel’s touch, Sam was suddenly hyper-aware. He could sense the way Castiel’s grace sat uncomfortably inside his vessel, how lightly it was anchored, as if it knew this was not the vessel that it belonged in, and Sam was momentarily tempted to just tug it loose. It would be easy, he could tell. Castiel’s stolen grace didn’t belong there…
Sam started and pulled away, eyes wide. What the hell was he thinking? He had nearly done it. He had nearly tried to take Castiel’s grace.
“Sam, this is very unwise.”
No kidding, Sam thought, though he knew that nearly consuming Castiel’s grace wasn’t what Cas was referring to. He wasn’t going to argue, because he agreed that tapping into Lucifer’s left overs probably wasn’t his wisest move, but neither was he ready to get into some sort of deep heart to heart about it with Dean’s angel. Cas didn’t really care about Sam, and he’d made it crystal clear he had other axes to grind, battles to fight, whatever cliché you wanted to throw in to say no, not going to help you, Sam Winchester.
And that was fine, because Sam had other resources this time. No need to turn to demons for help – not the missing Crowley, or dead Ruby and her dead blood. This time Sam had a built in plan B, and though he balked at taking Castiel’s grace, he wouldn’t hesitate to suck dry the next angel unwise enough to cross his path.
Most angels were just dicks without wings anyway.
Sam almost giggled at that, but restrained himself until after Castiel had left in his ridiculously ugly Cadillac he’d insisted on keeping.
Before the growling of the ancient engine had faded into the distance, Sam was preparing to hunt an angel.
0x0x0x0
The Blade never stopped calling him.
Hel came and went. Sometimes she was in her human shape and spoke to Dean, sometimes she came as the wolf and just lay with him like she’d used to, when he was in the cave. Sometimes there were other people, some humanoid, some definitely not. In this realm of hers, the hall seemed to be something of a public place where folk gathered, though Dean had no clue what they were getting together for. There was a big central fire that never died down or needed stoking, which was one possible attraction, especially if the rest of this Helvíti place was always this fucking freezing, but other than that, there didn’t seem to be anything to draw people in. Hel never hosted any feasting or held court, or did any of those things that Dean had seen movie rulers doing that would bring in a crowd. So yeah, sue him, he’d watched Camelot a few times.
And her subjects gave Dean the creeps. Hel sat with him once, in her human form, and pointed out each different species, and Dean supposed Sam would have lapped it all up, if he hadn’t already known it all, the huge geek that he was. But Dean could only remember that the ugly short ones were Dökkálfar, the zombies were Dolgar and the Heiptir were the nasty ones who liked to whip the corpses of the damned (the Náir) with thorns. Oh and that there were apparently for real venomous, fire-breathing dragons here, though he hadn’t seen one yet. Thankfully. It was bad enough that Hel would often appear with a small flock of red-eyed ravens that got their kicks pecking out the eyes of the few unlucky screaming human souls who had turned up in the Hall that day.
So far Hel had done nothing to Dean, aside from keeping him chained and naked and on public display, that is. Let’s face it, she didn’t need to do anything more to torture him than to leave Cain’s cursed blade within his reach. The background hum from the ancient bone set up a constant ache inside Dean’s blood that he couldn’t ignore, no matter what he did to distract himself.
After a while, he could no longer remember why he was resisting. This wasn’t Hell, after all. The First Blade wasn’t Alastair’s knife, and wielding it wouldn’t break any seals or damn him for all eternity. No more so than he was already, anyhow.
When he finally picked up the Blade, the silver chains shattered.
0x0x0x0
Sam burned brighter than the heart of a star as he stepped across the threshold of Helvíti. Grace dripped from his fingertips, leaked from the corners of his eyes in silver tears. Perhaps drinking down that last shining grace had been unnecessary; excessive even. The angel, he thought her name had been Adriel, had come to him, as had several others in the last few days, solely to offer themselves to him. Somehow word had spread amongst the Fallen that the Son of Light needed their help, their sacrifice, and some of the newly homeless angels seemed to crave that self-immolation. Sam smiled and called them his Martyrs. They appeared to like that label, wore it with pride even when it left them even lower than the Fallen, angels stripped of not only their wings but of their grace. So when Adriel offered, Sam thought it would have been rude to refuse.
Sam wasn’t sure what he was now – a human with grace, some new kind of angel? He kind of liked that the Fallen called him Son of Light, though they had learned not to do it to his face. Hearing it said out loud made Sam think of all the ways that Dean would have laughed and teased him, and that just made him sad, or angry, or both. Still he’d welcomed his Martyrs and accepted their willing sacrifices, and after the tenth grace had been consumed Sam felt ready to take on the ritual.
He’d opened the door into the Norse version of Hell with an ease that failed to make him wary.
Helvíti was not much like Purgatory, and nothing like the Cage. Sam wondered if this was because Helvíti was Hel’s creation, because he couldn’t help noticing that Helvíti had almost a homely feel to it in comparison with the other realms. Benefiting from a woman’s touch, which was a thought that Jess would have called him on, for being sexist. Of course, Sam’s only first hand experience of Hell itself was his brief incursion via Purgatory to rescue Bobby’s soul. The rest of his view of Hell was gained from the small things Dean had let slip in his sleep, the nightmares that had gripped his brother for years, only allowing screams to escape.
It would be different this time. This wasn’t Hell and this time Sam was coming for Dean.
One thing all three realms had in common though. They were full of monsters.
Sam didn’t think he was entirely human any more. He wasn’t an angel, he wasn’t a man, he didn’t know what sort of creature he’d become, but that didn’t matter. Sam was confident, happy in his own skin for the first time in a long time – maybe ever. He was pure at last. Ironically, Lucifer’s grace, combined with the other angels’, had finally scoured him clean. This was nothing like being possessed, nothing like being high on demon blood. The former had held him prisoner inside his own head, unable to control anything; while the latter had fed his passions, burned through his body like an oil slick set on fire, enraging him and overwhelming his emotions.
This angel grace burned Sam too, but it was cold, just like Lucifer had promised so long ago.
Sam couldn’t remember how it had felt to have Gadreel inside him, but he knew there were gaping holes in his memory where the angel had taken him over and used him. It all seemed a long time ago. That didn’t matter now, and he’d forgiven Dean for his part in that debacle. After all, if Gadreel hadn’t inveigled his way into Sam’s body, Sam would never have known about all this potential locked away deep inside him.
Sam smiled and opened his fists. He was nothing but the destructive blaze of a super nova as he worked his way inwards to find his brother.
0x0x0x0
Dean ran a blunt finger over the jagged edge of the teeth embedded in the Blade and flicked wet blood onto the floor. There was a faint groan from one of the unfortunate demons Hel had brought for Dean to practice on, and Dean reacted without a thought, striking swifter than a falcon. The Blade cut effortlessly through the demon’s throat, severing its head from its body as though the Blade was a laser instead of an old jawbone. Hel in her wolf form padded out of the shadows where she’d been watching. She nuzzled close to lick the demon blood off Dean’s naked thigh.
Dean grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dimly lit hall.
“I’m ready,” he said, and Hel growled her acquiescence.
Dean didn’t think he was entirely human any more. He wasn’t sure what the Blade was turning him into, and to be honest, most days, he didn’t really care. Every time he picked it up, he was a step closer to killing Abaddon, and that was all that mattered. He didn’t know what he was, but he knew what he wasn’t. He was not a demon, and he was not broken, and both of those things were important, though he couldn’t always remember why.
Hel called him the Mark, and he was happy with that. It was good to have a name and a purpose, something solid to offset against the nothingness he saw whenever he caught sight of himself in a mirror. There was an empty space by his side that Dean didn’t want to think about. Because Sam wasn’t looking for him; Sam wouldn’t be trying to move heaven and earth to find him because Sam didn’t need Dean, not like Dean needed Sam. All those years ago, and Azazel’s words, spoken in John Winchester’s voice, still resonated, and the pain never went away. Maybe Dean would have forgotten them, except they were true. A year in Purgatory and Sam never looked for him. And Dean understood. He wasn’t worth it. Not worthy.
You’d have done the same thing – No, Dean, I wouldn’t.
Echoes and scars and guilt - the only distraction was in the power of the Blade. So Dean kept picking it up, and kept killing with it. It felt good, too good to stop.
And if Sam wouldn’t save Dean, then that was okay. Dean just needed to be ready to save himself so he could get out of there and go find his little brother. As long as Dean was alive, whether he was human or the Mark of Cain or something else entirely new, looking after Sammy was his job.
Hel’s heavy head lifted and she scented the air. With a smoothness Dean had yet to become accustomed to, she morphed into Hel the woman. Goddess. Whatever. Even in human form she looked as if her hackles were still raised as she grabbed Dean’s bicep in a crushing grip.
“My kingdom’s walls have been breached. Destruction is coming. You must stop it.”
“Abaddon?” Dean was eager. The Knight of Hell had a multitude of dues to pay, and he was more than ready to collect. Then maybe he could go back to Sam having regained a little self-respect.
Hel shook her head. “I don’t know, perhaps. Whoever it is, they have already killed two of my Vanar-Drekar. Hurry, my Mark.”
Something that could take out one of Hel’s dragons of despair must be pretty powerful, but Dean wasn’t worried. The Blade didn’t make him invulnerable but it did make him almost unstoppable, and yeah, he was even better than Batman now.
Hel pointed him in the right direction and sent him on his way with a kiss on the cheek that could be interpreted in a number of ways. Dean preferred her as a wolf. Any demonstrations of affection were more straightforward when she was an animal.
Dean made his way through the twisting underground passages that led from Hel’s hall with the unpronounceable name towards the high walls that formed the boundary between Helvíti and the world of men.
It didn’t take him long to find the intruder, he merely followed the sounds of dying and the smell of ozone. Fucking angels. He tightened his grip on the blood-soaked leather handle of the First Blade, and allowed the now familiar beserker fury to wash over him.
He walked out into the battlefield, wreathed in red mist.
0x0x0x0
Wading through the blood of the various races that formed the helbúar, the residents of Helvíti, Sam spun and whirled, angel blades flashing as he wove a deadly net of lightning around him. Many of the creatures here were fantastical and horrific, nothing like the demons or monsters that Sam was used to hunting. There were even freaking dragons, the giant serpent kind with scales and horns and teeth as long as Sam’s arm - and wouldn’t Dean have just loved that, after the disappointment with the humanoid dragons they’d encountered topside.
Sam shook his head, trying to focus. He couldn’t afford to get distracted now, not when he hadn’t found Dean yet.
The righteous killing was wearing Sam down. Subtly at first, then more obviously, Sam’s reserves of grace were being depleted, and his arms slowed in their deadly dance. Instead of sweat, his pores were leaking light. Perhaps coming here alone hadn’t been such a great idea after all.
That was when he saw him. Dean. His brother was striding towards him, and the helbúar were parting in front of Dean, like Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea in that old movie. At least, the body approaching looked like Dean, was wearing Dean’s face, but the expression was terrifying, like nothing Sam had ever seen on Dean’s features before. There was no sign that Dean recognised him at all, not a flicker.
And this man was wreathed in red. In fact, all he was wearing was that crimson aura; otherwise he was naked save for a leather collar round his neck.
Sam was so taken aback; Dean was nearly on him before Sam registered that the weapon his brother was wielding like an extension of his own arm was the First Blade. Any of Hel’s creatures that were too foolish to get out of his way were mown down like grass. Sam raised his own twin blades just in time as the First Blade came down on him with all the weight of their shared past behind it.
It nearly crushed him, that first blow.
Precious seconds were lost as Sam tried to get his head round the fact that Dean was attacking him with venom, that Cain’s Mark was blazing on Dean’s forearm like living magma, that even now they were so close that Sam could feel the heat rising from Dean’s naked skin, Dean still showed no sign of knowing who Sam was. Or who Dean was, for that matter.
“Cristo!” Sam gasped out, as he desperately parried another blow. Dean’s eyes didn’t slide to black, or yellow, or any other manifestation of a demon that Sam could recognise. They remained slightly narrowed with that familiar focus his brother always showed when fighting. Sam realised he was at a severe disadvantage. He didn’t want to harm his brother, so the angel swords were weapons he couldn’t really use, all sharp dangerous edges and angles – while Dean was fighting without restraint and with an instrument that could be both sharp and blunt. Something Sam could attest to immediately as Dean feinted, and ducking around Sam’s defensive stroke, smashed Sam across the forehead with a wicked backhanded blow. Sam staggered back, momentarily blinded by the rush of blood pouring down his face. Head wounds bled like a bitch and Sam could really have done without that right now.
He could feel his grace puttering like a candle flame in the face of the hurricane that was Dean Winchester, Mark of Cain. He wiped desperately at the blood to clear his view, wondering why Dean hadn’t taken advantage of his momentary disability to come in for the kill already. He stumbled dizzy from the blow, and went down onto one knee.
Sam looked up to see Dean standing over him, the Blade lifted shoulder high. In the deathly calm that descended, Sam was Anne Boleyn waiting for the Frenchman’s finest steel. He was Ned Stark under his own Valyrian blade. He was –
The Blade dropped in slow motion as Sam watched Dean’s face. He wanted his brother to be the last thing that he saw, but more than anything, he wanted Dean to see him. Sam felt the jagged yellow teeth touch his taut neck, making the shallowest nick in the fragile skin.
“Sammy?”
Sam bled white light, a thin trickle of grace mixed with the blood running down his collarbone.
“What the fuck?”
Dean’s voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t used it for months, and for the first time it occurred to Sam to wonder how many days had passed for Dean in the two months that had passed top side since he’d heard Abaddon had dumped Dean’s body.
“It’s my grace,” Sam offered, then grimaced as Dean’s face hardened and his brother backed away. The Blade was raised again, but Dean made no move to resume the fight.
“What are you, and where’s my brother?”
“It’s me, Dean. I am Sam,” he almost expected Dean to come back with a line about green eggs and ham, was disappointed when Dean said nothing, his expression tight and disbelieving.
“There’s nobody – nothing – else in here, it’s just me.” Sam got to his feet slowly, his legs still trembling slightly with the rush of adrenaline from nearly dying. Again. You’d have thought he’d have been used to that by now, but somehow, his body reacted to each near death experience like it was something new. He took a deep breath. Hel’s realm smelt different from Purgatory, from Hell even from the Cage. Fresher somehow. More earthy, like mulch, and autumn. It helped Sam ground himself. Which was a good thing, as Dean was clearly freaking out.
Sam held his hand out but didn’t advance, he didn’t want to spook Dean any further. He was counting it as a win that Dean wasn’t actually trying to attack him with the Blade any more, but that small comfort dissipated when he heard what his brother was muttering.
“Not Sammy, no, can’t be. Sam wouldn’t look for me. Sam wouldn’t save me, he said so. Left me in Purgatory, said if I was dying he wouldn’t do anything for me, wouldn’t try and bring me back…”
The chill that ran through Sam then was nothing like the soothing coolness of grace. Impulsively, he stepped forward, wincing when Dean flinched. Sam could see Dean’s body being wracked with tremors, as if he was fighting against himself – or the Blade – to maintain control.
“Dean! That isn’t what I said, not what I meant. I’d do anything for you, except take away your power to decide for yourself what you want to happen. Do you understand?”
Dean stilled. He wasn’t looking at Sam, his face was turned so all Sam could see was that profile, so familiar from sitting shotgun in the Impala. But Dean at least stayed as if rooted to the spot, and Sam took his motionlessness as a sign that Dean was listening. He risked another step towards his brother.
“Abaddon took your will away when she stole your body. Of course I was going to try and get you back, Dean. I know what it’s like to be trapped in a corner of your mind, screaming while they use your body to do terrible things. Dean, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, and no way would I leave you to suffer like that, not when I could do something about it.”
Dean glanced sideways at Sam.
“I did that to you,” he said, his voice oddly flat. Sam nodded. “I let Gadreel possess you, and Kevin’s dead because of me.”
“Yes. And I’m sorry I said that crap about not being brothers, but you have to understand, what you did, the way you lied to override my decision, and then carried on lying to keep Gadreel inside me? Knowing Gadreel used me to kill Kevin, not knowing what else I might have done while he was riding me? It was more than I could bear. What you did was so wrong, Dean, on so many levels I still don’t know where to start – I couldn’t let Abaddon, or any demon or angel do that to you.”
Dean finally turned to face Sam; his eyes so wide the green of the irises was clearly visible even in Helvíti’s dim light.
“But Abaddon dumped my ass here, and you must have known she wasn’t possessing me anymore. Yet you still came looking for me.” Sam heard the question Dean refused to voice.
Why?
“Of course I came for you, you fucking idiot. You’re my brother and I fucking love you.”
Sam was almost toe to toe with Dean now, and it felt the most natural thing in the world to drop his weapons and simply reach out with both arms. He enfolded Dean into an embrace and heard the dull thud as Dean released his hold on the First Blade and it fell to the ground. Sam hadn’t realised quite how tense he had been until he felt Dean relax and return the hug. Sam clung onto his brother for what seemed an age but was probably only a few seconds, before Dean was squirming in his grasp.
“Dude, I’m naked; gerroff me, you big girl.”
Sam grinned as he allowed Dean to pull away, his smile only widening when he saw how fiercely Dean was blushing. And how the blush went right down to…okay, not looking.
“Whose fault is that, man? I can’t help it if you’ve been living like a freaking caveman down here.”
Sam looked around. Where in Helvíti were they going to find Dean some clothes? The denizens of the realm, who had been present as a veritable army when Sam had arrived, had disappeared, only a few glowing eyes peered out of the darkness that surrounded them. Then he saw something large moving towards them. He started and crouched down, scrabbling for his discarded angel blades, as a huge wolf emerged from the shadows right by Dean’s side.
“Whoa, hold on Sammy, it’s okay,” Dean said, holding up on hand to stall Sam, while his other tangled carelessly in the wolf’s thick ruff of fur. “Sam, this is Hel, daughter of Loki, ruler of Helvíti. Hel, this is my ginormous geek of a brother, Sam.”
Even as Dean was carrying out the introductions in his usual inimitable style, Hel was morphing from wolf into a tall, statuesque woman with striking white and black hair.
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, Sammy,” Dean whispered loudly, “Glen Close as Cruella de Vil, right? But younger, and with better…”
“Dean!” Sam hissed, and Dean shut up with a wink. God but Sam had missed this.
“You are leaving.” Hel said, a statement not a question, directed solely at Dean. Who actually looked apologetic.
“Yeah, doll. Got a Knight of Hell and a rogue angel to kill. Thanks for the Blade and, you know, everything.”
Hel snapped her fingers and one of the Náir appeared, carrying a bundle that looked, thankfully, like clothes for Dean. Sam wrinkled his nose as Dean pulled on the jeans without underwear but he at least felt more comfortable once his brother’s junk was safely covered. Once he was fully dressed, Dean picked up the First Blade. An aura of red lightning flickered around him for an instant and Sam could see the Mark on Dean’s arm flash even through the jacket.
“What say we get your grace juiced up and get us some demon action, little bro?”
Sam grinned. He could feel the prickle of grace stirring under his skin, and it was already starting to reinvigorate him. With Dean at his side, they could take on the world and win.
“Yeah, Dean. Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
0x0x0x0
Fin.
Bonus art this way
0x0x0x0
Two weeks later and Sam was standing in yet another anonymous warehouse, knee deep in the dead and dying. Just another day in the office, darling. His angel blade dripped with red this time, the sulphuric stench of so much demon blood leaving him unmoved. Deep down, Sam still felt a frisson of relief every time he shed demon blood without any consequence, other than the satisfaction of terminating some evil son of a bitch.
Maybe, just maybe, he could finally allow himself the luxury of believing he was clean.
He was getting frustratingly close to Abaddon, but close was no cigar. Fuck, he really had to stop thinking in clichés all the time. He was in danger of turning into a pantomime villain.
He turned his attention back to the minor demon he had pinned to the wall. The one thing Sam did regret about the loss of his demon blood issues was his inability to expel a demon without harming the host body. This demon was possessing a skinny youth, probably no more than fourteen. The kid should be down the Mall with his stupid buddies, trying to buy Alco pops and cigarettes, not squirming and screaming under the touch of angel fire. But, it is what it is, Sam thought as he brought his hand up again, ready to deliver the killer burst that would burn this evil son of a bitch out of its contemptible existence.
“Wait! Wait! I’ve got information, I have!” It was pleading and Sam lowered his hand, a sceptical expression on his face.
“You said you couldn’t tell me where Abaddon is, so what other information can you offer that is worth your miserable life?”
“I can’t tell you where Abaddon is, no. But I do know where your brother is.” The fucking thing actually smirked when Sam started. He tried to compose his expression, but it was hard not to look too eager, especially after so long without any leads of any kind. Also, what the hell did it mean? How could Dean be somewhere other than where Abaddon was? Unless…
“Yeah, that’s right, she’s ditched his pretty meat suit and gone retro again, back wearing that 1950s redhead. You’ve got her worried with all your smiting and wrath and such, so she’s stashed your big brother away where you can’t reach him, hoping…”
“Hoping I’ll waste my time searching for him instead of going after her.” Sam finished the line of thought for the demon. It made sense; it was classic distraction tactics, and of course she was right. Sam had to find Dean first.
“It’s a delaying tactic at best,” he said, musing out loud, while the demon watched him warily through the frightened teenager’s watering eyes. “She must know after I’ve got Dean back, I’ll be coming for her.”
Sam honed back in on the demon, who gave a very gratifying flinch under the weight of Sam’s gaze.
“Where is he?”
0x0x0x0
“Where am I? Who the hell are you, and why won’t you show yourselves?”
Dean was getting a little hoarse from shouting, but he refused to just lie down and wait for his only regular visitor, the fucking magic wolf, to decide it didn’t want a snuggle buddy after all, and would rather try a tasty man-sized snack instead. This cave - chamber, prison cell, whatever you wanted to call it – was sealed up tighter than Bobby’s liquor cabinet when they’d been kids. Dean had been over every inch of wall and floor, and even the ceiling as far as he could reach, and there wasn’t the tiniest crack or fissure to indicate an entrance or exit. It was like Merlin’s cave without the added benefits of a sexy witch, and yeah, he’d read T H White, though he’d never admit it to Sam.
When he’d woken up that first time to find the wolf had gone, he’d have dismissed it as a dream if is wasn’t for the smell of dog that lingered in his nostrils, and the fact that his shirt was covered with short white hairs that certainly were not his. He wasn’t that decrepit yet, thank you very much. He had also woken up ravenously hungry, which he took to be a sign that he was recovering from the after effects of having Abaddon ride him hard and put him up wet. And that was an image he wanted to scrub from his brain as soon as possible.
At least whoever his jailers were, they were feeding him on a regular basis. He’d started measuring the time passing by the number of meals that appeared out of nowhere. It was difficult to measure any other way as the light never changed to indicate whether it was night or day, and his frustration levels were increasing as time passed. Though Dean no longer hoped that his brother would be searching for him, not after Purgatory, he hated the thought that Sam was out there somewhere, fighting on alone.
And now that Abaddon was out of his system, he could feel the Mark.
While the Knight of Hell had been riding him, she must have been preventing Cain’s scar from healing itself, because every day since he’d woken up here, when Dean looked at his forearm, the jagged scar tissue from the damage Abaddon’s minions had inflicted to destroy the Mark was fading in a way that was completely and disturbingly unnatural. Every day the shape of the Mark was that little bit more distinct.
He paced from one side of the chamber to the other, the Mark sending a constant buzzing though his veins that stopped him relaxing, even for a second. He hadn’t been able to sleep for the last two nights – or for two visits of the wolf, which was his measure of a night.
He rubbed one palm across his face, feeling the rasp of stubble that should have been a full beard by now, if his counting was right. Nothing here made much sense, so he didn’t know why this stupid little detail bothered him so much, not when there were so many other things to worry about, but yeah, the lack of hair growth bothered him more than the lack of clothing. Really, the issue of shaving or not shaving should be a minor concern, but it niggled at him as one anomaly too many.
Not Purgatory, not Hell. He didn’t think this was Heaven, though now Metatron was in charge who knew what you’d find when you entered the Pearly Gates these days. Not earth, unless it was a part of earth where normal rules had no meaning and… oh my god, now he was remembering Broward County and that was not a good memory to be having right now. Or any time.
What the fuck was this place?
He opened his mouth to yell again and nearly brained himself on a rocky outcrop when a voice from immediately behind pre-empted him.
“Welcome to Helvíti, mortal. I’m Hel.”
0x0x0x0
“He’s not in Hell, I’ve kept an eye on that and I have sources there now,” Sam said, though he couldn’t help the chill that ran through him hearing the demon’s words. His grip on the demon’s scrawny neck tightened and its voice grew shriller and more urgent as it struggled.
“Please! No, not in Hell, it’s not what you think. He’s in Hel’s place of punishment; it’s sometimes called Helvíti, or Helheim.”
Sam relaxed a little, allowing the demon to breathe again.
“Tell me everything and I might let you live,” he said.
The demon spilled, but Sam killed it anyway. It was spineless and obsequious and had outlived its usefulness, though he did spare a thought for the kid as he burned both meat suit and demon from the inside out with purifying fire. Hopefully once Cas had sorted Heaven’s business out the dead vessel’s soul would find peace in whatever new, reconstituted version of Paradise followed Metatron’s one-angel-only rule.
Sam wiped the greasy soot off his hand with a grimace of distaste. Although death by angel fire was relatively clean, he found that sometimes that unpleasant burnt smell could linger for hours.
Helvíti. Sam knew a little but not enough. He was going to have to do some serious research because Abaddon was right about one thing. Sam would move Heaven and Earth and any realm in between to get Dean back this time. This time there was no corrupting demon blood to cloud his judgement, no overwhelming terror of an unbearable loss to send him hurtling over the edge into despair. This time he was strong, Hail Sam, full of grace.
He would not make the same mistakes again.
0x0x0x0
Dean spun round so fast his dick bounced and slapped into his thigh with an audible thwack, reminding him he was bare-ass naked. He’d been there so long he’d almost gotten used to having everything dangling in the non-existent wind. The wolf certainly didn’t care.
It appeared that the woman who had so suddenly materialised inside Dean’s personal space might not be bothered about Dean’s exposure either, as her piercing gaze captured his and never wavered downwards. Which actually wounded Dean’s pride, just a little. She was almost as tall as him, her skin so pale it was almost a blue-white, like their Mom’s favourite bone china Dean remembered from the high shelf in the kitchen he couldn’t reach. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, her face was too long, her brows dark and thick, and her mouth a little too wide and stern. Her hair was long and strangely streaked jet black and albino white, and those eyes were stunning, just like…oh.
“You’re the wolf!” Dean blurted, then blushed. Now realisation had dawned, he was even more embarrassed that he hadn’t recognised those ice-blue eyes straightaway. He manfully resisted the urge to cover his junk; after all, she’d seen it all before.
The woman, (Hel? What kind of a name is that?) frowned. Shit. Dean hoped she wasn’t too pissed. He’d become accustomed to the wolf, almost to the extent of feeling friendly towards it – come on, it was the only company he’d had for what must be weeks, a guy’s entitled to get attached. But this version of it was clearly supernatural and Dean had to take a step back and get his head in the game before he ended up dead. Again.
Besides, he was angry. He didn’t like being toyed with and he’d been left alone without answers for far too long.
“I am Hel,” she repeated, “daughter of Loki, and this is my realm.”
Her expression was clearly saying that Dean should recognise the significance of her name, which if he were a giant geek-brain like Sam, or maybe Kevin, he would have. Being more a man of action, Dean did not have a fucking clue who she was. What he did know was that he’d landed here when Abaddon had dumped his ass, so it was highly unlikely she or her weird name meant anything good. Even though a tiny portion of Dean’s brain was busy pointing out that no harm had been done to him since his arrival – well, other than the whole keeping him locked in solitary confinement with only a wolf for company until he was literally climbing the walls to get out of there. Climbing had got him nothing but a few spectacular bruises, several broken fingernails and a long scrape down his left thigh, by the way.
He took a step back and tensed. The Mark burned like a fresh brand and he felt the whiskey-flow of adrenaline buzzing through his veins.
“What do you want? Why are you keeping me here? What are you? And where the fuck are my clothes?”
“So many questions, mortal, so impatient.”
She made a small gesture, and Dean couldn’t help letting out a small gasp when the stone walls that had surrounded him for so long just dissolved into nothing. He looked around the wide, open space he found himself in, immediately alert and scanning for exits, but of course, typical Dean Winchester luck, there looked to be as little chance of getting out of this place as the last. Not least because the collar around his neck, that he’d almost forgotten about, was finally being put to use.
Four slender, silver chains ran through each of the four rings in the collar, and he could see that each chain was tethered to a tall, carved wooden pillar. The pillars appeared to be supporting the high arched roof of a timber framed hall, so vast and dimly lit that it was hard to make out its extremities.
It looked like fucking Edoras, and Dean half expected to see a bunch of Rohirrim come striding in demanding mead, or maybe Gandalf waving his fancy staff. He was a little disappointed to find the hall just as empty as his previous prison had been, just him and Hel.
“Peachy,” he muttered, as he grabbed at one of the chains and yanked on it. Fucker was stronger than it looked. Of course it was.
“You cannot break these chains, Dean Winchester. Even when you cannot see them,” again Hel made a gesture and Dean was free to move again, “they are still there.” And sure enough, Dean could feel the cool metal between his fingers when he touched the rings on the collar, though there seemed to be plenty of slack in the now invisible tethers.
“Well this is great. Now I have a different set of walls to look at. How’s about you just let me out of here, lady, and we can call it quits. I’ve got a demon and a rogue angel to kill.”
“Ah yes, Abaddon. She told me to keep you here.”
Dean opened his mouth but whatever arguments he might have made went unspoken as Hel continued.
“But I don’t like being told what to do. So. I have a gift for you.”
Dean blinked and swayed on his feet. Hel was holding out her hand, and though he could have sworn it had been empty seconds before, her fingers now gripped the First Blade. Whole and unbroken and singing to him louder than any siren.
0x0x0x0
The motel room in the Eco Lodge in Carson National Forest, New Mexico looked like a hunter’s convention. Or maybe a crazed serial killer’s den. The walls were covered in postcards and scraps of paper, and pins were jabbed in everywhere, linked with red string. But if Sam was honest, it was all pretty meaningless.
Storming Helvíti would require some serious juice. That was the main, and not entirely unexpected, finding from Sam’s research. He had two choices that he could see.
The first was to gather an army to support his invasion. He pondered long and hard, and eventually he called Castiel, who turned up within three hours having been only one state away from Sam’s current location. Cas looked, if that was even possible, even more dishevelled than usual. If Sam hadn’t known better, he would have sworn Cas was actually fidgeting while Sam explained his problem.
“I would like to help you, of course, but…” Castiel broke off to tilt his head in that curiously birdlike way he’d never shaken, even when he’d been human. “What have you done, Sam? I detect an active grace in you, yet I removed Gadreel’s when I healed you…” He paused again and a peculiar expression crossed his face; part wonder, part concern and a large part terror.
“Oh. Sam.”
Cas reached out and touched Sam’s cheek very gently with one curious finger, and Sam felt his grace (he thought of it as his own, now, it had been part of him for so many days) uncoil in response to the proximity of another angelic essence. Sam’s breathing stuttered, and his heart speeded up, sending his pulse racing in a way that was almost akin to arousal. In the shock of Castiel’s touch, Sam was suddenly hyper-aware. He could sense the way Castiel’s grace sat uncomfortably inside his vessel, how lightly it was anchored, as if it knew this was not the vessel that it belonged in, and Sam was momentarily tempted to just tug it loose. It would be easy, he could tell. Castiel’s stolen grace didn’t belong there…
Sam started and pulled away, eyes wide. What the hell was he thinking? He had nearly done it. He had nearly tried to take Castiel’s grace.
“Sam, this is very unwise.”
No kidding, Sam thought, though he knew that nearly consuming Castiel’s grace wasn’t what Cas was referring to. He wasn’t going to argue, because he agreed that tapping into Lucifer’s left overs probably wasn’t his wisest move, but neither was he ready to get into some sort of deep heart to heart about it with Dean’s angel. Cas didn’t really care about Sam, and he’d made it crystal clear he had other axes to grind, battles to fight, whatever cliché you wanted to throw in to say no, not going to help you, Sam Winchester.
And that was fine, because Sam had other resources this time. No need to turn to demons for help – not the missing Crowley, or dead Ruby and her dead blood. This time Sam had a built in plan B, and though he balked at taking Castiel’s grace, he wouldn’t hesitate to suck dry the next angel unwise enough to cross his path.
Most angels were just dicks without wings anyway.
Sam almost giggled at that, but restrained himself until after Castiel had left in his ridiculously ugly Cadillac he’d insisted on keeping.
Before the growling of the ancient engine had faded into the distance, Sam was preparing to hunt an angel.
0x0x0x0
The Blade never stopped calling him.
Hel came and went. Sometimes she was in her human shape and spoke to Dean, sometimes she came as the wolf and just lay with him like she’d used to, when he was in the cave. Sometimes there were other people, some humanoid, some definitely not. In this realm of hers, the hall seemed to be something of a public place where folk gathered, though Dean had no clue what they were getting together for. There was a big central fire that never died down or needed stoking, which was one possible attraction, especially if the rest of this Helvíti place was always this fucking freezing, but other than that, there didn’t seem to be anything to draw people in. Hel never hosted any feasting or held court, or did any of those things that Dean had seen movie rulers doing that would bring in a crowd. So yeah, sue him, he’d watched Camelot a few times.
And her subjects gave Dean the creeps. Hel sat with him once, in her human form, and pointed out each different species, and Dean supposed Sam would have lapped it all up, if he hadn’t already known it all, the huge geek that he was. But Dean could only remember that the ugly short ones were Dökkálfar, the zombies were Dolgar and the Heiptir were the nasty ones who liked to whip the corpses of the damned (the Náir) with thorns. Oh and that there were apparently for real venomous, fire-breathing dragons here, though he hadn’t seen one yet. Thankfully. It was bad enough that Hel would often appear with a small flock of red-eyed ravens that got their kicks pecking out the eyes of the few unlucky screaming human souls who had turned up in the Hall that day.
So far Hel had done nothing to Dean, aside from keeping him chained and naked and on public display, that is. Let’s face it, she didn’t need to do anything more to torture him than to leave Cain’s cursed blade within his reach. The background hum from the ancient bone set up a constant ache inside Dean’s blood that he couldn’t ignore, no matter what he did to distract himself.
After a while, he could no longer remember why he was resisting. This wasn’t Hell, after all. The First Blade wasn’t Alastair’s knife, and wielding it wouldn’t break any seals or damn him for all eternity. No more so than he was already, anyhow.
When he finally picked up the Blade, the silver chains shattered.
0x0x0x0
Sam burned brighter than the heart of a star as he stepped across the threshold of Helvíti. Grace dripped from his fingertips, leaked from the corners of his eyes in silver tears. Perhaps drinking down that last shining grace had been unnecessary; excessive even. The angel, he thought her name had been Adriel, had come to him, as had several others in the last few days, solely to offer themselves to him. Somehow word had spread amongst the Fallen that the Son of Light needed their help, their sacrifice, and some of the newly homeless angels seemed to crave that self-immolation. Sam smiled and called them his Martyrs. They appeared to like that label, wore it with pride even when it left them even lower than the Fallen, angels stripped of not only their wings but of their grace. So when Adriel offered, Sam thought it would have been rude to refuse.
Sam wasn’t sure what he was now – a human with grace, some new kind of angel? He kind of liked that the Fallen called him Son of Light, though they had learned not to do it to his face. Hearing it said out loud made Sam think of all the ways that Dean would have laughed and teased him, and that just made him sad, or angry, or both. Still he’d welcomed his Martyrs and accepted their willing sacrifices, and after the tenth grace had been consumed Sam felt ready to take on the ritual.
He’d opened the door into the Norse version of Hell with an ease that failed to make him wary.
Helvíti was not much like Purgatory, and nothing like the Cage. Sam wondered if this was because Helvíti was Hel’s creation, because he couldn’t help noticing that Helvíti had almost a homely feel to it in comparison with the other realms. Benefiting from a woman’s touch, which was a thought that Jess would have called him on, for being sexist. Of course, Sam’s only first hand experience of Hell itself was his brief incursion via Purgatory to rescue Bobby’s soul. The rest of his view of Hell was gained from the small things Dean had let slip in his sleep, the nightmares that had gripped his brother for years, only allowing screams to escape.
It would be different this time. This wasn’t Hell and this time Sam was coming for Dean.
One thing all three realms had in common though. They were full of monsters.
Sam didn’t think he was entirely human any more. He wasn’t an angel, he wasn’t a man, he didn’t know what sort of creature he’d become, but that didn’t matter. Sam was confident, happy in his own skin for the first time in a long time – maybe ever. He was pure at last. Ironically, Lucifer’s grace, combined with the other angels’, had finally scoured him clean. This was nothing like being possessed, nothing like being high on demon blood. The former had held him prisoner inside his own head, unable to control anything; while the latter had fed his passions, burned through his body like an oil slick set on fire, enraging him and overwhelming his emotions.
This angel grace burned Sam too, but it was cold, just like Lucifer had promised so long ago.
Sam couldn’t remember how it had felt to have Gadreel inside him, but he knew there were gaping holes in his memory where the angel had taken him over and used him. It all seemed a long time ago. That didn’t matter now, and he’d forgiven Dean for his part in that debacle. After all, if Gadreel hadn’t inveigled his way into Sam’s body, Sam would never have known about all this potential locked away deep inside him.
Sam smiled and opened his fists. He was nothing but the destructive blaze of a super nova as he worked his way inwards to find his brother.
0x0x0x0
Dean ran a blunt finger over the jagged edge of the teeth embedded in the Blade and flicked wet blood onto the floor. There was a faint groan from one of the unfortunate demons Hel had brought for Dean to practice on, and Dean reacted without a thought, striking swifter than a falcon. The Blade cut effortlessly through the demon’s throat, severing its head from its body as though the Blade was a laser instead of an old jawbone. Hel in her wolf form padded out of the shadows where she’d been watching. She nuzzled close to lick the demon blood off Dean’s naked thigh.
Dean grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dimly lit hall.
“I’m ready,” he said, and Hel growled her acquiescence.
Dean didn’t think he was entirely human any more. He wasn’t sure what the Blade was turning him into, and to be honest, most days, he didn’t really care. Every time he picked it up, he was a step closer to killing Abaddon, and that was all that mattered. He didn’t know what he was, but he knew what he wasn’t. He was not a demon, and he was not broken, and both of those things were important, though he couldn’t always remember why.
Hel called him the Mark, and he was happy with that. It was good to have a name and a purpose, something solid to offset against the nothingness he saw whenever he caught sight of himself in a mirror. There was an empty space by his side that Dean didn’t want to think about. Because Sam wasn’t looking for him; Sam wouldn’t be trying to move heaven and earth to find him because Sam didn’t need Dean, not like Dean needed Sam. All those years ago, and Azazel’s words, spoken in John Winchester’s voice, still resonated, and the pain never went away. Maybe Dean would have forgotten them, except they were true. A year in Purgatory and Sam never looked for him. And Dean understood. He wasn’t worth it. Not worthy.
You’d have done the same thing – No, Dean, I wouldn’t.
Echoes and scars and guilt - the only distraction was in the power of the Blade. So Dean kept picking it up, and kept killing with it. It felt good, too good to stop.
And if Sam wouldn’t save Dean, then that was okay. Dean just needed to be ready to save himself so he could get out of there and go find his little brother. As long as Dean was alive, whether he was human or the Mark of Cain or something else entirely new, looking after Sammy was his job.
Hel’s heavy head lifted and she scented the air. With a smoothness Dean had yet to become accustomed to, she morphed into Hel the woman. Goddess. Whatever. Even in human form she looked as if her hackles were still raised as she grabbed Dean’s bicep in a crushing grip.
“My kingdom’s walls have been breached. Destruction is coming. You must stop it.”
“Abaddon?” Dean was eager. The Knight of Hell had a multitude of dues to pay, and he was more than ready to collect. Then maybe he could go back to Sam having regained a little self-respect.
Hel shook her head. “I don’t know, perhaps. Whoever it is, they have already killed two of my Vanar-Drekar. Hurry, my Mark.”
Something that could take out one of Hel’s dragons of despair must be pretty powerful, but Dean wasn’t worried. The Blade didn’t make him invulnerable but it did make him almost unstoppable, and yeah, he was even better than Batman now.
Hel pointed him in the right direction and sent him on his way with a kiss on the cheek that could be interpreted in a number of ways. Dean preferred her as a wolf. Any demonstrations of affection were more straightforward when she was an animal.
Dean made his way through the twisting underground passages that led from Hel’s hall with the unpronounceable name towards the high walls that formed the boundary between Helvíti and the world of men.
It didn’t take him long to find the intruder, he merely followed the sounds of dying and the smell of ozone. Fucking angels. He tightened his grip on the blood-soaked leather handle of the First Blade, and allowed the now familiar beserker fury to wash over him.
He walked out into the battlefield, wreathed in red mist.
0x0x0x0
Wading through the blood of the various races that formed the helbúar, the residents of Helvíti, Sam spun and whirled, angel blades flashing as he wove a deadly net of lightning around him. Many of the creatures here were fantastical and horrific, nothing like the demons or monsters that Sam was used to hunting. There were even freaking dragons, the giant serpent kind with scales and horns and teeth as long as Sam’s arm - and wouldn’t Dean have just loved that, after the disappointment with the humanoid dragons they’d encountered topside.
Sam shook his head, trying to focus. He couldn’t afford to get distracted now, not when he hadn’t found Dean yet.
The righteous killing was wearing Sam down. Subtly at first, then more obviously, Sam’s reserves of grace were being depleted, and his arms slowed in their deadly dance. Instead of sweat, his pores were leaking light. Perhaps coming here alone hadn’t been such a great idea after all.
That was when he saw him. Dean. His brother was striding towards him, and the helbúar were parting in front of Dean, like Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea in that old movie. At least, the body approaching looked like Dean, was wearing Dean’s face, but the expression was terrifying, like nothing Sam had ever seen on Dean’s features before. There was no sign that Dean recognised him at all, not a flicker.
And this man was wreathed in red. In fact, all he was wearing was that crimson aura; otherwise he was naked save for a leather collar round his neck.
Sam was so taken aback; Dean was nearly on him before Sam registered that the weapon his brother was wielding like an extension of his own arm was the First Blade. Any of Hel’s creatures that were too foolish to get out of his way were mown down like grass. Sam raised his own twin blades just in time as the First Blade came down on him with all the weight of their shared past behind it.
It nearly crushed him, that first blow.
Precious seconds were lost as Sam tried to get his head round the fact that Dean was attacking him with venom, that Cain’s Mark was blazing on Dean’s forearm like living magma, that even now they were so close that Sam could feel the heat rising from Dean’s naked skin, Dean still showed no sign of knowing who Sam was. Or who Dean was, for that matter.
“Cristo!” Sam gasped out, as he desperately parried another blow. Dean’s eyes didn’t slide to black, or yellow, or any other manifestation of a demon that Sam could recognise. They remained slightly narrowed with that familiar focus his brother always showed when fighting. Sam realised he was at a severe disadvantage. He didn’t want to harm his brother, so the angel swords were weapons he couldn’t really use, all sharp dangerous edges and angles – while Dean was fighting without restraint and with an instrument that could be both sharp and blunt. Something Sam could attest to immediately as Dean feinted, and ducking around Sam’s defensive stroke, smashed Sam across the forehead with a wicked backhanded blow. Sam staggered back, momentarily blinded by the rush of blood pouring down his face. Head wounds bled like a bitch and Sam could really have done without that right now.
He could feel his grace puttering like a candle flame in the face of the hurricane that was Dean Winchester, Mark of Cain. He wiped desperately at the blood to clear his view, wondering why Dean hadn’t taken advantage of his momentary disability to come in for the kill already. He stumbled dizzy from the blow, and went down onto one knee.
Sam looked up to see Dean standing over him, the Blade lifted shoulder high. In the deathly calm that descended, Sam was Anne Boleyn waiting for the Frenchman’s finest steel. He was Ned Stark under his own Valyrian blade. He was –
The Blade dropped in slow motion as Sam watched Dean’s face. He wanted his brother to be the last thing that he saw, but more than anything, he wanted Dean to see him. Sam felt the jagged yellow teeth touch his taut neck, making the shallowest nick in the fragile skin.
“Sammy?”
Sam bled white light, a thin trickle of grace mixed with the blood running down his collarbone.
“What the fuck?”
Dean’s voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t used it for months, and for the first time it occurred to Sam to wonder how many days had passed for Dean in the two months that had passed top side since he’d heard Abaddon had dumped Dean’s body.
“It’s my grace,” Sam offered, then grimaced as Dean’s face hardened and his brother backed away. The Blade was raised again, but Dean made no move to resume the fight.
“What are you, and where’s my brother?”
“It’s me, Dean. I am Sam,” he almost expected Dean to come back with a line about green eggs and ham, was disappointed when Dean said nothing, his expression tight and disbelieving.
“There’s nobody – nothing – else in here, it’s just me.” Sam got to his feet slowly, his legs still trembling slightly with the rush of adrenaline from nearly dying. Again. You’d have thought he’d have been used to that by now, but somehow, his body reacted to each near death experience like it was something new. He took a deep breath. Hel’s realm smelt different from Purgatory, from Hell even from the Cage. Fresher somehow. More earthy, like mulch, and autumn. It helped Sam ground himself. Which was a good thing, as Dean was clearly freaking out.
Sam held his hand out but didn’t advance, he didn’t want to spook Dean any further. He was counting it as a win that Dean wasn’t actually trying to attack him with the Blade any more, but that small comfort dissipated when he heard what his brother was muttering.
“Not Sammy, no, can’t be. Sam wouldn’t look for me. Sam wouldn’t save me, he said so. Left me in Purgatory, said if I was dying he wouldn’t do anything for me, wouldn’t try and bring me back…”
The chill that ran through Sam then was nothing like the soothing coolness of grace. Impulsively, he stepped forward, wincing when Dean flinched. Sam could see Dean’s body being wracked with tremors, as if he was fighting against himself – or the Blade – to maintain control.
“Dean! That isn’t what I said, not what I meant. I’d do anything for you, except take away your power to decide for yourself what you want to happen. Do you understand?”
Dean stilled. He wasn’t looking at Sam, his face was turned so all Sam could see was that profile, so familiar from sitting shotgun in the Impala. But Dean at least stayed as if rooted to the spot, and Sam took his motionlessness as a sign that Dean was listening. He risked another step towards his brother.
“Abaddon took your will away when she stole your body. Of course I was going to try and get you back, Dean. I know what it’s like to be trapped in a corner of your mind, screaming while they use your body to do terrible things. Dean, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, and no way would I leave you to suffer like that, not when I could do something about it.”
Dean glanced sideways at Sam.
“I did that to you,” he said, his voice oddly flat. Sam nodded. “I let Gadreel possess you, and Kevin’s dead because of me.”
“Yes. And I’m sorry I said that crap about not being brothers, but you have to understand, what you did, the way you lied to override my decision, and then carried on lying to keep Gadreel inside me? Knowing Gadreel used me to kill Kevin, not knowing what else I might have done while he was riding me? It was more than I could bear. What you did was so wrong, Dean, on so many levels I still don’t know where to start – I couldn’t let Abaddon, or any demon or angel do that to you.”
Dean finally turned to face Sam; his eyes so wide the green of the irises was clearly visible even in Helvíti’s dim light.
“But Abaddon dumped my ass here, and you must have known she wasn’t possessing me anymore. Yet you still came looking for me.” Sam heard the question Dean refused to voice.
Why?
“Of course I came for you, you fucking idiot. You’re my brother and I fucking love you.”
Sam was almost toe to toe with Dean now, and it felt the most natural thing in the world to drop his weapons and simply reach out with both arms. He enfolded Dean into an embrace and heard the dull thud as Dean released his hold on the First Blade and it fell to the ground. Sam hadn’t realised quite how tense he had been until he felt Dean relax and return the hug. Sam clung onto his brother for what seemed an age but was probably only a few seconds, before Dean was squirming in his grasp.
“Dude, I’m naked; gerroff me, you big girl.”
Sam grinned as he allowed Dean to pull away, his smile only widening when he saw how fiercely Dean was blushing. And how the blush went right down to…okay, not looking.
“Whose fault is that, man? I can’t help it if you’ve been living like a freaking caveman down here.”
Sam looked around. Where in Helvíti were they going to find Dean some clothes? The denizens of the realm, who had been present as a veritable army when Sam had arrived, had disappeared, only a few glowing eyes peered out of the darkness that surrounded them. Then he saw something large moving towards them. He started and crouched down, scrabbling for his discarded angel blades, as a huge wolf emerged from the shadows right by Dean’s side.
“Whoa, hold on Sammy, it’s okay,” Dean said, holding up on hand to stall Sam, while his other tangled carelessly in the wolf’s thick ruff of fur. “Sam, this is Hel, daughter of Loki, ruler of Helvíti. Hel, this is my ginormous geek of a brother, Sam.”
Even as Dean was carrying out the introductions in his usual inimitable style, Hel was morphing from wolf into a tall, statuesque woman with striking white and black hair.
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, Sammy,” Dean whispered loudly, “Glen Close as Cruella de Vil, right? But younger, and with better…”
“Dean!” Sam hissed, and Dean shut up with a wink. God but Sam had missed this.
“You are leaving.” Hel said, a statement not a question, directed solely at Dean. Who actually looked apologetic.
“Yeah, doll. Got a Knight of Hell and a rogue angel to kill. Thanks for the Blade and, you know, everything.”
Hel snapped her fingers and one of the Náir appeared, carrying a bundle that looked, thankfully, like clothes for Dean. Sam wrinkled his nose as Dean pulled on the jeans without underwear but he at least felt more comfortable once his brother’s junk was safely covered. Once he was fully dressed, Dean picked up the First Blade. An aura of red lightning flickered around him for an instant and Sam could see the Mark on Dean’s arm flash even through the jacket.
“What say we get your grace juiced up and get us some demon action, little bro?”
Sam grinned. He could feel the prickle of grace stirring under his skin, and it was already starting to reinvigorate him. With Dean at his side, they could take on the world and win.
“Yeah, Dean. Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
0x0x0x0
Fin.
Bonus art this way