Chapter Text
Since the dawn of creation, there had been the Word, and the Word was God. And in each new repetition of the Word, a fraction of its divinity was lost, like a crumbling flake of snow breaking free from a glacial shelf. So the Word became tarnished, an ugly, deformed caricature of its former glory. Until the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t came to pass, and the Word was lost. For the first time since the Golden Age of the Titans, Fate was no longer bound by the Word, and Destiny, which had been carved in every atom of every nebula across the universe, was shattered.
For some time, nature rebelled. Creatures gained freedoms they’d never had, angels corrupted their own essence to enhance their Heavenly influence, and Hell, as always, was a swirling turmoil of despair overlaid with the cold efficiency of bureaucracy. A new age had begun; the age of Free Will. The Universe was not overly concerned; the Balance was maintained, despite the fluctuating fortunes of the beings that suffered within her depths, and so the greatest of entities turned their massive eyes away, dismissing the agonies of lesser creatures as beneath their concern.
The First Beasts set upon the Earth, and almost devoured it, the angels fell and began to self-destruct, the monarchy of Hell fought brutally for the throne; and still, the Universe slept. And then one day, a small, significant human, (one who had endured the most torture for the continuation of humanity, in the history of all things), made a decision. The Righteous Man took a Mark that was never intended to be his.
Marked by Heaven and Hell both, one human set forth, mired in self-loathing and doubt, to right the wrongs of the uncaring Universe. And from light-years away, a vestige of the Word shivered, stretched forth tentative tendrils of consciousness... and awoke.
---
Sam could barely believe his eyes when Dean awoke from death, as though rising from nothing more than a deep slumber. Of course, as with all things in the life of a Winchester, hope was a unless recourse. For Dean hadn’t returned at all; like their mythical ancestor, Dean had become a demon under the influence of the Mark.
He doesn’t get a chance to see if Dean can be cured; he can only watch, helpless, as Crowley leaves with his brother in tow. Dean moves with detachment, a cold, efficient predator, stalking silently after its master. Sam calls out to him, but Dean doesn’t even flinch, not even when Sam digs down deep into that dark place he swore he’d never touch again. Sam hasn’t called upon his demonic abilities since he inadvertently unleashed Lucifer on the world. But for Dean, he clawed at that malnourished imaginary limb, dragging it out into the light, and with supreme effort, wrenched himself free from the wall he’d been pinned against.
“Stop!” He screamed, flinging out one hand, desperation and rage fueling him enough to halt his demon brother and the King of Hell in their tracks. As quickly as the influence had been exerted, it was lost again. It was a muscle that Sam hadn’t trained for years; it was simply too weak to continue being exerted. But now it was awake, and that sick, dark part of him was crowing in unexpected satisfaction at being released again after so long.
There was a beat of stunned silence, and then Crowley swirled round to face him. Dean turned also, with barely contained fury; he was a lot less flashy about it.
“Interesting,” said Crowley, with a wriggle of his eyebrows. “Didn’t think you could still get it up. Rumour was, you burnt out all your special sauce.”
Sam was panting from exertion, struggling to stay conscious under the relentless battering of a power he’s too weak and unpracticed to contain, writhing beneath his skin. He ignored Crowley’s jibes; didn’t have time to deal with him.
“Dean,” he begged, in barely more than a whisper. “Please.”
Sam was previously unaware that opaque inky blackness in the place of human eyes could convey such scorn and derision, and yet there they were, silently judging him.
“Tell you what, Moose. You renounce your goody-two-shoes days, give in to that delicious rage and demonic ability bubbling beneath that mop of lank hair and ogre body-type, and we’ll see about getting you a position in Hell, hmm? Always in need of a good lacky to hunt down beasties and break things for me.”
“Never,” Sam hissed, a look of acid hatred marring his features. “I will never stop trying to save him, and I will never join you.”
It was a solemn vow, and Sam knew, down to his very bones, that every word was true.
“Shame,” Crowley clicked his tongue dismissively, and in the next moment both he and Dean were gone, in the space of one blink to the next.
Sam staggered as he was finally released from the demon’s wall of resistance. He took in the empty room, before collapsing to his knees, with a howl of anguish that he could simply no longer contain.
---
Dean was not obedient. He barely spoke, and though he followed Crowley’s bidding, most of the time, he appeared to be tolerating the King rather than obeying him. It was trying. Crowley did his best to reorganise Hell into some semblance of order, after that bitch had taken over and torn his careful structuring to shreds. Having a Knight like Dean appearing to be under his command went a long way to solidifying his rule. The lesser demons, in particular, fell over themselves trying to please their new boss and stay out of his way. Dean was ruthless, and brutal when annoyed, which appeared to be how he spent the vast majority of his time. Many a demon perished in the first few days when Dean took up the mantel of a Prince of Darkness.
Time, as always, moved swifter in hell. One week on Earth is roughly two and a half years in the pit; the hours down here elongated, in order to stretch out the delicious torment of the damned souls screaming all around them. In that time, Dean learns to control his powers, and gathers around him a select group of demons who are far more inclined to bend to the will of a Knight, than a jumped-up crossroads demon clinging to the crown by the skin of his fingertips.
Crowley never catches Dean in examples of outright disobedience, but his orders are accepted grudgingly, and with the kind of condescending smirk that tells him it won’t be long before Dean abandons him; to carve his own path through Hell, or even make a bid for the top spot. One thing Crowley knows for certain though; he won’t go down without a fight. He’s come too far, outwitted too many major contenders, to be undone by one little upstart who spent his glory days on the rack rather than revelling in all the delights the pit has to offer.
---
Death has existed in some form since the universe was no more than a spec on God’s eyelash, barely a consideration in His grand scheme. He does not waste his infinite time on the petty requests of humanity, a race he finds distasteful on a good day; and downright egregious on others. But even Death sits up and pays attention to the Word. And when the Righteous Man accepts the Mark of his decreed opposite, a shiver runs down Death’s ancient spine.
This, as they say, is not going to end well.
---
Sam drank himself into a stupor most nights, Men of Letters files spread out all around him, ancient books with his badly translated scribbles illegible in the margins. Cas intervened eventually, when Sam’d drunk more whisky in the past week than he’d eaten food. Apparently he’s on the road to liver failure. Naturally, Sam’s belligerent response was a slurred assertion that organ failure is exactly what he was aiming for. Cas was quiet, but looked at him with big blue eyes glimmering with unshed tears and pity. Sam couldn’t stand it.
He lashed out, as Cas tried to wrestle the bottle from his clutches, saying horrible, untruthful things. Such as; Cas doesn’t understand what he’s going through, because he’s just a robot angel who doesn’t know what grief feels like. Staggering and towering over the angel, roaring that Cas never really loved Dean anyway; didn’t know how to love, wasn’t capable of it, wasn’t even capable of real friendship.
Cas slapped him across the face.
It was enough to shock Sam from his drunken stupor, though not enough to get him to apologise; not yet. When he’s sobered up, he knows he’ll feel like shit for talking smack about the best friend Dean’s ever had. But at this current point, Sam was only capable of sobbing in a disgustingly messy fashion, all over Cas’ shoulder. Somehow, Cas half-dragged him to the shower room, and after he was clean, forced him to get a few hours of decent, artificially deep sleep.
Sam surfaced feeling like the most worthless person on the planet. Cas was silent, accepting his apology with only a nod. As if he believed that shit about himself, which only served to make Sam hate himself even more.
Cas had made him a simple breakfast; toast and eggs. Sam sunk further in on himself, not sure how to make amends. He eventually summoned up the courage to ask Cas if he needed help with anything. The angel sighed, long and weary.
“Metatron twisted many things in Heaven for his own benefit. We are slowly unravelling his tampering, but it is an arduous process. Angels were not intended to be creative, and his haphazard fumblings have torn chasms in the delicate frameworks which hold the universe in Balance.”
Sam can only nod, to show he’s following. There’s nothing he can do to help fix Heaven, so Cas must need something else from him.
“We have recently discovered a... resonance in the Garden. Joshua died in the fall, and we have no one else to turn to, to try and interpret it.”
“What do you think it is?” asked Sam.
“We believe it is the Word.”
“The Word?” Sam’s face crumples up with confusion, before the serious set of Cas’ chin enlightens him. “The Word... of God? Like the tablets?”
Cas nods, with gravitas. Whatever it is, it’s serious. “Akin to the tablets, but new. Fresh.”
“You mean...” Sam doesn’t know what he means. Something of this magnitude is too big for his brain to adequately process.
“God is speaking to us. Or at least, some part of his divine path has been uncovered. This is His equivalent of a message on an answer-phone. Unfortunately, no angel in Heaven possesses the ability to interpret it aside from Metatron. We do not trust him to translate it, and we have not yet determined how to re-establish the line of the Lord’s Prophets on Earth.”
Sam is humbled, that Cas, who deals with such important matters every day of his existence, would choose to seek his assistance; or even just share his frustrations with him.
“So what are you going to do?” He prompted, when Cas didn’t say anything more.
“I wish to see the translations that Kevin Tran made of the tablets. It is my hope that some of that knowledge would help us to understand what God’s message is.”
Gadreel stole some of it, but what remains, tucked away in Men of Letters boxfiles, Cas is welcome to. Sam showed him where it was; it was the least he could do. He knew Cas was suffering, just the same as him, but he’s managed to pull his shit together. It’s time for Sam to do the same.