SpN: Come The Night 18/?
1/6/12 11:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Come The Night, 18/?
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2281
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen~fifteen~sixteen~seventeen
icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kat_lair
The Boy and Girl of Summer
"Hey. Think we can outrun them?"
1
They fall asleep, sticky, glued inside their clothes and wrapped around each other so tight that they don’t know who ends where and they don't care.
They rise early the next morning, so early that Dean bitches that it's still night, and Angel gives him a half-grin and shakes his head. "Baby," he says, and shoves a mug of coffee into his hand. "Shut up."
Dean gulps the hot bitter liquid down and flips him off with his free hand, ignoring Angel's soft laughter. "Baby my ass," he mutters, and sincerely regrets not having wiped off the night before, but luckily Angel must have found the water he'd mentioned a possibility of, there's a bowl full of steaming water at the edge of their fire, a clean strip of cotton steeping in it. They wash down, glancing at each other, blushing like they'd never done anything like it before. Dean kind of likes the way Angel flushes pink across his cheekbones, the way his cat's eyes drop and dark lashes brush his cheeks. Angel tosses the bangs that have grown out, too ready to drop across his eyes now and smirks at Dean. Definitely a "I know what you look like when you come" look, Dean thinks, and grins back at the kid. He knows he looks good when he comes--no matter what Sam used to say.
He's thawed a bit more by "breakfast": a couple of pieces of dried meat boiled in a pot full of some sort of grain along with some raisiny-looking things. It's weird but filling. In the way concrete is but what the fuck, food is food.
"So…you really are his brother." Angel says between mouthfuls. "And he tried to kill you. And an angel saved you, a real live angel like Gavreel? Castiel…hunh. And maybe…he's looking for you because, what, he loves you, our good Brother Citizen? Because from where I'm sitting, no offense, I'm thinking not so much. I mean…green-eyed brunets are in short supply because he…he does things to them, the pretty ones anyway." Angel swallows and his eyes dart away from Dean's. "The ones like you."
Dean shudders. "My-ah, my brother, he's always been kind of possessive, I guess. Maybe whatever fucked-up mess Castiel made of him magnified that part of him past a million. He hates me because he still…you know. Thinks I…belong to him. Maybe because I fucked him up, because I--" Dean clams up; he's already said too much. He loses common sense around Angel, damn kid.
Angel licks the mess they're eating out of the corners of his mouth, eyes Dean speculatively. "You can say love, bru—doubt there's much you can tell me that will make me run screaming. Hell, I was five when they threw me in a breaker's bed. Not much I haven't seen. Heard." Angel shrugs but Dean can read him, and it makes him want to rage, kill something himself. He fights the feeling down, and reaches over to cup Angel's cheek. "Hey, I'm gonna take care of you. I'm gonna keep you safe from now on, I swear."
Behind him a voice says, "Well shit, then you're about to really fucking disappoint the kid, dude."
A thick, phlegmy laugh rings out and Dean curses—how the fuck did he get snuck up on? He pushes Angel flat and tries to cover him but Angel knocks him aside, shouts out "Christe!" and the demon shrinks back, beetle black eyes clicking over the human. Behind him stands another demon, something crouching at its side.
"You fuckers…salt, iron. Holy words." The demon speaking picks his way carefully around the scatter of herbs Angel tossed around the salt, not touching a bit of it. "You think that'll stop us?" He snaps his hand and the crouching figure stands, runs to him, along with anothers they hadn't noticed lurking in the shadows. Three demons in all, and two who are—not.
Angel slumps against Dean and hisses, "Horses, damn it. Fucking--" he snatches for his pack but before he can even touch it, a foot swipes through the salt, breaking their protection. Dean curses and dives for his bedroll and the gun stashed under it, but one of the Horses slams its foot down on it, nearly trapping Dean's hand. It giggles and kicks Dean in the face before kicking the gun away.
"Oops, clumsy me." The thing slobbers around a short length of metal, something like a bit, jammed between its teeth. Its companion jitters and shakes and giggles as the demons come through passage it broke in the salt ring. Dean and Angel are on their feet, ready to fight and knowing damn well that it's useless but the thing about humans? They'll fight on regardless of the odds, throw themselves into the maw of Death…or maybe that's just Winchesters, Dean thinks. Angel tosses him a wild, reckless smile, stupid, beautiful bastard, and says, "Hey. Think we can outrun them?"
Sam—Samuel—is leaning against the thick, bullet-proof glass of his office windows, gaze caught by the activity on the perfectly manicured yard below him. He watches the crew break down the cameras, the lights, and reviews the little bit of theater they’d beamed to his part of the world…Good Brother Citizen, caring for his people, like any good shepherd would…feeding, protecting…culling the flock….
He smiles and shrugs the suit jacket to settle more comfortably on his shoulders. Time to get back to his real work. His entourage sweeps him through the hotel doors, kicks stragglers and those not quick enough out of the way. His Majesty is on the move and hell help anyone stupid enough to cross his path. They take the elevator, the one that goes to the top floor—and also to the bottomest of bottom floors—the Basement. It makes him giggle a little, thinking of how far down the bottom is. They exit at the top and Samuel pushes open the door to his office. Something flickers at the corner of his eye…something always flickers just out of his eyesight, here in the office and in his private suite. The walls…the walls move somehow…there's something on the walls that keep moving out of his eyesight no matter how hard he looks…he's perfectly aware of how crazy that sounds but of course, he's fucking totally insane, has been forever. He relishes it. Makes it easier to enjoy what he does and who he is. Besides, it runs in the family--wouldn't be a Winchester without being bug-fuck crazy, Sam thinks.
He unlocks his suite and a few of his captains enter with him and take up posts at the doors and windows. They crouch near his desk and lounge against the walls to watch silently. Waiting for his command. It warms Samuel, knowing that he owns every bit of them. That they'd kill for him at a blink. Of course, they'd kill him at a blink if they thought they could get away with it…it's just business sense to gut one unexpectedly from time to time. Reminds them who’s boss….
He tosses the cracked piece of curved yellowed ivory that serves as the key into a bowl on an ebony stained walnut table. Strides across a white fur rug and comes to a stop in front of a long, white leather couch. There are a few black suede throw pillows on the couch, and pressed against the left arm of the couch, a blind angel. “How are you doing today?”
The angel flinches at Sam's voice and leans a little harder into the corner of the couch.
Samuel fishes an apple out of a blood red glass dish on the table behind the couch. He snaps a bite from it, the breaking of its crisp skin loud in the silence. Samuel watches Cas twitch and shudder. “Cat got your tongue?” Sam mutters as he passes the cringing angel, who involuntarily makes a croaking sound and blushes a dark red. Sam grins as Cas tries to shrink into himself. “Take your time; I'm willing to wait until you heal. How about when you can speak again, we talk about where you hid it. In other words, the same thing we do every night, Pinkie.” He laughs, loud and pleased and everyone in the room jerks to attention, surreptitiously slide away from one another.
Samuel slips his jacket off and drops it without a thought, ignores the scramble behind him to catch it. "I've been looking, all over the land, in every place that I can go, I've looked. I've scried and quested, I've run through lakes of blood and mountains of bone and shifted miles of entrails through my fingers and I find nothing. I've looked in places I can't go…thanks to you. My eyes and ears, looking out for me, listening for me." Samuel trails his hand over the little black boxes draped here and there in the room. Little boxes filled with periwinkle eyes that blink slowly at the caress, like cats approving of the attention given them. The screen opposite his desk plays out the scene in the office. Other screens show other views—a caravan in the grasslands that separate the Out towns from Chronopolis, The Alley between Chronopolis and Dys. The bronze trees on the gates of Dys, the gates of hell.
Mahogany boxes inlaid with ivory and fronted by brass and copper mesh flank the screens. The boxes vibrate on their slick, purplish-grey cables, as if struggling to keep the prince in view. Every time Samuel fingers the little eye boxes, the beautiful mahogany boxes moan.
Cas ducks his head at the sound. The black tails of the blindfold he's wearing tickle the sweep of his pale collarbones. His hands drift up from his lap and trace the edge of his ear, outlines the shell, the smile that curves his lips seems almost fond.
"Well, nothing to say? Not gonna tell me how all you want to do is help me, heal me, blah-blah?" Samuel stares out of the suite’s narrow windows, down to another view of the perfect lawn, too perfectly perfect, as if yards and yards of green plastic have been draped over the earth. A high iron fence surrounds all the land that can be seen from the window. Spikes top the fence and in some places, things sit skewered on the spikes. He turns from the window and faces Castiel, watches the shivers that run over him, the way his lips part to let small gasps tumble out.
"You're ready for questions now," he says and Cas shivers, a soft laugh is his only response. "That's right, we resume our daily game. I want you to tell me where it is. Tell me, where did it go?" Since those brief images what felt like months and months ago, his brother has…poof! Disappeared, and it's making Samuel cranky. Very cranky.
"I don’t know, Samuel." Cas' voice is soft and hoarse, barely understandable. He grunts when Samuel grabs a handful of greasy black hair and yanks his head back, his neck a strained column of black and blue and red.
"You must know, you lost it for me. So tell me, where did it go?"
"Somewhere far from here. I don’t know."
"Some far place? Or some far time?" Samuel releases his grip and absent-mindedly wipes his hand on his pants. "Come on, Cas. We’ve been doing this dance for too many years…haven’t you tired of it yet?"
Cas shakes his head and gives Samuel another small smile, the kind of smile that says 'I’m little and inoffensive…' "I don't know where or when or--anything." His smile trembles and breaks apart. "I swear to you, I don't know. Please—"
"PLEASE?" Samuel swells, his eyes flash ocher and mustard and his teeth grind until the hinge of his jaw cracks, his hands close on the angel and he squeezes. Hard.
"WHAT?" he shouts, when the speakers over the screen facing him whine with feed-back, an almost human sounding moan. Static buzzes and rolls over the screens.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" he shouts, and the little black boxes draped here and there, wiggling on their glistening cables, slam their little scallop blue eyes shut, one after the other like dominos falling. In the room, in the hall, all through the hotel and on every pole top and—everywhere, the blue eyes slam shut and Sam's screens go dark.
The demons in the room mill anxiously, each one pushing to get behind the other….
"Fuckin' useless things--" Samuel raves, shreds a demon who loses by being too slow, "--ya can't see it, can't hear it, what fuckin' good are ya?" He smashes his blood-gloved hands through the row of little black boxes nearest him, and they burst into flame—all through the hotel boxes burst into flame and die. Ash blows through the halls and Cas gasps, moans in tune with the mahogany boxes....
"All right," Samuel pants, rage blown off at last, "all right. That's—that's fine." He wipes gore from his face, his hands. Ash dusts the blood, the gobbets of flesh that dribble down the walls, little piles of ash and lumps of meat mar his desktop. He snaps his fingers and snarls to no one in particular, confident it will be done, "Clean this shit up."
Sam blows ash away from Castiel's blindfold. The angel's untouched by anything else and the empty, melted black boxes stare at Sam, mocking him. That's another set of eyes he's ruined. He shrugs and glares at Castiel. Plenty more where they came from…he looks at the untouched shelf that holds the other eyes, the eyes he keeps because they're pretty and remind him of his mission. Well, the other mission, the one separate from Rule Hell and Rule the World. These are dead, little dead eyes, so green, so pretty. So pure….
When he found it again and took its eyes, those eyes would be more beautiful than any of these copies.
“Him.” Castiel rocks in his chair, mutters, "Him, not it. Dean, not it. Dean…Dean…Dean…."
“Shut up. SHUT up. Shut up before I take you to pieces. Again. Now get up.” Samuel takes the angel's elbow in his hand and yanks him to his feet. Steers him towards the door. “In fact, it's time to have a little fun. I need new cameras anyway.”
He takes the elevator to the Basement and the bronze doors opened on a burning red plain. The sound of leather wings snapping in a storm make Samuel smile, the smell of sulfur and blood and shit make him chuckle. "It's going to be another good day, don’t you think?"
19
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2281
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen~fifteen~sixteen~seventeen
icon by
kat_lairThe Boy and Girl of Summer
They fall asleep, sticky, glued inside their clothes and wrapped around each other so tight that they don’t know who ends where and they don't care.
They rise early the next morning, so early that Dean bitches that it's still night, and Angel gives him a half-grin and shakes his head. "Baby," he says, and shoves a mug of coffee into his hand. "Shut up."
Dean gulps the hot bitter liquid down and flips him off with his free hand, ignoring Angel's soft laughter. "Baby my ass," he mutters, and sincerely regrets not having wiped off the night before, but luckily Angel must have found the water he'd mentioned a possibility of, there's a bowl full of steaming water at the edge of their fire, a clean strip of cotton steeping in it. They wash down, glancing at each other, blushing like they'd never done anything like it before. Dean kind of likes the way Angel flushes pink across his cheekbones, the way his cat's eyes drop and dark lashes brush his cheeks. Angel tosses the bangs that have grown out, too ready to drop across his eyes now and smirks at Dean. Definitely a "I know what you look like when you come" look, Dean thinks, and grins back at the kid. He knows he looks good when he comes--no matter what Sam used to say.
He's thawed a bit more by "breakfast": a couple of pieces of dried meat boiled in a pot full of some sort of grain along with some raisiny-looking things. It's weird but filling. In the way concrete is but what the fuck, food is food.
"So…you really are his brother." Angel says between mouthfuls. "And he tried to kill you. And an angel saved you, a real live angel like Gavreel? Castiel…hunh. And maybe…he's looking for you because, what, he loves you, our good Brother Citizen? Because from where I'm sitting, no offense, I'm thinking not so much. I mean…green-eyed brunets are in short supply because he…he does things to them, the pretty ones anyway." Angel swallows and his eyes dart away from Dean's. "The ones like you."
Dean shudders. "My-ah, my brother, he's always been kind of possessive, I guess. Maybe whatever fucked-up mess Castiel made of him magnified that part of him past a million. He hates me because he still…you know. Thinks I…belong to him. Maybe because I fucked him up, because I--" Dean clams up; he's already said too much. He loses common sense around Angel, damn kid.
Angel licks the mess they're eating out of the corners of his mouth, eyes Dean speculatively. "You can say love, bru—doubt there's much you can tell me that will make me run screaming. Hell, I was five when they threw me in a breaker's bed. Not much I haven't seen. Heard." Angel shrugs but Dean can read him, and it makes him want to rage, kill something himself. He fights the feeling down, and reaches over to cup Angel's cheek. "Hey, I'm gonna take care of you. I'm gonna keep you safe from now on, I swear."
Behind him a voice says, "Well shit, then you're about to really fucking disappoint the kid, dude."
A thick, phlegmy laugh rings out and Dean curses—how the fuck did he get snuck up on? He pushes Angel flat and tries to cover him but Angel knocks him aside, shouts out "Christe!" and the demon shrinks back, beetle black eyes clicking over the human. Behind him stands another demon, something crouching at its side.
"You fuckers…salt, iron. Holy words." The demon speaking picks his way carefully around the scatter of herbs Angel tossed around the salt, not touching a bit of it. "You think that'll stop us?" He snaps his hand and the crouching figure stands, runs to him, along with anothers they hadn't noticed lurking in the shadows. Three demons in all, and two who are—not.
Angel slumps against Dean and hisses, "Horses, damn it. Fucking--" he snatches for his pack but before he can even touch it, a foot swipes through the salt, breaking their protection. Dean curses and dives for his bedroll and the gun stashed under it, but one of the Horses slams its foot down on it, nearly trapping Dean's hand. It giggles and kicks Dean in the face before kicking the gun away.
"Oops, clumsy me." The thing slobbers around a short length of metal, something like a bit, jammed between its teeth. Its companion jitters and shakes and giggles as the demons come through passage it broke in the salt ring. Dean and Angel are on their feet, ready to fight and knowing damn well that it's useless but the thing about humans? They'll fight on regardless of the odds, throw themselves into the maw of Death…or maybe that's just Winchesters, Dean thinks. Angel tosses him a wild, reckless smile, stupid, beautiful bastard, and says, "Hey. Think we can outrun them?"
Sam—Samuel—is leaning against the thick, bullet-proof glass of his office windows, gaze caught by the activity on the perfectly manicured yard below him. He watches the crew break down the cameras, the lights, and reviews the little bit of theater they’d beamed to his part of the world…Good Brother Citizen, caring for his people, like any good shepherd would…feeding, protecting…culling the flock….
He smiles and shrugs the suit jacket to settle more comfortably on his shoulders. Time to get back to his real work. His entourage sweeps him through the hotel doors, kicks stragglers and those not quick enough out of the way. His Majesty is on the move and hell help anyone stupid enough to cross his path. They take the elevator, the one that goes to the top floor—and also to the bottomest of bottom floors—the Basement. It makes him giggle a little, thinking of how far down the bottom is. They exit at the top and Samuel pushes open the door to his office. Something flickers at the corner of his eye…something always flickers just out of his eyesight, here in the office and in his private suite. The walls…the walls move somehow…there's something on the walls that keep moving out of his eyesight no matter how hard he looks…he's perfectly aware of how crazy that sounds but of course, he's fucking totally insane, has been forever. He relishes it. Makes it easier to enjoy what he does and who he is. Besides, it runs in the family--wouldn't be a Winchester without being bug-fuck crazy, Sam thinks.
He unlocks his suite and a few of his captains enter with him and take up posts at the doors and windows. They crouch near his desk and lounge against the walls to watch silently. Waiting for his command. It warms Samuel, knowing that he owns every bit of them. That they'd kill for him at a blink. Of course, they'd kill him at a blink if they thought they could get away with it…it's just business sense to gut one unexpectedly from time to time. Reminds them who’s boss….
He tosses the cracked piece of curved yellowed ivory that serves as the key into a bowl on an ebony stained walnut table. Strides across a white fur rug and comes to a stop in front of a long, white leather couch. There are a few black suede throw pillows on the couch, and pressed against the left arm of the couch, a blind angel. “How are you doing today?”
The angel flinches at Sam's voice and leans a little harder into the corner of the couch.
Samuel fishes an apple out of a blood red glass dish on the table behind the couch. He snaps a bite from it, the breaking of its crisp skin loud in the silence. Samuel watches Cas twitch and shudder. “Cat got your tongue?” Sam mutters as he passes the cringing angel, who involuntarily makes a croaking sound and blushes a dark red. Sam grins as Cas tries to shrink into himself. “Take your time; I'm willing to wait until you heal. How about when you can speak again, we talk about where you hid it. In other words, the same thing we do every night, Pinkie.” He laughs, loud and pleased and everyone in the room jerks to attention, surreptitiously slide away from one another.
Samuel slips his jacket off and drops it without a thought, ignores the scramble behind him to catch it. "I've been looking, all over the land, in every place that I can go, I've looked. I've scried and quested, I've run through lakes of blood and mountains of bone and shifted miles of entrails through my fingers and I find nothing. I've looked in places I can't go…thanks to you. My eyes and ears, looking out for me, listening for me." Samuel trails his hand over the little black boxes draped here and there in the room. Little boxes filled with periwinkle eyes that blink slowly at the caress, like cats approving of the attention given them. The screen opposite his desk plays out the scene in the office. Other screens show other views—a caravan in the grasslands that separate the Out towns from Chronopolis, The Alley between Chronopolis and Dys. The bronze trees on the gates of Dys, the gates of hell.
Mahogany boxes inlaid with ivory and fronted by brass and copper mesh flank the screens. The boxes vibrate on their slick, purplish-grey cables, as if struggling to keep the prince in view. Every time Samuel fingers the little eye boxes, the beautiful mahogany boxes moan.
Cas ducks his head at the sound. The black tails of the blindfold he's wearing tickle the sweep of his pale collarbones. His hands drift up from his lap and trace the edge of his ear, outlines the shell, the smile that curves his lips seems almost fond.
"Well, nothing to say? Not gonna tell me how all you want to do is help me, heal me, blah-blah?" Samuel stares out of the suite’s narrow windows, down to another view of the perfect lawn, too perfectly perfect, as if yards and yards of green plastic have been draped over the earth. A high iron fence surrounds all the land that can be seen from the window. Spikes top the fence and in some places, things sit skewered on the spikes. He turns from the window and faces Castiel, watches the shivers that run over him, the way his lips part to let small gasps tumble out.
"You're ready for questions now," he says and Cas shivers, a soft laugh is his only response. "That's right, we resume our daily game. I want you to tell me where it is. Tell me, where did it go?" Since those brief images what felt like months and months ago, his brother has…poof! Disappeared, and it's making Samuel cranky. Very cranky.
"I don’t know, Samuel." Cas' voice is soft and hoarse, barely understandable. He grunts when Samuel grabs a handful of greasy black hair and yanks his head back, his neck a strained column of black and blue and red.
"You must know, you lost it for me. So tell me, where did it go?"
"Somewhere far from here. I don’t know."
"Some far place? Or some far time?" Samuel releases his grip and absent-mindedly wipes his hand on his pants. "Come on, Cas. We’ve been doing this dance for too many years…haven’t you tired of it yet?"
Cas shakes his head and gives Samuel another small smile, the kind of smile that says 'I’m little and inoffensive…' "I don't know where or when or--anything." His smile trembles and breaks apart. "I swear to you, I don't know. Please—"
"PLEASE?" Samuel swells, his eyes flash ocher and mustard and his teeth grind until the hinge of his jaw cracks, his hands close on the angel and he squeezes. Hard.
"WHAT?" he shouts, when the speakers over the screen facing him whine with feed-back, an almost human sounding moan. Static buzzes and rolls over the screens.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" he shouts, and the little black boxes draped here and there, wiggling on their glistening cables, slam their little scallop blue eyes shut, one after the other like dominos falling. In the room, in the hall, all through the hotel and on every pole top and—everywhere, the blue eyes slam shut and Sam's screens go dark.
The demons in the room mill anxiously, each one pushing to get behind the other….
"Fuckin' useless things--" Samuel raves, shreds a demon who loses by being too slow, "--ya can't see it, can't hear it, what fuckin' good are ya?" He smashes his blood-gloved hands through the row of little black boxes nearest him, and they burst into flame—all through the hotel boxes burst into flame and die. Ash blows through the halls and Cas gasps, moans in tune with the mahogany boxes....
"All right," Samuel pants, rage blown off at last, "all right. That's—that's fine." He wipes gore from his face, his hands. Ash dusts the blood, the gobbets of flesh that dribble down the walls, little piles of ash and lumps of meat mar his desktop. He snaps his fingers and snarls to no one in particular, confident it will be done, "Clean this shit up."
Sam blows ash away from Castiel's blindfold. The angel's untouched by anything else and the empty, melted black boxes stare at Sam, mocking him. That's another set of eyes he's ruined. He shrugs and glares at Castiel. Plenty more where they came from…he looks at the untouched shelf that holds the other eyes, the eyes he keeps because they're pretty and remind him of his mission. Well, the other mission, the one separate from Rule Hell and Rule the World. These are dead, little dead eyes, so green, so pretty. So pure….
When he found it again and took its eyes, those eyes would be more beautiful than any of these copies.
“Him.” Castiel rocks in his chair, mutters, "Him, not it. Dean, not it. Dean…Dean…Dean…."
“Shut up. SHUT up. Shut up before I take you to pieces. Again. Now get up.” Samuel takes the angel's elbow in his hand and yanks him to his feet. Steers him towards the door. “In fact, it's time to have a little fun. I need new cameras anyway.”
He takes the elevator to the Basement and the bronze doors opened on a burning red plain. The sound of leather wings snapping in a storm make Samuel smile, the smell of sulfur and blood and shit make him chuckle. "It's going to be another good day, don’t you think?"
19
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