SpN: Come The Night, 24/29

[roxy]

Title: Come The Night, 24/29
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 3653


Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5

Summary: this is (now) 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
eighteen~ ninteen~twenty~twenty-one~twenty-two
twenty-three







"Sir…communication has come from the Mayor…" The demon comes to an abrupt stop in the office doorway, waiting for some response.

Sam slowly draws his gaze from a spot in the ceiling to the thing trying not to seem like it's cowering in the doorway. It pulls the face it's borrowed into some sort of grimace. Ah—a smile. Sam sighs, and grasps at the fraying edges of his patience. "Well what the hell does she want? I'm waiting for my conference call to go through," he says. He sighs again, and closes his eyes, the better to enjoy the mug full of hot, spicy coffee he's been nursing while he waits.

Another demon appears at Sam's side, this one dressed in the body of a secretary, tall, ice-blonde and cool-y stylish. Very Tippi Hedren, Sam thinks and then giggles. He's probably the last being on Earth who knows why that's funny…unless the angel is telling the truth about his pet….

The demon in the secretary suit barely raises an eyebrow, it's—she's—seen her Lord in many types of moods. Dealt with them all and so far survived. Her perfectly made up lips quirk in a faint, very brief frown. "The Yellow King is live; we're still waiting for the Duke of the Northern Provinces to join in—"

"Fucking Crowley—" Sam slams his hand into the desk and she jumps, imperceptible to anyone but him. His current consigliore and the rest of his lieutenants sway slightly, trying to get out of his line of sight. The lump in the corner makes a noise that might be laughter, might be pain. All over his office, the little black boxes open and close, like a chorus line of clams.

Sam leaps to his feet. "Fuck that asshole—put the mayor through. Make some excuse to the Yellow King. The Duke shows up, let him enjoy a taste of his own bullshit."

There's a sibilant discussion at his back that stops dead when his muscles string tight and he cracks his knuckles in an effort to loosen his hands a bit. The large screen near the stupid throne crackles and whines, builds to a low howl and then color explodes across it, settles into the image of Chronopolis's mayor, back bent in a deep bow. She's bent so low her head nearly touches the floor. So much sarcasm expressed so elegantly. Sam reminds himself that demons are shit for detail work and he can't destroy the city because he needs the lively brains and hands of Chronopolis.

"Brother Citizen, it is my honor," she murmurs and sounds so perfectly, sincerely…sincere. If Sam didn't know how much Chronopolis hates Dys and him by extension—or possibly it's the other way around—he'd be completely taken in.

Sam raises his lip in a small half-smile, and it's satisfying how her eyes widen a bit…he throws himself back behind the desk. "What is it—and it better be good."

"First," she says, "thank you again for allowing our petition and for heading the court." Sam wants to hit her, but the arrangement that's been in place for decades is a productive one, all told, and lets him think about other things—like destroying the opposition to his rule in the Yellow King, and the 'Duke'—ratty little cocksucker.

When Sam destroyed Lucifer, and as a consequence of that blasted hell into pieces, just like a roach, Crowley was there to grab up as many of those pieces as he could before Sam dragged himself out of the pit in his own head and took the rest.

The mayor is patiently waiting for Sam to return his attention to her—it irritates him, but he shakes it off and concentrates on her once more. "Okay, fine, court—whatever—" he waves that off because that's not the important thing here, "—but that's not what you wanted to talk to me about—is it?" And puts as much hell as he can in his glare. Her dark brown skin fades to an ashen gray and that tickles him, enough to calm his rising temper a bit.

"We--we have something for you—a gift." Her cockiness evaporates, she stammers the words, and it takes a moment before she's once again the regal, chilly being she projected at first.

"So send it the usual way," he growls. His patience tended towards the short end of the scale on the best of days and today was proving to be definitely not a good day. He's getting that fucking clawing, loud pain at the back of his head, the one that moves higher and higher until it digs in at the bridge of his nose and makes the light go dark unless he does something really…sharp, to make it stop. It's been happening rather frequently lately—today it's particularly bad. Things around him shake a bit and start to smoke. His consigliore slaps its hands down on the little flares dotting Sam's desk and the stack of files slowly sliding across it.

"My king, this particular one is—look," she says quickly and her image fractures immediately and rearranges into a pair of green eyes framed by strips of silk. The features are obscured under the layers of translucent silk but the scan easily penetrated the fabric. There's nothing about this particular set of features that look familiar, but the eyes are—

Sam erupts from his seat and roars, "Bring that to me now."

She bows and clicks out without ceremony and Sam doesn't even care, he's willing to give her that one because he's got it—he's finally—he brings the picture up on the screen again and stares at the eyes, searching for that indefinable something that will reveal his pet. He's not sure but…there's something in this set of eyes. Something.

He turns to Castiel in the corner, and smirks. "Found it. Found it. Looks like you lose," he sing-songs as he looms over the wreck struggling to hide inside itself, and trails long fingers over the ruin of the angel's face. He dips down and kisses mangled lips.

"I'm going to let you heal, so when it's here it can see you in all your perfect beauty. He's going to know that you betrayed him. Show me," he demands, and the screen lights up with pictures: horses and wagons and great caravans rolling toward the city, single humans and small groups. But nothing, no one like Dean in any picture. Scan after scan and he's nowhere to be seen. A blip pops up, a few different passages of brides. Stupid practice…there are two brides in one cart, five in another—boring, insipid—some of them are crying. Sam shrugs. All the other groups are the average pack of whiners. They move through the gates, guards checking each group of petitioners and nothing shows. The ugly brides are scanned and passed through, followed by varying groups ushered in by Floating City escorts…the last passage of brides move through the scanners and there. It's there. Doesn't look like Dean at all, looks like a really ugly woman but the eyes…Sam shudders from head to toe, shudders so hard he moans. Yes. There. They have to be...this has to be his prize.

He's drawn to the screen, spreads his hands across it, excited, aroused, presses his dick into the edge of the screen and moans, "I'm going to hurt you so much, find new ways, take you to pieces and then, ah—do it again—" Whether it is or isn't doesn't matter, the results will be the same. Except, if it is…than he has an entire eternity to do it.

Light flares out of the screen—he jerks back, rubbing at burning eyes. "What the hell is that?" he hisses. His eyes narrow, watering against a sudden too-bright spot, a glitch that turns the screen white as the camera turns. Fades when it's facing away from Dean.

"What is that? What is that—light?" he demands of Castiel.

Castiel frowns. "I'm…not sure what you mean. It's…Dean. Perhaps Dean makes it."

"You're lying. It's some kind of angel crap, isn't it?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I am the only angel crap left. Maybe a few crippled worse than I, here and there over the world. It could be one of them…but I don't think so. There's no." Castiel stops, shrugs. "No flavor that I recognize."

A demon? Something bigger, badder than these feathery clowns? Sam stares at the whited-out spot on the screen with interest. Or maybe just a defect in the lenses there. He'll find out soon enough.

He stands, snaps his fingers and a ring of demons surround him. "Let that bitch know, I'm coming to pick up my package in person."

There's a low moan leaking out of the speaker boxes around the room. Sam kicks Castiel hard in the side. Over the crunch of ribs breaking he says, "Shhhh…we'll all be together again, won’t that be nice? You missed it, didn't you? I bet it missed you. Us. It'll be lovely to have Roach back here in my hands. His heart in my hands." Sam stares into his clean, empty palms and sighs, anticipates that deep satisfaction filling the holes in him once again, bringing him something like peace again.


5



icon by fragilecat


Dean opens his eyes. It's too bright and they instantly water, tears run over his cheeks. Fear grips him, choking him into silence. He can't hear Sam, can't feel him. Where the hell is Sam? And then everything comes back to him like a kick to the head—his eyes dart around the space searching for Angel. The room he's in is full of light, reflecting off the ivory walls and the rich blue ceiling high above them. There are models—stars and planets and moons—hanging from it, but there's nothing child-like about them. There's a platform to the rear of the room, and something that looks like a telescope set up there.


All around them, huge windows are open to the outside, and from his vantage point, he can see gardens. Tall stemmed, daisy-like flowers with feathery leaves, roses of all colors and shaggy green mounds topped with dozens of tiny white flowers dot the green lawns as far as he can see from where he's sitting. It's beautiful, and the chair he's sitting in is comfortable, with its soft velvet nap, thick, over-stuffed cushions…and rope looped around and around it, lashing him tight to the chair.


Angel, it turns out, is sitting across from him, glaring. He's also tied up, to a similar over-stuffed chair, and by the look in his eyes, he's pissed off and terrified—just like Dean. The sight sets Dean to struggling, cursing under his breath, trying to tip the big, comfy chair he's roped into. He manages to scrape it a few inches across the white marble floor but that's about it. A couple of uniformed mooks appear out of nowhere, and they look kind of pissed off.


"Now, now son, that's not going to help. We need to keep a cool head, all will be explained presently." The voice is smooth, cultured, and under different circumstances would be soothing. Right now, he just wants to get hold of the owner of that voice and choke them until they let Angel go.


A tall, dark skinned woman comes into his view. She's got an elegant, intelligent face, softened by full lips curved in a smile, and large dark eyes, framed by ridiculously long lashes. She looks kind, loving—until she tightens her lips just a bit, narrows her eyes, and her whole face changes. "Now, we can do this easily or we can do this with a maximum of screaming and bleeding. It's really all the same with me." She walks around to Dean's side, and pats him on the shoulder, like she knows him. Smoothes long fingers over Dean's cheek and he freezes. "You're much more attractive than your picture. Your eyes really are very green…interesting," she says.


"Thanks, sister," he snaps, and wants to say more but Angel is giving him the 'for god's sake, shut up' look.


She strolls around the room, leisurely unbuttoning the long, velvet-trimmed wool coat that sweeps her ankles as she walks, jerks her arms out of her coat and hangs it on a coat rack in the corner, Dean watches her; growls when she pulls two chains out of her waist coat pocket—the concealment charms. Fuck.


"Are you a witch?" he snarls. "Is that how you figured out the charms?"


"Witch." She laughs. "I'm a scientist, boy. We're all scientists here," she says. "I'm also the mayor of this city. I'm also The Boy King's liaison between the humans and Legion. And this," she spreads her hands, "is the culmination of a plan set in place generations ago—"


""Oh, god, you're going to tell us about it, aren't you?" Dean complains and Angel closes his eyes. Looks like he's praying…the mayor just smiles sweetly.


"Yes, I am." The Mayor pulls an ornament out of her hair and the complicated arrangement of knots and loops falls to her shoulders, a fall of whisper-thin braids frames her face, makes her look younger than she is--for a moment. She twists the ornaments, two long, thin pieces of silver topped with tiger eye, in her fingers, and continues the story. "This is a tale that should start 'once upon a time', like the ancient, ancient stories full of blood and suffering. Once, there were very dark times. It was a time when demons took what they wanted, killed and ate what they wanted, destroyed for the pleasure of destroying. There was chaos and a King, but no rule. And then…things changed, and some order—some small order came into the world. The wars that were being fought everywhere moved away, into the low desert, and for a while, it was better."

"The low desert?" Angel asks. "Where—"


"Hell," she answers, and gives him a look that shuts him up. "There was a kind of peace, for a time. When it changed again, there was horror upon horror and only rumors to explain it all away but they explained nothing: a slave rebelled, a precious item was lost, murder, theft…no one knows the truth. Just that some disaster occurred among the Legion and it got…." she shakes her head. "You can't imagine how bad. We humans banded together and with the help and leadership of the Hunters, we cut our cities out of that hell on earth."


There's a fire inside Dean, roaring through him like a flood of lava. His heart stutters with the force of it. Listening to what had happened while he—slept, wandered, whatever had happened to him—so much of what these people suffered, and suffer still—is his fault.

She walks around a large, round table that holds a globe sparkling with tiny clear lights. Some wink out as they watch—others brighten. She trails fingers over it, pets it lovingly. "Now, in this time, we're not so helpless. We planned; we redirected the flow of events. The plan was to give him what he seemed to want, this on advice from the last of the angels. It told us no matter what shape a Winchester's in, he'll need family, that the prince believed his brother lived somewhere in the world. We convinced him that we could find his prize, and send it to him. So we sent it, over and over. Imagine our surprise at finding what seems to be an actual Winchester, living, breathing…."


Dean grits his teeth tight, holds himself tight to keep the bile down. Angel watches him, a slightly horrified look on his face. Sure. It's one thing to be told it, another to have it confirmed. "That's why the green-eyed boys are special," he spits. "Slaves—sacrifices."


"Slaves, guests, sacrifices —it's all the same."


"Damn it—why don’t you care?"


"We do. We care about keeping the human world alive. Do you know what it took to convince Brother Prince he needed us--not just hordes of brainless, murdering, demon filth? What sacrifices we made so that there was some measure of peace in this world? This is our world and we had to prove we were necessary—" she clenched her fist, jerked it upwards…settled it gently atop the globe and sighed. "At the first opportunity, we sent tribute from Chronopolis to new Dys, in a wagon loaded with the first of our harvest, grown by us, something demons were incapable of. When the shipment into Dys came in railway cars on tracks we built and ran, it was obvious that our plan worked. On the seventh anniversary of the first tribute, we sent machines, and five human beings who became the first conscripts, the first 'willing' servants to our beloved Brother Prince. And the first green-eyed boy…."


Dean drops his head against the chair back and closes his eyes. "So you basically taught him that he needed clean, uncontrolled humans and that there'd be dessert at the end."


"Yes. Exactly," she says, sounding like a teacher pleased with her student. "He concentrated on the war and we created—all of this. The mines, the Outlands, the Floating City and the heart, Chronopolis. Do you think it would have been possible if we were still running though the dark, hiding and praying not to be ridden or raped or eaten? You have no idea what it was like in those dark days, none at all…and now the time has come at last to seal the king and his enemies in hell, forever separate from the human world—now that we may have the key."


"What, your psychics tell you this?"


She spits a disgusted sound and sweeps her hand through the air like she's sweeping some annoying gnat away. "We came to this by science. Precogs, telepaths, psychics--they can never really know the truth. Only science can give you that. Logic. Clarity. That is important. We sifted through legends and myth and tales and winnowed out the likely truth." She pops the clasp on a box on her desk. It has the look of an antique writing box; it unfolds into a kind of laptop and chimes to life with the logo of the Citizen King. "Now you're to meet your destiny. And for what it's worth, I am a little sorry. For the both of you." She turns to Angel. "You, you're a puzzle. My council tells me that you seem to truly be an angel."


Angel laughs, and Dean winces at the sound. "Your council is butt-fuck lokar, then. I've been a slave, a whore, a thief—but no one in their right mind would mistake me for an angel. That's just my name…" he shakes his head with another bitter laugh. "Isn't even my name, they called me that as a joke, in the—the---before I ran away."


She runs her hands over the keyboard, the thing tinkles and chimes again, murmurs, "You must be very good at running. Not many slaves can leave Chronopolis in one piece. I can hear it in your voice that you were born here."


"No. I was born in Dys, I ran away from Dys."


Surprise and curiosity and something darker flits across her face. "Then you truly are very, very good at running away."


Dean doesn't like the tone in her voice, the way she's staring at Angel. It's a look he recognizes, a hungry, avid sort of look… "Stop talking. You don’t have to tell her anything."


Angel shrugs as much as his bonds let him. "Don’t think we have to worry about it getting out and ruining my rep. This is pretty much the end for me."


Dean jerks against the ropes and growls—"Fuck that—"

The mayor interrupts, she flips a toggle on the 'laptop', and a bell sounds. "You'll get your chance for a face to face. I think He'd want to see an angel with active grace. Or whatever it is that you are," she says thoughtfully, shakes herself slightly and smiles at the both of them. "Well now, this talk has been most entertaining but now, you really must be going."


The doors open and the uniformed mooks—her soldiers—come into the room, pushing two rectangular boxes. The boxes look solid, heavy. Ornate iron filigree, woven through with silver, flows over the lid and the sides. In the lid of each box is a thick piece of barely translucent glass, just clear enough that Dean can make out the wood lining inside. Right under the lip of the glass window are intertwined, bleeding roses etched in the iron and picked out in a rusty black.


"Ah, you've noted the iron and silver, practical and lovely. The boxes are designed to discourage certain factions from stealing His goods. Not that many would, not with His seal on it." She points out the roses, seems to be careful not to touch them for some reason.

Dean's heart clenched. This was it. Sam was coming, finally he'd be face to face with his brother, facing freedom and answers and an end to all of this—madness, he hoped. He licked his lips and glanced at Angel and…

"You haven't asked me what the boxes are for, dear."


Her uniforms peel off the wall, take a step so that there's one behind both of them. There's a flashing pain in his neck and just that suddenly the room flips and spins, Angel droops in his bonds. "Bitch—"


"Foolish, foolish toy—" he thinks that's what he hears, but before can really process the words, he's falling into a heavy, syrupy kind of darkness.




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