babybrotherdean:

“There will be no new King of Hell.”

It’s a familiar feeling, this power. An old friend, dusting itself off from the depths of his memories; a hand on his shoulder that guides him. A voice that whispers in his ear and says you deserve this. You deserve to see them kneel.

The inside of the bar has gone absolutely still. People gasp for breath, blood flows, and the stink of sulphur is thick in the air. For this single moment, the entire world seems to be holding its breath. Sam casts his eyes across the group of demons scattered around the room, each rooted to their place and watching him with something he can only read as fear, and he feels… he feels. 

This is something he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

He remembers when this was supposed to be his destiny. Plucked from his cradle to lead the forces of Hell against all who opposed them; to be the boy king. He remembers the demon blood pumping hot through his veins and he remembers how fucking good it was, being able to curl his fingers around that intangible thing and do absolutely whatever he wanted. It was a feeling of infinity, and it was a feeling of dizzying importance. Of a million years of infinitesimal choices that brought him to where he was supposed to be.

Here and now, it comes to him again, easy as breathing. He doesn’t have the patience to wait out this fight, or to watch his friends and family get hurt any longer. He doesn’t have the time to waste here when he needs to be scouring the face of the Earth for his brother. He needs this to stop, and-

And his voice is enough. His command. And fuck, does it ever feel good when they listen.

Watching black smoke spiral out of the building feels a bit like getting high, leaving Sam dazed and warm and filled to the tips of his fingers with nervous energy. With the need to do more, to lean into this, to embrace the power and take the next step further and-

“Sam?“ 

And then Mom calls for him, and Jack’s still unconscious, and Bobby’s bleeding pretty bad, and Sam- Sam’s still coming down from this heightened sense of existence, and he sees something in them, too. His family and friends. The same thing he saw in the demons, if a slightly different flavour. Fear. "You good?”

Sam breathes out hard and he shakes out his shoulders and he spares a final glance for the abandoned meatsuits on the floor. He thinks about the demons, fleeing with their tails between their legs, out to spread his message to every awful thing that lives in Hell. His shiny new doctrine, freshly minted for all to see. He thinks about the way he used to be able to crush a demon’s entire being with a stray thought; about feeling the last, horrific flash of life before he extinguished them entirely. Rendered powerless. 

This new power, he thinks- this one where his words alone have the very same effect; where he can dismantle the entirety of the forces of Hell with his voice– is somehow even better.

“Yeah,” he says, and for the first time in weeks, he almost means it. “I’m good.”

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