spn fic: "Mary Meets the King of Hell"
Mar. 24th, 2011 11:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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fannishliss
title: Mary Meets the King of Hell
rating: gen, pg, no pairing
length: 1615 words
spoilers: none, this is an AU
disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit.
summary: Mary finds out who is King of Hell.
notes:mercuryblue144 very kindly bought this fic for one Japan VGift (offer is still good here!) and it is in answer to her prompt. I also have to tip my hat to monicawoe , whose King of Hell stories I've been reading a lot lately!
Please let me know if you enjoy! Comments make the world go round. :)
~*0*~
She trudges the burning sands, her bare feet calloused and toughened by the years of walking. She’s still wearing the same white gown, but somehow, she’s found a canteen, a blanket, a knife. It’s amazing how belief can bring things to life, if you just believe hard enough.
Water is rare here, just as likely to be salt or poisoned or boiling, but now and again there’s a tree, and near it just enough moisture to seep into the canteen, just enough shade for her to rest out of the blazing sun, to curl up under the blanket with the knife clutched in her hand, and close her eyes for a while.
There are no laws here. Night doesn’t break up the endless burning day, but sometimes the seeping fog blankets the sand, swirling and blinding with a deep gray nothingness, and the howls and chitterings that come from the fog make her cower, defensive, digging down into the sand with her blanket and her knife, yearning for the glaring yellow sky to return.
Sometimes the sands are flat and forever. Sometimes they rise up in seas of dunes. It’s over one such dune she is struggling, sweat dragging her golden curls dark against her neck, when she finally crests and sees not one, but a row of trees.
Joy and hope beat hard in her chest. These oases are rare and not without their scorpions. But a chance for water, for shade, is a chance she can’t pass up.
She stares at the trees in the distance, allowing herself one moment of respite -- the promise of rest without the threat of having to fight for it, knife against claw.
Then, with a guttural roar, the trees begin to dance and she staggers, feeling the dune beneath her ripple and sway. She fights against the vertigo, fights to stay upright, not to let the shifting sands drag her down. The heaving ground lurches once more and is silent.
The desert’s eternal windy quiet seems fragile now, the terrible low groaning an echo living on in her mind. She hurries for the trees, and after a time, she reaches them.
Palm trees rising up out of the desert -- it’s an image founded so deep in her mind, and she imagines, in the minds of so many, that even these burning sands can’t keep it from making itself real. The trees sway gently under the yellow sky, tall and handsome. And in their midst, to her great joy, shimmers a shallow pool of water.
She approaches cautiously. Monsters erupt from the sands, from the fog, or swoop down out of the sky, so the serenity of the pool can’t be trusted.
Her knife drawn, all her senses alert, she approaches the pool, eyes focusing beneath the surface. Perhaps the water will harbor little creatures? She remembers, once, under a tree she’d found a shiny black beetle, and she’d wept with joy at its simple perfection, no taint of the monstrous anywhere on its glittering carapace, six perfect legs, even its jewel-like faceted eyes and delicate moving mouthparts were so precisely right, so close to being alive.
The water, clear at first, turns murky under her gaze, and her spirit sinks as the pool turns the color of blood.
Gripping her knife tightly, she doesn’t look away. If a monster has chosen this pool for its birthing, its first sight will be a Hunter, armed and ready.
Deep in the pool a cloud thickens. She peers down, deeper than it had been just a moment ago, and swallows, her dry throat cracking. It’s been so long since she had a drop of water in her canteen. Just one swallow, even if it were bloody, would soothe her parched throat so sweetly -- if only it didn’t come back up, acid or worse.
A face forms in the pool, a face she carries in her heart. Is this real, or just one more torment?
“Mom?” The voice warbles through the surface of the water, but it sounds like she remembers.
“Sam?” Tears spring from her eyes -- her boy, the boy she’d never gotten to know, the boy she’d cursed with her ill-made deal.
“Sam? I’m so sorry, sweetheart---” She remembers his tiny fuzzy head, his big eyes as he’d suckled at her breast, hungry and fierce and perfect.
Those same eyes, hazel green and inexpressibly beautiful, stare back at her through the water. She’d know him anywhere.
“Mom! I found you! I’ve got you! Hang on--”
A hand reaches up, out of the pool. It’s a man’s hand, huge and strong, reaching for her. No hint of the monstrous -- but what does that prove? Many monsters roam in human clothing.
But her mind is already made up. Enough of this blank eternity. She’ll go with her son, or whatever has taken his image.
She reaches out, places her hand in his, and he pulls --
she falls through the water, through the heat, through the void --
into his arms. He’s so big, now, bigger than John, bigger than her own dad. He’s strong, and he’s clutching her into his chest with a powerful grip. She can hear his heart pounding, wild and loud, and she hugs him back.
“Mom! I finally found you. Are you okay?”
How can she answer? She’s been dead for so long. Is her son, her Sam, dead now too? Her heart breaking, she looks up at him. He seems so alive. Her eyes are full of tears, and he is dazzling, so bright, as though he’s standing on a sunny shore, catching every ray from sun and water. The room around them is dark, formless, but Sam is made of light.
“Sam -- where are we? How did you find me?”
Sam’s eyes drop. He looks away. “I’ve been looking for so long. I knew I’d find you at last.”
“But how?” she asks.
Something in his eyes tells her she doesn’t want to know. “Sam -- what have you done? Please don’t tell me you made a deal -- “
Sam laughs. “No, not a deal. People deal with me, now, not the other way around.”
She feels a chill inside, but it’s not as strong as the warmth she feels in Sam’s tender hug. “What -- what have you done, Sam?”
Finally he steps away from her, and she feels cold without him.
The light around him grows, pouring out of him, his eyes, the tips of his fingers. He’s bursting with power, an endless stream of it.
“I took him in, Mom. I drank him down. The throne that was meant for him belongs to me now.”
She stares at her son, not wanting to believe, but unable to deny.
Around her burn the dark infernal flames, cold and furious. Before her, her son is glowing with the glory of the Lightbringer. The sands of Purgatory are now a distant memory.
Her son is the King of Hell.
She sinks to her knees, unable to take it in. Hell -- all the torments of Purgatory made infinitely worse by the unholy revels of its denizens. And Sam, lord and master of all that, feeding on it, made beautiful on the strength of its deathliness.
Sam’s voice is uncertain, but he’s trying to do the right thing, always, always trying. “Mom? It’s okay, Mom -- you can go to Dean -- he’s in Heaven now, he’s thrown Michael down--”
Mary remembers Michael, his cold, awful grace. The memory of him returned to her with her death, to haunt her through her wanderings in Purgatory. And now Dean has taken his place? --both her sons, her precious ones, lost to these terrible destinies?
“Mom? Mom? Say something!”
Everything she’d wanted for them, everything normal, human -- gone. All for nothing. But she is still their mother. She has to think, to act. Do something, get a grip!
“Sam, Sam, come with me. If you can send me to Heaven, come with me!” The never-ending chorus of her regrets (Sam, I’m so, so sorry!) threatens to drown out every other thought, but she has to keep her head.
“No... I can’t. Hell needs a Lord,” Sam says. His brightness dims as he frowns. His power here is absolute, but Hell is still a prison.
“Send me, then. I’ll come back for you!” Mary makes up her mind, and it’s a vow backed up by all her determination as a Winchester.
“Mom, I love you. I want... to talk to you some time. Okay?” Sam is the King of Hell, and he’s a helpless, sad little boy.
Mary longs to go to him, take him in her arms, tell him everything he’s done has been to the ultimate good... and then she shakes herself. He’s influencing her and doesn’t even realize it.
“Sam, I have to go. But I’ll be back. We’ll fix this, baby, I swear it.”
“Okay, Mom,” Sam says simply. Mary hurts to hear the hollowness in the clear, ringing tones of his voice. “Tell Dean... tell Dean I say hi.”
His emptiness and longing almost undoes her, but she steels herself. She’s a Hunter, the daughter of Hunters, and the mother, not of these aching gods but of Hunters, and she’ll fix this, somehow, despite the paths they’ve staggered down with all their best intentions.
The hellish reality around her begins to thin, and she feels another radiance begin to pull at her. She turns from her younger son and goes into the light, hoping with all her heart that she’ll see him again, stripped of his inhuman glory.
fannishliss title: Mary Meets the King of Hell
rating: gen, pg, no pairing
length: 1615 words
spoilers: none, this is an AU
disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit.
summary: Mary finds out who is King of Hell.
notes:
mercuryblue144 very kindly bought this fic for one Japan VGift (offer is still good here!) and it is in answer to her prompt. I also have to tip my hat to monicawoe , whose King of Hell stories I've been reading a lot lately!Please let me know if you enjoy! Comments make the world go round. :)
~*0*~
She trudges the burning sands, her bare feet calloused and toughened by the years of walking. She’s still wearing the same white gown, but somehow, she’s found a canteen, a blanket, a knife. It’s amazing how belief can bring things to life, if you just believe hard enough.
Water is rare here, just as likely to be salt or poisoned or boiling, but now and again there’s a tree, and near it just enough moisture to seep into the canteen, just enough shade for her to rest out of the blazing sun, to curl up under the blanket with the knife clutched in her hand, and close her eyes for a while.
There are no laws here. Night doesn’t break up the endless burning day, but sometimes the seeping fog blankets the sand, swirling and blinding with a deep gray nothingness, and the howls and chitterings that come from the fog make her cower, defensive, digging down into the sand with her blanket and her knife, yearning for the glaring yellow sky to return.
Sometimes the sands are flat and forever. Sometimes they rise up in seas of dunes. It’s over one such dune she is struggling, sweat dragging her golden curls dark against her neck, when she finally crests and sees not one, but a row of trees.
Joy and hope beat hard in her chest. These oases are rare and not without their scorpions. But a chance for water, for shade, is a chance she can’t pass up.
She stares at the trees in the distance, allowing herself one moment of respite -- the promise of rest without the threat of having to fight for it, knife against claw.
Then, with a guttural roar, the trees begin to dance and she staggers, feeling the dune beneath her ripple and sway. She fights against the vertigo, fights to stay upright, not to let the shifting sands drag her down. The heaving ground lurches once more and is silent.
The desert’s eternal windy quiet seems fragile now, the terrible low groaning an echo living on in her mind. She hurries for the trees, and after a time, she reaches them.
Palm trees rising up out of the desert -- it’s an image founded so deep in her mind, and she imagines, in the minds of so many, that even these burning sands can’t keep it from making itself real. The trees sway gently under the yellow sky, tall and handsome. And in their midst, to her great joy, shimmers a shallow pool of water.
She approaches cautiously. Monsters erupt from the sands, from the fog, or swoop down out of the sky, so the serenity of the pool can’t be trusted.
Her knife drawn, all her senses alert, she approaches the pool, eyes focusing beneath the surface. Perhaps the water will harbor little creatures? She remembers, once, under a tree she’d found a shiny black beetle, and she’d wept with joy at its simple perfection, no taint of the monstrous anywhere on its glittering carapace, six perfect legs, even its jewel-like faceted eyes and delicate moving mouthparts were so precisely right, so close to being alive.
The water, clear at first, turns murky under her gaze, and her spirit sinks as the pool turns the color of blood.
Gripping her knife tightly, she doesn’t look away. If a monster has chosen this pool for its birthing, its first sight will be a Hunter, armed and ready.
Deep in the pool a cloud thickens. She peers down, deeper than it had been just a moment ago, and swallows, her dry throat cracking. It’s been so long since she had a drop of water in her canteen. Just one swallow, even if it were bloody, would soothe her parched throat so sweetly -- if only it didn’t come back up, acid or worse.
A face forms in the pool, a face she carries in her heart. Is this real, or just one more torment?
“Mom?” The voice warbles through the surface of the water, but it sounds like she remembers.
“Sam?” Tears spring from her eyes -- her boy, the boy she’d never gotten to know, the boy she’d cursed with her ill-made deal.
“Sam? I’m so sorry, sweetheart---” She remembers his tiny fuzzy head, his big eyes as he’d suckled at her breast, hungry and fierce and perfect.
Those same eyes, hazel green and inexpressibly beautiful, stare back at her through the water. She’d know him anywhere.
“Mom! I found you! I’ve got you! Hang on--”
A hand reaches up, out of the pool. It’s a man’s hand, huge and strong, reaching for her. No hint of the monstrous -- but what does that prove? Many monsters roam in human clothing.
But her mind is already made up. Enough of this blank eternity. She’ll go with her son, or whatever has taken his image.
She reaches out, places her hand in his, and he pulls --
she falls through the water, through the heat, through the void --
into his arms. He’s so big, now, bigger than John, bigger than her own dad. He’s strong, and he’s clutching her into his chest with a powerful grip. She can hear his heart pounding, wild and loud, and she hugs him back.
“Mom! I finally found you. Are you okay?”
How can she answer? She’s been dead for so long. Is her son, her Sam, dead now too? Her heart breaking, she looks up at him. He seems so alive. Her eyes are full of tears, and he is dazzling, so bright, as though he’s standing on a sunny shore, catching every ray from sun and water. The room around them is dark, formless, but Sam is made of light.
“Sam -- where are we? How did you find me?”
Sam’s eyes drop. He looks away. “I’ve been looking for so long. I knew I’d find you at last.”
“But how?” she asks.
Something in his eyes tells her she doesn’t want to know. “Sam -- what have you done? Please don’t tell me you made a deal -- “
Sam laughs. “No, not a deal. People deal with me, now, not the other way around.”
She feels a chill inside, but it’s not as strong as the warmth she feels in Sam’s tender hug. “What -- what have you done, Sam?”
Finally he steps away from her, and she feels cold without him.
The light around him grows, pouring out of him, his eyes, the tips of his fingers. He’s bursting with power, an endless stream of it.
“I took him in, Mom. I drank him down. The throne that was meant for him belongs to me now.”
She stares at her son, not wanting to believe, but unable to deny.
Around her burn the dark infernal flames, cold and furious. Before her, her son is glowing with the glory of the Lightbringer. The sands of Purgatory are now a distant memory.
Her son is the King of Hell.
She sinks to her knees, unable to take it in. Hell -- all the torments of Purgatory made infinitely worse by the unholy revels of its denizens. And Sam, lord and master of all that, feeding on it, made beautiful on the strength of its deathliness.
Sam’s voice is uncertain, but he’s trying to do the right thing, always, always trying. “Mom? It’s okay, Mom -- you can go to Dean -- he’s in Heaven now, he’s thrown Michael down--”
Mary remembers Michael, his cold, awful grace. The memory of him returned to her with her death, to haunt her through her wanderings in Purgatory. And now Dean has taken his place? --both her sons, her precious ones, lost to these terrible destinies?
“Mom? Mom? Say something!”
Everything she’d wanted for them, everything normal, human -- gone. All for nothing. But she is still their mother. She has to think, to act. Do something, get a grip!
“Sam, Sam, come with me. If you can send me to Heaven, come with me!” The never-ending chorus of her regrets (Sam, I’m so, so sorry!) threatens to drown out every other thought, but she has to keep her head.
“No... I can’t. Hell needs a Lord,” Sam says. His brightness dims as he frowns. His power here is absolute, but Hell is still a prison.
“Send me, then. I’ll come back for you!” Mary makes up her mind, and it’s a vow backed up by all her determination as a Winchester.
“Mom, I love you. I want... to talk to you some time. Okay?” Sam is the King of Hell, and he’s a helpless, sad little boy.
Mary longs to go to him, take him in her arms, tell him everything he’s done has been to the ultimate good... and then she shakes herself. He’s influencing her and doesn’t even realize it.
“Sam, I have to go. But I’ll be back. We’ll fix this, baby, I swear it.”
“Okay, Mom,” Sam says simply. Mary hurts to hear the hollowness in the clear, ringing tones of his voice. “Tell Dean... tell Dean I say hi.”
His emptiness and longing almost undoes her, but she steels herself. She’s a Hunter, the daughter of Hunters, and the mother, not of these aching gods but of Hunters, and she’ll fix this, somehow, despite the paths they’ve staggered down with all their best intentions.
The hellish reality around her begins to thin, and she feels another radiance begin to pull at her. She turns from her younger son and goes into the light, hoping with all her heart that she’ll see him again, stripped of his inhuman glory.
