Demon – Sam

By LadyGhostWhisperer

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize, especially the Winchesters, dammit…

Rating: PG-13

Summary: AU … Based lightly on the story “Wolf-Alice” by Angela Carter.

Could this Boy King with hazel eyes have spoken tongues like they do he would have called himself a demon? He does not speak tongues, but recites, powerful lines, that expel the very things he felt himself to be.

He does not understand their languages, only those that his father had taught him, lines of Latin, now embedded within him. Sometimes he hears them, screaming obscenities in his own tongue from behind the closed gate doors. Yelling for him to save them, release them, lead them.

He feels it… them, trying to call to him, snatches of lost languages, beginning to understand but not knowing what they chant, for he is not a demon himself, although suckled by a demon.

He catches it in the mirror the flash of black or yellow, his eyes flickering between soft hazel and the swirls of evil. Long lean muscles, bred on hunting and fighting. His hands callused from tough work and the metal and leather handles of his weapons of choice. He’s never really enjoyed it, his job, and not sure now if his brother ever did. He likes to think of his brother, father, both, as heroes, lost in battle.

Visions, to see past and future, even now, they are painful. The motion of the objects of his concentration startles him and he’s almost like Andy now able to control, but not like Ava, never like Ava.

He’s always aware of those around him, those who are not what they seem but they are fewer now, as he has sent them back towards their truth paths, fed by lava and hellfire.

He feels himself slipping now, able to understand their wishes. Something along the lines of the demons plans for him. The evil now running through his veins, trickling and seeping through his body, as night seeping into dusk. His brother is no more, no more father, mother, nor Jess, never a Madison. No one left to help him hold on to his pureness, his goodness. He almost feels himself a demon now, for he is not a demon himself, although suckled by a demon.

He finds Bobby first, knowing better this time; he remembers the burn in his throat. Bobby is unsuspecting now that he has a glimpse of the good in him. How he sent them back behind the heavy gates. Bobby puts up a fight, as suspected, but the blades sharp, cool, and the handle is sturdy in his grip. He relishes in the feel of the blade cutting through flannel and flesh, of the light going out in the hunter’s eyes.

Ellen is next, calling him, asking him to come help her. Oh he comes, helps, but it’s not until he hears her neck crack that his eyes flash yellow. For he is not a demon himself, although suckled by a demon.

Jo, sweet, Jo. Not a hunter, never a hunter. She just as unsuspecting as the other two. Handing him a drink, chatting. It’s not until he’s holding her against the wall, not with hands, slicing her stomach, only with mind, that she ever really suspects anything. The sweet, sharp smoke curls around him as she burns against the ceiling.

Hazel is overridden now, by yellow and black. No trace of the old him. The him that wanted better, that wanted a safer world. As he picks his way through the cowboy graveyard, Colt in hand, he sees them, his mother, father, brother, lovers, and friends, weeping for his soul. That soul he has, had, is withered now black as the night sky.

When he pulls the gates open, his army is pulling themselves out of the fires, strong, fearless, and able to do his bidding.

Dawn hits the horizon, they meet him, follow him into the grey light. For the sky will never light up again, as the Boy King takes his throne, and rules over his army. For now he is a demon, suckled by a demon.