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By these words.
Funny thing about prophecies, even the ones that have a clear due by date may take years for the full ramifications to be felt. That even though the seemingly unstoppable boulder of destiny may have been stopped before it hit the metaphorical water, nothing that big moves without causing other things to be moved along with it, and anyone whose seen a boulder roll down a hill knows it never falls alone. There are these countless little pebbles that accompany it. Throwing up a haze that can make things unclear even after the main focus has been halted in its tracks. When those hit their ripples may weaken into nothing or even wipe each other out but when that boulder is big enough, like end of the world big, there are going to be some ripples that eventually get felt.
So here I lie on my cot in my cell in the bunker, thankful I never put up a display of loaded and primed firearms and the walls are two foot thick concrete, knuckles white as I gripe the frame as the next paroxysm hits me. The metal creaking I try to focus on the sharp sensation of the melted polyester mattress cutting the sides of my hands and the exposed springs catching and ripping out my hair with every spasm. Not the sight and smell of my room charring around me from the flares of hell fed power pulsing from my well beyond lethally heated flesh. Flashing back to those episodes in Bobby’s panic room but this isn’t demon blood, no this time it’s Hell. 100% pure, and it’s not working its way out, it’s flowing into me.
“There will be no new King of Hell!”
Except, Hell will not be without a ruler. A dimension sized tupla, molded of the fallen angel who created and ruled it, the foul unnamed beasts crammed into its corners, the legions of twisted souls made demonic that work for it, and the countless generations of human who believed in some variant of it, it has obtained its own parody of life. It is a monstrosity that must be fed but it needs a master to handle it.
The Knights are slain.
“Not today!”
The Princes, gone.
”Not ever!”
The King himself fallen to a mirror version of the brother still locked in the cage.
“If anybody wants the job, they can come through me.”
The throne of Hell isn’t just some symbol of position, it’s the touchstone for the ruler of Hell to survey their domain. It is the conduit through which it finds its eyes and ears, gaining grasping fingers to cram screaming souls into gnashing teeth of bile soaked razor blades.
“So what’s it gonna be?”
No this will not do. Hell will not be left a mindless, senseless, toothless beast. Problem is few demons find the will, arrogance, or foolishness to embrace the power when it means they would need to stand up to the forces that have lain low so many of the old echelons of Hell. That fancy at the pork house was best contender on what looks like a short list and I ended him with a classic ‘pass out’ feint. Twisted his own stab the second he felt that little trill of victory and slacked his grip to savor the moment instead of striking to finish me. He was no challenge, arrogant little shit.
Even as my body writhes and I stretch my senses to ground myself it’s my mind and soul that are really fighting. A fight played out in the imagination or maybe some halfway space between the living realm and underworld. Concertina wire wrapped around my limbs dug past ethereal flesh to paint the non-existent ground in my blood but the path it makes isn’t behind me, it’s in front. I’m losing.
Catching flashes in front of reality the nightstand catches from the embers of burnt out photo frames. The smoke alarm should be going off any second and I pray to whatever benevolent forces are left that Cass or Mom or Jack or anyone who responds is able to pull me out of this nightmare. That’s it’s just a combination of PTSD, poor sleep, and a concussion from the fight.
“That’s what I thought.”
Because the flashes I catch behind me are a throne made of charred bones and twitching flesh, the true beating heart of hell. It is no construct of stone or metal, but stitched with sinew and sorrow, the pieces of tortured souls still writhing as the rest of their being is flayed and raped and mutilated on the racks.
A part of me that still has the disconnected curiosity of soullessness wonders if pieces of my brother still make up the seat or if they’ve long since been cycled out or covered over, as the soul has since came off the racks.
There will be no new King of Hell, I have said so much, and with every atom of my being I hold it as gospel.
But then again for a brief while I was King. As far as Hell cares I am the last of its royalty and that speech to a handful of demons was all the declaration it needed.
I know it’s not a dream. Even before I feel the warm wet pulsing against my back and the razor wire slice becomes a cooing embrace, I can see it. The apocalypse is still going to happen even if it’s a couple of proxies in the form of a thrice damned human soul wearing Lucifer’s hand me down crown and an imitation of Heaven’s loyalist warrior.
I'm sorry Mom but I can't hope anymore. There are no more miracles left in the world. We've gone back to that well until it ran dry and turned over the dirt to keep looking. No more rescues from above or last minute deus ex machinas to hold out for. I have to be the leader now and I need every advantage I can get. Dean was the righteous one, but I'm the practical one.
As soon as I stop fighting I can feel that wire wrap itself around my head in a mockery of Jesus's crown of thorns. The blood dripping from it, butterfly kisses.
Damn you Chuck.
Heaven and Hell will end. I can envision a world where neither is needed. Where there is no stick of Hell or carrot of Heaven, only life and its infinite variations. Where all that is supernatural is consigned to the Great Empty or forgotten as myth. After I get Michael out of Dean and destroy him, I’m coming for you.
Sincerely Sam Winchester, Boy King of Hell