Title: Testament of Adversary

Pairing/Characters: Sam/Dean, Slight Castiel/Sam and Castiel/Dean.

Rating: M

Word Count: ~1500

Warnings: Spoilers up to SPN 4.07. Dark, torture, apocalypse, wincest, evil!Sam.

Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me. This is purely fictional.

Summary: He thinks he hears the strains of Led Zeppelin, screaming like tomcats and crashing against his eardrums like all the legions of hell come to play the devil’s fiddle. Then he realizes that it’s just the roar of his heartbeat and the legions of hell breaking through the skin of the earth.



Testament of Adversary, Chapter 9, Verses 1-19

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When they nail him up on the inverted cross, rough bark and thorns cutting deep into his muscle and flesh, he feels only the trickle of blood like tears down his skin as it races over the speed bumps and ridges of the whip lashes and bubbled, cracked burns.

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He thinks he hears the strains of Led Zeppelin, screaming like tomcats and crashing against his eardrums like all the legions of hell come to play the devil’s fiddle. Then he realizes that it’s just the roar of his heartbeat and the legions of hell breaking through the skin of the earth to the rhythm of his cries.

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A man is dragged to him by three beautiful demons. He outshines them all, even in the inverted and blood-shot vision in which he sees the world after having the world turned on its head (or was that him?). He thinks it might have been three days since then, for in a vague kind of fury he recalls three times the sun burnt such a blinding crimson he could no longer scream for the lack of oxygen in the exquisitely exploding atmosphere.

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Three days, and the man has not yet dyed or otherwise abandoned the tarred earth far below his hanging head, earth that is blossoming with wildflowers sown by tears and nourished by the fluids of his body that creep down the murdered and ancient trunk to which he is beholden and nailed. Three days since any hellion has come to his side, three days of silence, broken by the beating wings of furious angels overhead and the clawed sobs tearing their way out of his exposed larynx.

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When the sun rose on the fourth day, he finally realizes that the man below is shackled and chained, the heavy, sweat-slick metal striping his bare back and tarnishing the blood-coppered air with the rank spite of lead poisoning. The desert stretches out from the chains like webbed flesh, hooks into the ends and flows out forever. Smoke on the horizon does nothing to muffle eternity, and he wants to laugh, but it’s only a little funny.

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He thinks (knows) he should be dead by now, and wonders frantically if his body would be left rotting above this beautiful man if he should happen to die before he wakes. A voice comes to him in his dreams, and speaks with the thunder of a lost soul; ‘We are all black and white and crimson below that; fools lie in blood while the angels smile down in comfort... so does the Antichrist dream, dream of fanning atomic flames and screaming out for the doves of war?’ When he wakes, he is still alive, and the man is staring up at him with dust-tattooed skin and a plea on his lips.

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The legions comes closer, and the forerunners return back to him as he knew they would, their eyes black and white and sometimes crimson, gleaming with the sins of man, reflecting his ravaged face back into his own soul. He is now legion; he ponders this, and the reflection smiles for him, smiles beatifically, with dangerous dimples rippling across skin like landmines finding absolution. The demons smile for him, so wide that the flesh of their formal suits (because it is only proper that they dress up for their lord and master) tear from ear to ear, adding a splash of brilliant colour to those profane grins.

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Somewhere below the dizzy vertigo of his head, he thinks he hears a cry, shattered and coarse, but forgets just as easily when the binds are eased, unholy designs warped, and he falls gently into their waiting arms. He maybe dies for a short time, but on waking, finds that the desert provides a bed as soft as any feather down, and while luxuriating in the glow of liberty, he chooses to ignore the prickle of something that should be remembered in favour of watching the sun burn in its heaven. And he declares that it is good, that all of creation should be remade in deserts and flames.

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An angel has fallen to his side, has wrapped him in the suffocating joy of a sacrosanct wingspan, and he turns, bare skin now made whole and pure shifting across the furnace of broken dreams that is this being, and looks into Castiel’s eyes, which are fully grave and not quite heartbroken, as the angel places a hand against his heart and brushes divine lips against his eyelids. He speaks thus: ‘I, in my pride, fell because they, in their wisdom, would not absolve thee and thine.’

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And as the Antichrist awakes just a cataclysmic little more, His dark eyes are shot through with gold, and He frowns, tracing the bones of the holy vessel. “Mine?” He murmurs, because the power flutters through His veins, an antediluvian tide of pressing exhilaration, and it is all He can do to contain Himself within this human body, let alone keep trains and whims of the coherency of humanity. Legion is He and His, and what earthly existence could not be chained to His possession if He should so wish?

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And Castiel takes Him by hand and whispers directions over His shoulder, breath hot on His skin, and the ruined landscape passes below their feet, and the angel is finally allowed to pass when it is behind the prince of judgement and sin, when it is in the very footsteps of the Son of Morningstar, burning brightly in His darkness, with his hand slipping in and around his falling cause like water to a tide.

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The thorn in His mind tears its way forward when they come back, at long last, to the site of his purgatory, to the blood-stained tree surrounded by wildflowers floating on a hot wind, and the thorn is his brother, chained to the earth as if he himself is of it, growing and breathing like the flowers around him, arching ever upwards in a bowstring of futile pain. The demons sprawled around him scatter like birds, tails whipping, their hands and thighs still coated with the slick shine of the blood of Him.

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Blood of family, blood of Him, it matters not as He releases the hand of His fallen angel to bring up arms quaking with rage to the blackened heavens, and strikes down the beasts even as they run screaming into the trembling landscape. For a stagnant moment, ozone crackles in the air and silent dread swells beneath the surface of everything, then like a levee is broken, rain begins to fall.

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And the brother, now released from his bonds by the unseemly love of an angel, opens his mouth and drinks what meagre drops he can gather as if they were all the oceans come at once. He walks closer, unable, now that he remembers who this man is - what this man is - to look away. Castiel doesn’t quite back away as He comes forth, but nor does he remain crumpled by the man’s side. He watches from afar, sick resignation battling the awe of the witness in his never-human expressions.

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He meant to fall to his knees, to beg forgiveness and offer His bared neck, for now he remembers all, he remembers a flood born of spite, wrathful deaths and mutilated fornication by fire. His body is already trembling in anticipation of renewed damnation, awash with the faces of millions flooding through His mind in furious joy and the ravaged world all around pressing inward against them as incontrovertible evidence of His crimes against all the brother had held holy.

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So when the brother, broken bloody and only breathing by pure will, pushes himself up against the building blocks of gravity, and staggers to Him, tears of joy washing the mask of blood away by tiny increments, He is overcome.

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He caught him as he fell, breathing in the filthy, degraded scent of him, and now carries him back to lay him down upon the bed of wildflowers, the tattered remains of clothing falling away as they passed from desert to blood-branded garden. He breathes in, breathes out, His unholy breath chasing blackened flesh and fly-buzzed wounds away, His hands tracing skin half-forgotten in the delirium of apocalypse.

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A foreign sound meets His ears as they lay together, at peace for once before eternity creeps in, and He turns His head, to meet the eyes of the brother, staring up at Him. When the sound finally resolves itself, it is coming from between the brother’s softly speaking lips.
‘Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam.’

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And the Antichrist smiles at his brother in wonder, petals catching on his tongue.

“Dean?”

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fin.