Chapter Text
Things were going well, all things considered. That is, if your spectrum goes from your brother attempting to murder you for even suggesting you have gay sex on an altar to your brother's eager excitement to be your hell bride. That spectrum.
Dean was in Sam's bedchamber throwing everything he could get his hands on and stabbing everyone who came into the room. This was only slightly worse than Sam anticipated. At least he stopped trying to exorcise the tailor. Every time he’d send poor Crowley off, the demon had to trudge his way back from some random place in hell. Sam could see how that would get kind of tedious.
“Dean, sweetheart, put down the sacrificial goat’s skull chalice,” Sam pleaded through the closed door.
Crash. Sam winced. That really was a lovely chalice. It held the perfect amount of whiskey and blood when Sam wanted a nice after dinner cocktail. Ah, well. There were always humans willing to sacrifice a goat.
“Stop calling me sweetheart, Sammy,” Dean yelled. “I’m not a frickin’ child. I’m especially not a frickin’ GIRL child.”
Ah. That again.
Maybe it’s best to back up a bit. Perhaps understanding how things devolved so quickly would help Sam think of a solution.
To summarize: Jake killed Sam. Sam went to hell. Sam purged all levels of hell, freeing up the souls so he could consume their power, and scraping the antiquated designations of degrees of sin. If you're in hell, you're going to suffer. No more white-collar 5 star suites for souls willing to torture. Wanting to balance the darkness he'd taken in, he ate of the souls of a thousand virgins. They had a spicey, sugary taste, like cinnamon toast. Then, running on pure rage, he vanquished the Morningstar. Voila! Boy King.
And all of it to have the power to return to Dean and keep him from the angels.
So maybe Sam hadn’t told Dean the exact truth. He didn’t outright lie but he omitted certain things he was sure Dean would find distasteful. Like the virgin soul thing. The exact nature of the consort’s ceremonial garment.
And the fact that Dean was meant to sell his soul and go to hell in Sam’s stead. Stuff like that. Unnecessary details that would cause the now borderline hysterical man distress.
How Sam’s descent into hell actually went started out with the reaper who came to collect him. Tessa. Sam had been hovering over Dean, watching Dean trace his lips, place his hand over his heart, and Sam ached with an unfamiliar longing he was sure he denied when he was alive. Seeing his tough, “no chick flick moments” brother so utterly broken broke something in Sam. Or maybe it was always broken. It didn’t matter. He knew he couldn’t leave.
Tessa insisted it was time to go - where, she refused to say. She assured Sam that Dean would be alright. Given time, he’d return to hunting, find and kill the demon that had killed their mother, and eventually settle down with a family. He just needed this period of mourning and it would do him no good if Sam lingered. Sam didn’t even bother to call bullshit. Tessa couldn’t tell him where he’d end up; he was certain she lacked the omniscience to see Dean’s future.
It was then Azazel appeared; not to Sam but to Dean. He offered to bring Sam back for the “low low price” of Dean’s immortal soul. Dean was seconds away from accepting the deal when Sam found himself consumed by a burning rage. He would not let Dean give up his life for him. Power pulsed through him, electric and hot. He was unaware his eyes turned black as he held out his hand and took Tessa by the throat. She paled and tried to pull away. Sam banished her with a flick of his wrist.
Sam then reached out for Azazel, Azazel’s black smoke twisting and writhing beneath the skin of his meat suit. He tried to smoke out but Sam held him in place. Sam then reached inside the demon and pulled, at first only by a thin thread of power, and then with the full force of Sam’s fury. Sam drank. Sam consumed. As easily as taking a cool drink of water.
Dean watched the demon he’d been bargaining with scream, clutch his throat and then fall lifeless to the ground. There wasn’t the usual exhalation of smoke, and Dean looked around before bending and checking the pulse of the body. Dead.
Sam, now no longer dead but something not quite yet alive, appeared to Dean as an apparition. He told him he was loved. Told him he would be safe now. Then, regrettably, wiped the whole encounter with Azazel and Sam from his mind, leaving Dean to return to his grief.
The last thing Sam did before he followed the dark pull of hell was whisper into Bobby’s ear that it was time for him to call in help.
If Sam had known then how Dean would react, he might have left a suggestion that consorts look pretty hot in ceremonial gowns.
Garments, Sam corrected himself. Ceremonial garments.
“I’m not wearing a goddamn dress, Sammy. If you’re so intent on sexing me up in front of your demon suckups, you wear the fucking dress.” Dean shouted through the door, the sound of breaking glass causing Sam to wince. He liked that vase.
“Dean. Darling. It’s not like you’ll be wearing it for long.” Sam soothed.
Another crash, perhaps some ripping. Maybe Sam should have taken Dean’s knives away. At least he wasn’t shooting anything.
A loud report of gunfire followed by the door swinging open and a frantic Crowley running out made Sam wonder if it was perhaps Dean who could read minds.
“Dean. Dearest. Put down the gun. And the fertility idol.”
Dean eyed the ugly statue suspiciously and turned a death glare on Sam. “Why the hell do you have a goddamn fertility statue next to the goddamn bed?”
Sam blanched. “Um. Reasons?”
Dean threw it. Sam ducked.
“Perhaps I’ll come back later,” Sam said, ducking his head as Dean tossed the Hell Spawn of Soothed Souls idol. A fat lot of good that one did.
Sam was going to torture the demon that made up the ceremonial consort idol package. He’d put it in an aquarium, hook it up to electrodes while a steady stream of electricity flowed through the water. Maybe with sharks. Or piranhas. Sharkpiranhas. He could have someone in development swing it.
But now was not the time to plan revenge. Now was the time to soothe his bride.
“Hey,” Sam spoke through the once again closed door. “How about something to eat? Cheeseburgers and beer? Pizza and whiskey. PIE! You like pie.”
The crashing, breaking and cursing stopped. Dean said in a cautious voice, “What kind of pie?”
Excited, Sam replied. “Any kind. All kinds. You name it and it’s yours. My chef makes the best homemade pie and ice cream in hell.”
Dean moved closer to the door and grunted a bit as he knocked something against it. “Bring the pie. And cheeseburgers. And some beer. And whiskey. And give me your credit card so I can rent some Casa Erotica while I eat.”
Sam hesitated. It might not be best for his reputation if it got out that the defilement of his consort was postponed because his bride was gorging on junk food and watching porn. He shrugged. It would be worth it if Dean stopped breaking his stuff.
“Coming right up! And don’t worry about having to use a credit card. Hell sort of invented cable porn so we get everything for free.” Sam said, projecting agreeability.
“Calm down, Sammy. You’re not selling me a timeshare. Just bring the pie.”
Sam sent the order off with a thought to his chef. He also insisted it be delivered by a guard that knows their way around. With that settled, Sam went to check on Crowley.
“Why do you insist on pissing him off,” Sam shouted as he barged into Crowley’s sewing room. “Did you have to refer to the ceremonial garment as a wedding dress? We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t try to exorcise the wedding party.”
“I’m sorry, Sire,” Crowley wheezed. His chest still sporting an impressive grouping of bullet holes. “I did not know the lovely, beautiful and most excellent of shot consort would object to wearing the gown.”
“Garment,” Sam said. “We’re going with ceremonial garment. And why in hell did you put lace on it?”
Crowley ducked his head and grimaced. “I thought the green lace would enhance the beloved consort’s eyes.”
“Damn it, man! That’s why he’s freaking out. ‘Lovely’ ‘Beautiful’ ‘Pretty’. These are not words you use to describe a man that could dismember the hoards of purgatory with a smile on his face.” Sam huffed, his frustration finding a perfect avenue to vent. “He’s not delicate!”
Crowley’s face was awash in incredulity before he quickly schooled his features. Sam’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“What?” he questioned.
“Sire, forgive me. There have been rumors about the consort’s reaction to the torture chambers.” Crowley kept his head bent, his shoes now the most interesting thing in hell.
Ok. So Crowley had him there. Dean handled being in hell with admirable equanimity until a stupid guard took a wrong turn and lead Dean straight into the rack room. It wasn’t pretty. Today was pedophile day and Sam’s best torturers liked to place bets on who could cause the most sustained pain with the fewest remaining nerves. It was kind of gross.
Still, Dean only threw up a couple of times and had managed to stop screaming by the time a replacement guard came to lead him the correct way. Sam was sure to schedule the offending guard an eternity or two on the rack. Getting Dean lost in hell made Sam look bad. What kind of King can’t properly escort his bride?
Dean had calmed down by the time he reached his bed chambers. He didn’t even complain about the furniture in the room, some of which was made of human skin. He just asked for a toothbrush, grabbed a fluffy towel and went to take a shower. Best part about hell? Endless supply of hot water.
It was when Dean came out dressed in a sexy black silk robe that things went downhill.
Frickin’ Crowley had taken one look at Dean and fell in love. Not gay love; he’d have died where he stood if it was gay love. Crowley too enthusiastically kowtowed and promised Dean he would make him the most beautiful wedding dress hell had ever seen.
That’s when the punching started. Followed quickly by an exorcism that sent Crowley to some random location. Judging by the smell of his clothes when he returned, Sam guessed it was somewhere near the trash dump.
“I want a list of everyone who’s been talking about Dean. I’ll make him a necklace of tongues as a wedding gift.” Sam scolded.
Crowley quickly closed his mouth and held up the 5th incarnation of the ceremonial garment.
“That looks like a giant pillow case with holes cut in it,” Sam exclaimed.
“It is what Dean said he’d be willing to wear. It’s not made of burlap like he requested but it’s a close approximation of sack.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sam exclaimed.
Would nothing go right today?