Work Text:
“Sire.” Astaroth stands off to the side, having appeared silently as he’s prone to doing. With all of his experience, it’s a wonder he never tried to take the throne for himself—before Sam, that is.
His Right Hand dips his head when Sam’s eyes slide over to him, eyes flashing black in response to Sam’s golden flicker. “Astaroth,” he prompts, and it’s all his demon needs to give Sam whatever message he’s appeared with.
“You’re being summoned, sire.” The prince tilts his head, as if listening to something. Probably one of his servants. “By your brother.”
Sam rises from his throne, Hellfire in his blood, Hell’s chorus rising with him. He’s not bound by the same rules that any demon king-of-hell typically is, but he answers summons from time to time. When he’s particularly bored.
Though since it’s his brother calling, it’s a different situation entirely.
When he materializes in front of Dean, he’s surprised to find that the angel is nowhere in the immediate vicinity. Sam can’t even feel the leftover ozone of his Grace, realizing that Dean must have gotten a break—at least, Sam considers it a break—from the constant surveillance of the angel.
“Sammy,” his brother breathes, looking him up and down. Sam doesn’t bother correcting Dean about calling him that stupid childish nickname—it never seems to stop Dean from using it anyway. “You came.”
“You called,” Sam replies simply, shrugging his shoulders.
Dean steps closer, hands twitching, and lifts his arms like he’s tempted to pull Sam into a hug. “You know, I still didn’t believe it?” he admits, and he never fully closes the distance, hands just suspended in midair, like if he touches Sam, he’ll disappear. “I mean, angels are real? Heaven? Sounds stupid.” He shakes his head. “My baby brother, the king of hell?”
With a sigh, Sam steps forward, pulling Dean against him. It can’t have been too long for his brother since he found out that Sam wasn’t truly dead, but for him, in Hell, it’s been a very long time. At least, much longer than it’s been for Dean. “I’m just as real as you are,” he mutters. “Unfortunately, so are angels. Heaven is… well, it isn’t what you imagine.”
His brother clutches at him so hard that if he was still a regular human, it would probably hurt. Face buried in Sam’s shoulder, fingers clawing at his back. The part of Sam still clinging to his humanity wishes Dean could have hugged him like this during his life.
“Are you safe down there?”
The question is rumbled out against Sam’s shoulder, words pressed into Sam’s crisp white shirt, a color that still seems so wrong to wear, knowing his gig. The sentient abyss beneath his breastbone finds it hilarious.
“The demons can’t hurt me,” he eventually answers. He doesn’t push Dean away.
But his brother eventually steps back, a sigh leaving him in a rush, and looks Sam in the eyes. He winces. Sam’s eyes must be glinting golden again. “It’s not demons I’m worried about. Not really.” He shakes his head. “The devil can still hurt you, right?”
Beneath his breastbone, Hell seems to grumble and growl, angered at the idea of Her King being hurt. At the idea of Her King being dethroned by that petty archangel. To her, that creature is a waste of her space. He’s not punished enough.
“He can, but… for now, he’s still stuck in the cage. If I get my way, he’ll rot in there.” If Sam gets his way, Lucifer will never see the light of day again. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
Why else would Dean have summoned him, if not because he’s worried about something?
“Tell me something, Sam. Did you choose this? Did they do something to you?”
For a moment, Sam thinks of Cold Oak, of his knees in the mud, Dean’s voice screaming his name. He thinks of the last few moments before his death, how his brother had sworn up and down that things would be okay. How his brother held him as he breathed his last breath.
Azazel and his minions after Sam opened his eyes in hell. How he’d slaughtered the demon that gave him this role before claiming his place on Hell’s throne. How the one condition he’d set for claiming his seat was to keep his brother from ever setting foot in this place. And Hell hadn’t seemed to mind.
“I chose this,” he finally agrees, watching Dean’s face. Hell hums approvingly in his chest. “Dean, I chose to take the throne. I slaughtered Azazel and his minions for it. I won’t be controlled by the demons or the angels any longer.” He hopes his brother understands. “And Hell will never claim your soul as long as I’m ruling her.”
Dean’s jaw clenches and releases, and then he speaks. “Why is that, Sam?”
It’s honestly baffling that he has to ask.
“Dean, I’m not going to let you be tortured for all eternity. And I definitely don’t want you to become one of my minions.” Sam watches Dean’s face, wondering what his brother might be thinking. His expression is hard to read.
“Sammy, how am I supposed to be okay with never seeing you?”
Perhaps that’s the crux of it all—Dean never wanted to be alone. Hates being alone more than he hates even the monsters that he hunts. “Dean.”
He pivots, pacing away from Sam with his hands curled into fists, shaking his head back and forth. Sam feels the most like himself right now, watching his brother’s back, lost for the right words to comfort him—he doesn’t want to make empty promises, and Dean wouldn’t want to hear them.
Instead, he says, “I came when you summoned me.”
As that sinks in, his brother looks at him over a shoulder, brows furrowed in thought.
“I’m not like your regular Kings of Hell,” he explains slowly, and sharing this piece of information doesn’t feel quite right—if it was anyone but Dean, Sam wouldn’t be saying a word. “I didn’t have to come. I’m not bound by the same rules, Dean.”
“But earlier, when I said-” Dean frowns. “It sounded like you had to come because I summoned you.”
Sam shrugs. “I said I came because you called,” he corrects. “You called, Dean. Of course I’ll answer.”
A complicated set of emotions passes over his brother’s face. “Seriously? That’s it?” He shakes his head. “The whole time you were at school, I just wanted you to come home.”
Something clenches in Sam’s chest. But before he can come up with something—anything—to say, Dean keeps going.
“I finally got you back, even though so much shit happened, only for you to-” His voice chokes off, and he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. “And now-” A huff. “Now, I have to summon the King of Hell if I want to see my baby brother?”
Sam figures it could be worse. “I’ll visit more often,” he offers, because he doesn’t want his brother to be in pain. “Time is wonky down there, so I don’t always know how long it’s been since I’ve been topside.” Maybe he can have someone keep an eye on Dean for him. That might be a good idea… As long as the angel doesn’t interfere. “But I’ll work something out. Set a timer or something.” It’s not an obsession if it’s a necessity. He needs to know that his brother is safe, after all.