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Little known fact: most demons put their hosts to sleep as soon as they possess them. It’s not a kindness. A hosts confusion, panic and despair could be fun at first, but, after the first five minutes or so, all that futile struggling and incessant pleas to an apathetic god get kind of tiresome. So, it was usually bedtime for Bonzo, but not this time. No, this is John Winchester and Azazel wants him awake for every minute of the show.
I hear you’ve been lookin’ for me, John, he mocks his host as he adjusts the man’s body around him like a cheap, worn suit. He could use a shower, the bruises are a dull ache, and the manly stubble itches like crazy. Aren’t you glad you found me?
I’m gonna kill you, the man snarls. Azazel knows it is not an empty threat. Even now, John honestly believes he actually will. Azazel will break that out of him in time, but for now he has to laugh at the man’s sheer pig-headed obstinance . If Sammy has inherited even an ounce of that, there is nothing that will stand in the way of his armies.
Still laughing, Azazel flops the body spread-eagled across the bed and orders his minions to tie him down. It’s an uncomfortable pose, but they needed to look the part when the boys come to the rescue. And they will come, neither of them doubt it. They may bitch about their fathers’ plans occasionally, but their children are nothing if not loyal. Azazel’s daughter will tell them where to go, and John’s boys will come running. He closes John’s eyes and spends the next few hours sifting through and creatively re-mixing their collective memories of Mary, serenaded by John’s silently howls of impotent rage. All in all, it’s one of the most pleasant afternoons he has ever spent tied to a bed.
Cavalry’s here, Azazel gloats as the commotion in the other room distracts him from his games. He keeps John’s eyes closed (all the better to feign sleep with, my dear) and fights to keep a smile off John’s face. Oh, you Winchesters; so predictable. There are screams and thumps in the other room, but Azazel has no doubt which side will win. They’re Winchesters after all. When they finally burst into the bedroom, one goes straight to the bed and starts sawing at the ropes, while the other, Azazel’s money’s on Sammy, has enough common sense to douse John’s body with holy water. Not that it’ll do them much good.
The demon slowly blinks open his hosts eyes like the drugged man he is pretending to be and sees that he is right. It is Sammy with the flask at the foot of the bed and Dean with the knife by their side. Sammy’s expression is cautious, wary, but Dean looks like the four-year-old of John’s memories, relived and excited, waiting at the door. Think Daddy’s home? Guess again, kiddo, Azazel jokes and smiles.
“Good boys,” he praises them like dogs. Good boys, falling into my trap.
John doesn’t seem to appreciate the rescue anywhere near as much, though. Since his sons have come, the only thing the man can think to say is No.
The attack comes so suddenly even Azazel is startled. Startled, but not surprised; his son has always been a little too jealous of daddy’s special projects, a little too hot tempered for following orders. This isn’t the plan, but, for now, the demon is content to slump back against the wall and make John watch Azazel’s boy turn Sammy’s face into mince-meat. He’ll intervene if it goes too far, can’t have his property too badly damaged after all, in the meantime, but boys will be boys.
Dean swoops in on the scene with a kick to Azazel’s son’s face and is tossed aside like a rag doll for his troubles. Bastard, John rails, straining to help his boys. Leave them alone. I will kill you. I will kill you all.
Now that’d be a neat trick, Azazel chuckles, Oh, Johnny, nothing’s gonna save –
Magic and gunpowder explode across the street and Azazel’s world shatters mid-taunt. The meat-suit lies sprawled on the ground like a broken puppet and his son’s soul is gone, obliterated by that god blessed colt. Dean poses in the street like a desperado in a Western and all Azazel can do is scream.
You were saying? That’s my boy, Dean, John crows with vindictive glee. His hands twitch against the pavement as he surges forward and attempts to wrestle back control of his body.
That was my boy, Azazel snarls as he shoves John brutally down. No more games; he’s done playing. That was my boy and I’ll see yours bleed before this is done.
And doesn’t that just shut the man right up.
“Dad, are you okay?” Dean’s face is tense as he lays them down across the backseat of the Impala. There is a splatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose that Azazel has never noticed before. Mary had freckles like that. John has memories of playing connect the dots with them while she giggled and told him to stop. Azazel lifts John’s hand to grip the side of the boy’s face and runs John’s thumb across the freckles. Dean’s emotions leach through his skin like osmosis. There is worry for John and little Sammy, guilt for the meat-suit, but not for Azazel’s son, and fear.
We could kill him right now, he tells John, tightening his grip on the boy’s face. Just a little pressure and we could snap his neck like a twig.
No, please, John begs. Actually begs. Where is his defiance and rage now?
Azazel brings a smile to the man’s face. Breaking John wont make up for his loss, but right now it sure feels nice. Why Johnny, I didn’t know you had it in you.
The plea still hangs between them and Azazel lets John’s hand slide from Dean’s face with a sigh. He isn’t giving in, just saving the boy’s death for later.
“How’s Sam?” Azazel asks aloud, and not just because it’s the kind of thing John would say. Sam is, after all, his best candidate and his favorite little toy.
Dean glances nervously to where his brother is slumped in the front passenger seat. “He a little banged up, but”–he worries his lower lip like a child–“we need to get out of here, Dad.”
The plea for orders is clear in his voice and Azazel wonders how they’ve managed to survive this long without John. His Sammy has what it takes to lead, to be a general, but this one? Dean is nothing, just another dumb grunt like his old man.
“Go to Milken’s cabin,” Azazel tells him, pulling the place out of John’s memory of a blissful Indian summer from the boys’ childhood. It’s the perfect stage for the show he’s got planned.
There are sirens in the distance, wailing over what’s left of Azazel’s boy. The police wont be a problem. Dean will get them through to the cabin no matter what. He’s dependable like that.
Dean tells them about Meg when Azazel asks and if there had been any pride or satisfaction in his voice the demon would have killed him right there. But there is no satisfaction there, just a quite sadness tinged with regret and guilt. Your son is an idiot, he tells John as Dean leaves to go check on his brother. A weak idiot.
He’s a good boy, John insists, a good man. Can you say that about your spawn?
Of course Azazel can’t. His son hadn’t been a good man; he hadn’t even been an especially good soldier. He had been a demon, he had been Azazel’s and that had been enough. He looks at Dean through John’s eyes, through John’s memories, and sees the cheerful boy tossing a football around the yard, the solemn boy changing his brother’s dipper, making dinner, patching up his father, watching their backs. He sees the good boy, the good man. The demon feels John’s love, his pride for his role in shaping that man and his gratified bewilderment that he managed to exist despite his father. Did you ever feel that? John mocks.
Had he? Azazel thinks of his son and remembers only expediency, pride of ownership and a sort of mild disappointment. He had never considered feeling anything else and now he remembers the other reason demons put their hosts to sleep. These damned humans with their stupid emotions. How dare the man pollute Azazel’s mind with love, with the expectation of love. How dare he sit in judgement like he’s father of the fucking year.
He slouches into the main room as Dean finishes angsting about killing a man and tells the boy everything John never had the time, never had the courage, to mention. He spews out all that vile love, fatherly pride and quite affection. Dean’s head bows with the weight of it and Azazel feels a sense of vindictive accomplishment.
Now he’ll never believe another word of praise from your mouth again, he taunts. Assuming he lives, of course.
No, John protests. You leave him alone. You leave them both alone.
Sorry, Johnny-boy, Azazel laughs silently as he reaches out to dim the lights. Intermission’s over. It’s show time.