Guns and Grace

Chapter 11: Keep Myself Alive

A/N alright motherfuckers, here we go, i'll be reintroducing old characters, introducing a new one, and technically killing off an old one. oof this is going to be an emotional roller coaster mostly at the bottom like my life A/N

The Singer House, 12:23 AM January 15, 1998, 2 Hours and 21 Minutes until the Birth of Sam Winchester's Son

The plan was set. At 1:30, the boys would sneak out of the house and meet Meg and her friend at the Gate. Meg would take Sam and Gabe to the room were his son was being born while Dean and Cas were backing them up, taking out as many demons as they could to keep their presence in Hell as incognito as possible, Russian stealth style.

It was a bad idea, but hey, what the hell, comrade.

1:30 came by too slowly. They were all antsy, waiting. By 1:20, they all headed to the meeting place which was 1 mile in the woods behind the sheriff's office. On 1:30 on the dot, Meg showed with her friend. She had long, curly red hair, a skin-tight black gala dress with matching heels, bright green eyes, and a smirk that could kill.

"Guys, this is Rowena, she's a witch and she owes me one; she'll get you in," introduced Meg.

They nodded towards her and she did a little patronizing curtsy. "So," she said in a Scottish accent, "Are you boys ready to die in the depths of Hell alone and afraid?"

"Sure, why not?" shrugged Gabe.

"Alrighty then," said Rowena a little confused, "I'll need you boys, and you, lass, to stand in a circle and link hands."

They did as they were told and Gabe gave his boyfriend's hand a reassuring squeeze. Sam winked and smiled sadly at him in thanks. Rowena put some Purge-worthy ingredients in the middle of their circle and starting chanting something that suspiciously sounded like "Fuck the police, fuck the police," when they were suddenly hit by jolt of what felt like cold lightning. 

They collapsed on a damp, stone floor in a dimly lit limestone corridor. The walls were wet with condensation and streaks of damned souls' blood. Flaming torches in (ironically) iron brackets were the only source of light. Echoes of screams of tortured souls were heard distantly.

"Alright boys," said Meg smugly, "Clarence and James Dean here will stick around here, taking out as many guards as they can while Trickster and Moose here follow me."

"Huh, 'Trickster.' I like it," shrugged Gabe.

They pulled out their angel blades and went their separate ways.

-~-

Dean gripped his knife tighter than he gripped his boyfriend's hand. They were currently patrolling the different corridors of the place and were looking at people in cells. They all were different-looking. There was a man with a long gray beard rocking back and forth on the ground  and mumbling "Make it stop, make it stop." His legs were missing, ragged intestines were leaking onto the dirty floor, his hands separate from his body carelessly tossed across the cell. There was a young, 20-some woman who might have been beautiful if it wasn't for half the skin on her face missing and literal needles sticking in every possible part of her body. She was humming a lullaby placidly as her painted on the walls pictures of shredded corpses with her own blood.

Dean shivered as he walked by a teenaged boy reciting the Lord's Prayer on a loop while strapped in a cross position with his veins and arteries hanging out. Cas pulled him closer to himself and said, "Tunnel vision, my love, don't look at it." 

"Fucking hell, Cas, how am I not supposed to look at it?" snapped Dean. "I'm sorry, I'm just, on edge."

Cas gently kissed his forehead and gripped his hand tighter.