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The Amalgamation Of Belphegor's Little Crush

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He can tell the moment good ole Cass is about to get his smite on. He’d only been observing him for… years.

It’s kind of… poetic justice that he wears the vessel that had once trapped him in the ground when Asmodeus had tried to free him. Fitting that Castiel would have to destroy the pretty face of his son, who had meant so much to him. Sure that’s really fun. But what he has planned… oh, now that is his idea of a hellish time.

First though, he has to make sure everything goes as it should. That everything is real. Or looks that way.

You see, the thing about souls, it’s that as soon as they’re harnessed, they give their owner infinite power. So a kajillion souls and Cass about to kill him. It only makes sense that he siphon off some power from each soul; to save himself of course. Then when the souls escaped afterwards there would be no suspicion.

“Cass… it’s me. Jack.” It takes everything he has to not smile as Castiel raises his hand, his eyes glowing blue with power. He focuses on the Haxon Ring that lays just feet away. His friend had always had the best of timing. He transfers his essence scrupulously and watches as Castiel burns his former body to a husk, sitting desolately in it’s remains.

Belphegor looks on sadly, he’d enjoyed that vessel; it gave him the unique advantage of toying with Castiel and the Winchesters. It doesn’t last long though, he knows that he’s moving on to bigger, better vessels.

With all the delicious thoughts about all the things he can do, the pain and havoc that he can inflict he moves on… to his new vessel. You know, the one who he idolises. The one who he’d had all the time in the world to study.

Dean Winchester, here I come.

He slips in easily. It fits like a glove, or better yet, like a coat, as Castiel had said. He pushes Dean aside with ease. The anti-possession tattoo means nothing to a being as old and as powerful as he is. Sure, he had admired Dean from afar in Hell, but it’s completely different to be inside of him. He shivers in delight, amused by how comfortable he already is. He’d been a special kind of torturer in hell. His kind tortured each other for fun and sometimes… just sometimes, demons threw in wily souls for them to devour. Their agony had been his life force. What a great time to be on this earth.


“Cass! What the hell happened? Where’s Belphegor?”

“I killed him.”

You did, didn’t you.

With Sam is easy. With Sam he doesn’t really have to try. He’s so lost in his grief to notice anything amiss. Not the sweater. Not the sweet nothings he’d whispered in his ear.

With Castiel though it was almost comical.

“How’s Sam.” The angel asks.

He takes his time, settling into his role as he pours his drink.

“Not great.” He says, as he leans against the table.

The angel takes a step closer. “Sorry about Rowena.”

With the way Dean’s been treating him, it’s almost too easy to make him believe what comes next. “You're sorry? Why didn't you just stick to the damn plan?

“Belphegor was lying.”

“Belphegor's a demon.” Well. Technicalities.

“He was using us.” Still am he thinks happily. And you’ll never ever know it.

“He wanted to eat every last soul to take over Hell, Earth, and every.” Castiel tries to explain.

“Yeah, and we would've figured it out after.” Belphegor shouts. Maybe he’s enjoying this a bit too much. “With Rowena.”

“The plan changed, Dean. Something went wrong. You know this. Something always goes wrong.” Dean stirs in his head and Belphegor whispers him a lullaby, lulling him back to sleep.

Now, the nail in the coffin. “Yeah, why does that something always seem to be you?”

Face cracking with the force of Dean’s words, the angel crumbles beautifully before his eyes. “You used to trust me, give me the benefit of the doubt. Now you can barely look at me. My powers are failing, and- and I've tried to talk to you, over and over, and you just don't want to hear it.” But he does want to hear it, every last painful detail. “You don't care. I'm dead to you. You still blame me for Mary. Well, I don't think there's anything left to say.”

“Where you going?” Yes, let him think that there’s still a chance.

“Jack's dead. Chuck's gone. You and Sam have each other. I think it's time for me to move on.” At that last lingering look is the cue for him – for Dean – to say something – anything really. It wouldn’t take much to get the angel to say. He moves his lips a few times, purposefully, wanting to draw this out as long as possible. But alas, every moment has its end.

And in the darkness, long after the bunker door had slammed shut. Over the screaming of Dean Winchester, hell’s finest, in his head, he laughs, loud and boisterous. The world would rue the day.

All the doors in Hell had sprung open. And the shedim are finally free.