Chapter 32: Devil's Trap — Part 2
[Abandoned Factory — Jefferson City, Missouri — December 16, 2005, Night]
The building rose from the industrial district like a monument to decay—six stories of rusted metal and broken windows, the kind of place where bad things happened to people who wandered too close. Police had stopped responding to calls about the property years ago. Nobody who went in ever came out to complain.
Ethan's Sin Sense painted the interior in shades of guilt and corruption. Dozens of demons inside, arranged in defensive patterns, guarding something precious. And at the center—a presence so dark, so ancient, that it made his chest burn with recognition.
"Azazel's here," he said quietly. "Not possessing anyone. Just... present. Like a shadow waiting to take form."
"Good." John's voice was flat. "Then we end this tonight."
The approach was careful, methodical—years of hunting experience applied to the most dangerous infiltration they'd ever attempted. Sam had mapped the building's layout from city records. Dean had identified three potential entry points. Ethan would provide distraction while the Winchesters moved to flank.
It went wrong almost immediately.
The first devil's trap was painted on the floor just inside the back entrance—invisible until Sam stepped directly onto it, the binding magic flaring to life around his feet.
"Sam!" Dean spun, gun raised.
Demons emerged from the shadows. Five, ten, a dozen—more than they'd planned for, more than they could handle in a straight fight. Dean opened fire, rock salt scattering possessed flesh, but they kept coming.
Ethan's transformation triggered, fire erupting despite his exhaustion. His chains lashed out, catching two demons, dragging them into his Hellfire. A third leaped for his throat; he caught it by the face and BURNED, watching black smoke pour from screaming lips.
But there were too many. And he was too depleted.
A demon's fist caught his jaw, spinning him sideways. Another grabbed his chains, pulling him off balance. He felt his transformation flicker—holding, but barely.
"SAM! The trap!"
Dean was fighting toward his brother, shotgun empty, switching to a silver knife. Sam was kneeling, desperately scratching at the devil's trap's lines, trying to break the binding that held him.
Then Meg appeared.
She walked through the chaos like she owned it—because she did—her host body unhurried, her expression satisfied. The Colt gleamed in her hand.
"Impressive. You actually made it this far. My master will be pleased."
"Where is he?" Ethan's voice was the Spirit's, deep and resonant despite his faltering form. "Where's Azazel?"
"Oh, he's around. Watching. Waiting." Meg smiled. "But first, let's deal with the pest problem."
Sam's voice rose, Latin phrases pouring from his lips—the exorcism they'd memorized years ago, the words that could cast a demon back to Hell. Meg's smile faltered. Her host body convulsed.
"No—you can't—"
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus!" Sam's voice grew stronger, more confident. "Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii!"
The devil's trap shattered as Sam finally broke its lines. He rose, hands extended, power flowing through the exorcism like electricity through a wire. Meg screamed—her true voice layering over her host's—and black smoke began pouring from her mouth.
Dean caught the Colt as it fell from her spasming fingers.
The exorcism completed. Meg's demonic essence was torn from her host and dragged screaming back to Hell, leaving behind a woman who collapsed like a puppet with cut strings. Alive, but broken—years of possession had taken their toll.
"Got it." Dean held up the Colt, checking the cylinder. "Three bullets left."
"Three chances," John said. "Make them count."
"Where's Dad?" Sam looked around the chaos of the fight—demons retreating, scattered, their leader expelled. "He was right behind us."
Ethan's Sin Sense flared. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
The door at the far end of the room opened. John Winchester walked through—but his eyes were yellow.
"Hello, boys." Azazel's voice poured from John's mouth, twisted and wrong, using familiar vocal cords to produce sounds that made Ethan's skin crawl. "Miss me?"
"DAD!" Dean raised the Colt.
John's hand extended. Invisible force ripped the gun from Dean's grip, sent it spinning across the room to land at Azazel's feet. The same force pinned Dean and Sam to the walls, holding them helpless.
"Now, now. Let's be civilized about this." Azazel bent, picking up the Colt with John's hands, examining it with something approaching nostalgia. "Samuel Colt. I remember when he made this. Clever little human, thought he could kill a Prince of Hell with craftsmanship and determination. He was almost right."
Ethan's chains manifested—weak, flickering, but present. They lashed toward Azazel, wrapping around John's possessed body.
"Spirit-Bearer." Azazel didn't even flinch. "Still fighting? I admire your persistence, even if I don't respect your judgment." He turned John's yellow eyes toward Ethan. "You felt it in Salvation, didn't you? When I touched your chains, when I held your fire. We're evenly matched, you and I. Your Spirit and my power—ancient forces playing at war while the mortals scramble beneath us."
"Let John go."
"Why would I do that? This body is comfortable. Familiar." Azazel smiled with John's face. "Besides, I have plans for the Winchester family. Sam especially. He's going to do great things—whether he wants to or not."
Sam struggled against the invisible force pinning him. "I won't. Whatever you want from me, I won't—"
"You will. Eventually. They all do." Azazel raised the Colt, pointing it at Sam's chest. "But if you'd rather die than cooperate, I can accommodate that. There are other special children. You're not irreplaceable—just preferred."
Ethan gathered everything he had left—every scrap of Spirit energy, every fragment of Hellfire still burning in his depleted reserves—and channeled it into his Penance Stare.
The world went white.
For an instant, Ethan was INSIDE Azazel's mind.
He saw millennia of sin: the first murder Azazel had orchestrated, the corruption of humanity's earliest civilizations, the wars and plagues and suffering he'd caused or encouraged. He saw Hell's formation, the creation of demons from tortured souls, the hierarchy that placed Azazel among the highest princes. He saw plans spanning centuries—special children, demon blood, gates and seals and apocalypses planned with terrifying patience.
And he saw the Spirit.
In Azazel's memories, the Spirit of Vengeance was different—younger, fiercer, a force of pure judgment that had fought beside angels before the Fall. They had been allies once, Spirit and demons, before choices were made and sides were chosen. The Spirit had CHOSEN to turn against Hell, to become its enemy, to burn the evil it had once worked alongside.
The weight of Azazel's sins was overwhelming. Ethan tried to hold on, tried to maintain the Stare long enough to do DAMAGE—but there was too much. Too many years, too many crimes, too much evil compressed into a single ancient consciousness.
His Penance Stare shattered.
Ethan collapsed, blood streaming from his eyes and ears, the spiritual backlash of trying to judge something far older than his borrowed power could handle. The transformation failed completely. He lay on the floor, human and helpless, barely conscious.
"That was adorable," Azazel said. "Truly. The Spirit's new host thinking he could judge ME." He stepped over Ethan's prone form. "But we don't have time for games. I have an appointment to keep."
He turned back to Sam, Colt raised.
"Dad." Dean's voice cracked. "I know you're in there. You've been fighting him your whole life. Don't stop now. FIGHT HIM."
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