Visit From The Prince

Flathead National Forest, Montana -- 1991

There's something deeply unsettling about watching your twelve-year-old brother load a shotgun with rock salt while your father explains how to kill a vengeful spirit.

But that's exactly what Dean was doing, his small hands moving with practiced efficiency that should have belonged to someone three times his age.

I sat cross-legged on my motel bed, pretending to study the journal Dad had started letting me keep, while actually watching them through my bangs.

At eight, I was deemed too young for actual hunting, but old enough to start "proper research duty."

If they only knew how much I already knew. How much I remembered.

"Sammy," Dad's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Tell your brother what you found about Margaret Wilson."

I straightened, flipping through my notes even though I had them memorized. "Margaret Wilson, died 1943. Local schoolteacher who hung herself in the gymnasium after finding out her fiancé died in World War II.

Started appearing after they renovated the old school building last month. Three injuries so far, no deaths."

Dad nodded approvingly. "And how do we stop her?"

"Salt and burn the bones," I recited, then added something I knew would catch his attention. "But there might be a problem. According to the newspaper archives at the library, she was cremated."

Dean looked up from his shotgun. "Then how's she still here?"

"Her locket," I said, trying to sound uncertain rather than confident. "The one article mentioned she always wore her fiancé's picture in a silver locket. They buried her ashes with it."

Dad's eyebrows rose. "Good work, Sammy. That's exactly the kind of detail we need to look for."

I felt a flutter of pride, quickly followed by unease. Every bit of knowledge I revealed had to be carefully measured. Too much would raise suspicions, too little might get someone hurt.

"Which means," Dad continued, checking his own shotgun, "we've got a grave to dig up tonight. Dean, you're coming with me. Sam, you stay here and man the phones."

"But Dad-" I started to protest, not because I wanted to go, but because it was expected.

"No buts, Sammy. You're not ready for field work yet."

I nodded, appropriately dejected, while internally relieved. Being alone would give me time for what I really needed to do.

After they left, I waited fifteen minutes before pulling out my real journal – the one hidden in a hollow Bible I'd carefully carved out.

This journal contained some things I couldn't let anyone see: strengthening plans, and strategies, and most importantly, my research into vessels and angel lore.

I rewrote it today, because I constantly burn it, while making sure to leave no evidence. All so that I never forget what I know.

Tonight's goal though is to find a way to strengthen my mental defenses without anyone noticing.

I'd been practicing in secret – meditation techniques, mental exercises, anything I could find that might help build walls against future possession.

The demon blood in my veins made it harder, creating channels that shouldn't exist, pathways that felt like they were waiting for something.

Or someone.

After a couple hours of training a sudden chill ran through the room. My breath fogged in front of my face, and the lights flickered.

I froze, heart pounding. This wasn't part of the plan. The ghost was supposed to be at the school, where Dad and Dean were heading.

Unless...

"Hello, Sam Winchester."

Margaret Wilson stood at the foot of my bed, but she wasn't alone. Behind her, barely visible, was something else. Something with yellow eyes.

"No," I whispered, scrambling backward. "You're not supposed to be here yet."

Azazel's laugh echoed through the ghost's form. "Oh, Sammy. Did you really think we couldn't sense how special you are? How different?"

The temperature dropped further. Ice crystals formed on the windows.

"Stay back," I warned, reaching for the salt gun Dad had left behind. My small hands shook as I aimed it.

"Now, now," Azazel purred through Margaret's ghostly form. "Is that any way to treat your benefactor? After all, my blood runs through your veins. I can feel it singing to me."

The gun flew from my hands, clattering against the far wall.

"You're not real," I said, trying to sound brave. "This is just a dream."

"Are you sure about that?" Margaret's form flickered, showing Azazel's male vessel face for just a moment. "Because you feel very real to me, little vessel. Very real indeed."

My mind raced. This shouldn't be happening. Azazel wasn't supposed to make direct contact for years. Something had changed – had my presence, my knowledge, somehow altered the timeline?

"What do you want?" I demanded, buying time while I inched toward my backpack. There was a container of salt in the side pocket.

"Want?" Azazel's voice came through Margaret's ghost like static through a broken radio.

"I want to understand you, Sammy. You're different than you should be. Smarter. Wiser." His yellow eyes gleamed. "More interesting."

The demon blood in my veins burned, responding to his presence. That hollow space inside me pulsed, but not for him – for something far more terrifying.

"You're special, Sam," he continued, making Margaret's form drift closer.

"But you already know that, don't you? You know so much more than you should. Have you been getting prophetic dreams?"

My fingers closed around the salt container. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" Azazel chuckled, the sound making the windows rattle. "Then why do you practice those little mental exercises when no one's watching?

Why do you read books about vessels and possession that would give poor Pastor Jim a heart attack?"

Ice formed in my veins. He'd been watching me.

I grit my teeth. I expected and feared it, but I couldn't just do nothing.

"Stay back," I warned, ripping open the salt container.

"Or what? You'll tell Daddy? Dear John Winchester, who has no idea what his precious boy really is?" Azazel made Margaret's form flicker again, his other face again. "What you're meant to be?"

"I'm not meant to be anything," I spat, throwing a line of salt between us. "I make my own choices."

"Do you?" He seemed amused. "Then choose this – look into my mind, Sammy. Use those powers you're so afraid of. See what I see."

The demon blood in my veins surged, responding to his invitation. For a moment, I felt it – a connection, a doorway opening in my mind.

"No!" I slammed it shut, but not before catching a glimpse: fire, sulfur, and a cage so deep in Hell it made my soul ache. Inside it, something bright and terrible stirred, reaching out...

"Get out!" I screamed, throwing more salt. My nose started bleeding from the mental effort.

Azazel laughed again, but there was something new in his voice – respect, maybe even concern. "Fascinating. You're not just different – you're dangerous. I'll have to adjust my plans."

"Leave me alone," I growled, wiping blood from my nose. "Or I'll-"

"You'll what? Tell someone what you know? What you really are- if you even know for certain, that is." He made Margaret's form smile. "No, I don't think you will. You're carrying too many secrets, little vessel. And secrets have power."

The lights flickered violently. In the distance, I heard the Impala's engine.

"Until next time, Sammy," Azazel purred. "Keep growing stronger. You're going to need it."

Margaret's ghost dissipated like smoke, taking Azazel's presence with it. The temperature slowly returned to normal, leaving me alone with my pounding heart and bloody nose.

Minutes later, Dad and Dean burst through the door, weapons ready.

"Sammy!" Dean rushed to my side. "Your nose-"

"I'm okay," I said quickly. "The ghost showed up here. I used the salt like you taught me."

Dad surveyed the room, his expression grim. "You did good, son. But why would she come here instead of staying at the school?"

Because she didn't. Because something much worse was using her as a puppet.

"I don't know," I lied, letting Dean fuss over my bloody nose. "Maybe because I was researching her?"

Dad nodded slowly, but I could see suspicion in his eyes. He was already becoming the hunter who would question everything, trust no one.

That night, after Dean fell asleep, after Dad made sure to go and salt and burn it, having come back only because Dean vehemently wanted to, saying he felt something bad from what I've heard, I added a new entry in my mind journal:

'Azazel knows something's different. Timeline possibly altered. Need stronger defenses. Need to be ready.

P.S. Research ghost possession by demons. New threat to consider.

P.P.S. The cage is real. He's real, no matter how much you want to deny it. And he's waiting.'

I burned the written pages of the journal as always, hid the hollow Bible, and tried not to think about how the hollow space inside me had resonated when I glimpsed that cage. How for just a moment, it had felt like coming home.

No. I wouldn't let that be my destiny. I'd find another way.

But as I drifted off to sleep, I could have sworn I heard wings rustling in the darkness, and somewhere, deep in my soul, an a call to be filled.

-----------------------------------

(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter!

So, Azazel made his appearance. I find this logical.

That monster worships Lucifer, having basically set up Sam's entire life in the show and with Sam basically sending waves of soul/psychic energy everywhere when he trains, whether he intends to or not because of his inexperience, things were bound to change.

So yeah, do please comment, and review if you haven't and I hope to see you all later,

Bye!)