(Sam) Devil Went Down to Sunnydale (Patreon)

Devil Went Down to Sunnydale I – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – There was an author who once wrote something idiotically insipid and pointless.

Devil Went Down to Sunnydale I

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

There was an author who once wrote something idiotically insipid and pointless.Not very specific, I know, but in this case, it was something along the lines of “dying is quicker and easier than falling asleep.”Well, duh. 

It didn’t take a motherfucking genius to figure that much out.

You didn’t have much choice when it came to dying, and unlike falling asleep, it rarely took up to an hour.

You also don’t expect to die as a perfectly healthy young man, either.

Still, one rarely expects to close their eyes in a comfortable bed and wake up in a place that was much much more comfortable.

Only to be pushed, pushed and pushed out into a harsh unforgiving world of chaotic madness.

Unfortunately — or fortunately, depending on how you look at things — that’s exactly what he had gone through.He was thrust suddenly and mercilessly into the glaring brightness, the abrupt transition from the comforting darkness to this stark, noisy reality overwhelming his senses. The sharp slap of cold air against his skin made him gasp, stark against the muffled warmth he had known. His first breath was a gasp, a harsh drag of perfect air that filled his lungs and ignited a piercing cry that echoed strangely in his ears, a sound so foreign yet instinctively his own. 

Cold. Bright. Loud. Wrong.

The world spun, a kaleidoscope of blurred shapes and muffled sounds. His body, so small and unfamiliar, trembled with each new sensation. The air felt like needles on his skin, every touch a shock to his system. He flailed, his tiny fists clenched in futile protest, the world around him a blur of shapes and indistinct noises.

No- No control. C-can't move right. Everything… too big.

Hands, firm yet inexplicably gentle, swaddled him in soft, warm cloth, wrapping his trembling body with such care that his cries faltered, replaced by confused whimpers. His arms flailed with an uncontrollable force, his small body convulsing with the shock of birth even still. These hands, practiced and sure, moved with an efficiency that spoke of countless others comforted just so before him. 

Trapped. Confined. 

The cloth around him was a cocoon, a barrier against the harsh world. It smelled of something clean and fresh, a stark contrast to the metallic tang in the air. His cries subsided to whimpers, the sudden confinement both comforting and claustrophobic.

...safe?

Once swaddled, he was lifted—so high, it seemed to him—and then nestled into a cradle of warmth and softness that smelled faintly of sweat and something sweet and floral that calmed his raw nerves. The motion was dizzying, his stomach lurching as he was moved. Up, up, and then down into something soft and warm.

Moving. Floating. Falling?

His eyes, unaccustomed to light, saw little but shapes, blurred and bending at the edges. The figures loomed like giants from a fairytale, faces coming into focus above him. Where... The question formed in his mind, fragmented and confused. 

Where... 

The room, from what little he could make out, was grand, the colors rich and regal—deep reds and pristine whites that spoke of opulence and power. A palace? A castle? His mind supplied, grasping at straws.

This wasn't right. 

He wasn't supposed to be here, wherever here was.

Too big. Everything's too big. I'm too small.

A face hovered above him, features slowly coming into focus. Eyes, nose, mouth—all impossibly large, dominating his field of vision. The face smiled, and he felt a strange mix of comfort and fear. This wasn't his world, wasn't his body, and yet...

A woman, equally tall and imposing, cradled his body. "Shh, shh," she cooed, her voice a soothing balm that sliced through the haze of his distress. The sound vibrated through him, deep and resonant. It was both foreign and familiar, a contradiction that his newborn mind struggled to process.

He calmed and looked at her. The panic subsided, replaced by a curious wonder. Her face was kind, her eyes warm and loving. But she wasn't... she couldn't be... 

Who…

Her skin was a rich, dark canvas, her features etched with fatigue and relief. Long hair, the color of fresh blood, clings to her face and neck, matted with the effort of labor and eyes as blue as the sky stare down at him. She was striking, beautiful, her hair a vivid red stream that flows down her back, a stark contrast to the paleness of the hospital gown. Her hands, gentle but shaking slightly, adjust the bundle in her arms, ensuring the cloth is tucked snugly around the tiny, writhing form. Wha-

The thought forms and dissolves, lost in a sea of sensation. Colors blur and blend, shapes shift and morph. The world is a kaleidoscope of chaos, and he is at its center, helpless and overwhelmed.

The woman into whose arms he was settled was a giant compared to his fragile, tiny, tiny tiny tiny form. Her skin was a rich, dark hue that shimmered with perspiration, like polished mahogany under a sheen of morning dew. The contrast against the stark white of her gown was jarring, a visual anchor that demanded his attention.

Her hair—a startling shade of blood-red—was plastered to her back and shoulders, tendrils sticking to her damp forehead. It cascaded down like a waterfall of crimson, each strand catching the light and refracting it in a dizzying dance. The scent of it mingled with the antiseptic hospital smell, creating an oddly comforting cocktail of aromas.

Red. So much red. Why red?

Despite the exhaustion that marred her features, her eyes, large and luminously blue, regarded him with an intensity that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. They were vast oceans, deep and unfathomable, pulling him in with an irresistible force. Love and awe intermingled in her gaze, tethering him to her with an invisible, unbreakable bond.

Blue. Sky blue. Ocean blue. Mother blue?

The concept of 'mother' flickered through his fragmented consciousness, a word without meaning yet laden with instinctive significance. His tiny hands, acting on their own accord, reached out, grasping at nothing.

Mom? The thought flickered through his mind, a tentative recognition amidst the confusion. But no, that couldn't be right. His mother, the one from his memories, had soft brown hair and warm hazel eyes, not this striking visage of dark skin and fiery locks. Where am I? What's happening? His newborn brain, overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations, struggled to make sense of it all.

Beside her, another massive titan—a man with proud, angular features—stood watching over them. His skin shared the same deep tone as the woman's, a stark contrast to the striking white of his slicked-back hair. The pride etched into his every lineament was palpable, his broad shoulders squared as if he bore not just the weight of his new progeny but also the dreams of what the little one might one day become. 

White hair. Old? 

No... strong. 

Powerful.

The man's presence radiated authority, a palpable force that seemed to bend the very air around him. Even in his limited state of awareness, he could feel that much.

The man's hands, fine and untouched despite their large imposing size, hovered hesitantly, clearly eager to touch yet restrained by the reverence of the moment. They were hands that spoke of power rarely used, of strength held in check. The newborn's eyes, still adjusting to the harsh light of the world, struggled to focus on those hands, drawn to their movement like a moth to flame.

Dad? Another flicker of recognition, just as quickly dismissed. His father, the one he remembered, had salt-and-pepper hair and a kind, weathered face, not this imposing figure of strength and pride. The disconnect between his memories and his current reality was jarring, adding to the disorientation that threatened to overwhelm him.

Big. Everything so big. Me so small.

The room was filled with a cacophony of sounds— the soft murmur of voices, the movement of footsteps, the occasional clatter of tools—but they all seemed distant, muffled by the cocoon of warmth and scent in which he was enveloped. Each noise was a puzzle piece that didn't fit, a jarring note in the symphony of his new existence.

In his mother's arms, the world narrowed to the space between their two bodies, her heartbeat a soothing rhythm that lulled his tremors and soothed his fears. The steady thump-thump was a lifeline, a connection to the safety of the womb he had so recently left behind. It whispered of security, of belonging, of a love so profound it transcended his ability to comprehend.

Safe. Warm. Home?

He cried again, a reflexive response to the overwhelming sensory input, but this time his cries were softer, less panicked. They were the involuntary utterances of a being too new to the world to understand or control his reactions. The sound of his own voice startled him, alien and yet intimately familiar.

His mother shifted slightly, adjusting his position against her chest, and the subtle movement reminded him of the security of the womb. The gentle sway, the press of warm skin against his cheek, the rise and fall of her breath—all echoed the rhythms that had defined his existence until mere moments ago.This isn't right, his adult mind protested, even as his infant body instinctively curled into the warmth of his mother's embrace. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be alive. But the thoughts were fleeting, wiped away by the tidal wave of new sensations that crashed over him with each passing second. The softness of the blanket against his sensitive skin, the warmth of his mother's body, the muffled sounds that gradually became clearer—each new input demanded his attention, leaving no room for the existential crisis that lurked at the edges of his consciousness.

Her voice, when she spoke, was a soft coo that vibrated through her chest and into his body, a primal sound that promised safety and comfort. It was melody and meaning all at once, wrapping around him like the softest blanket.

"Your sixth son," she announced wearily, voice clear and warm despite her obvious tiredness and strain, "Duke Ash-Shaytan."

The words hung in the air, heavy with significance that the newborn couldn't begin to fathom. Yet something in them resonated, a chord struck deep within his being. Sixth son. Duke. Ash-Shaytan. The syllables danced in his mind, foreign yet oddly familiar, like the memory of a dream upon waking.

Who am I? What am I?

The man beside her, the Duke, stood with an air of undeniable pride. His skin was a shade darker than the woman's, his stature imposing. His hair was slicked back, the stark white strands odd against the clear vibrancy of his body and the youth of his face. The smile that initially played at the corners of his mouth soon stretched into a broad grin, revealing a row of sharp, gleaming teeth that glinted like daggers in the dim light.

Duke? Lady wife? The titles swirled in his mind, foreign and strange. This isn't right. This can't be real. But the sensations were too vivid, too overwhelming to be a dream. The rough texture of the blanket against his sensitive skin, the warmth of his mother's embrace, the looming presence of the Duke—it was all too tangible to be a mere figment of his imagination.

His cries grew louder, a primal, instinctive response to the overwhelming newness of everything around him. The sound echoed in the grand chamber, bouncing off the ornate walls and high ceiling. It was a sound of confusion, of fear, of panic.

"You have done well, my Lady wife," the Duke's voice boomed, rich and commanding. The sound vibrated through the air, adding to the blaring sensations that assaulted the newborn's senses. 

Wife? Mother? The words tangled in his mind, their meaning clear but their context alien.

The woman, now identified as his Lady wife, nodded slowly, a flicker of sadness passing through her eyes as she managed a tired, sincere smile. "My best, my Lord Husband," she responded, her tone imbued with a hint of melancholy despite the proud moment. Her voice, soft and melodic, was a stark contrast to the Duke's booming baritone. Husband? Father? 

"All I ask of you," the Duke replied, his voice softening just enough to brush the edges of tenderness. It was a tone that spoke of a deep connection, a bond forged through shared experiences and mutual respect. Love? The concept flitted through his mind, abstract and intangible. Do they love each other? Do they love... me?

As the baby settled uneasily in the crook of his mother's arm, still letting out soft, involuntary cries, a brief pause fell over the room, filled only by the crackle of the candle and his fitful sobs. Then the Duke leaned in, his large frame shadowing both the mother and the child. His presence was overwhelming, a tangible force that seemed to fill the room. 

Too close. Too much. The newborn's cries intensified, his tiny body squirming in a futile attempt to escape the overpowering sensations.

"What shall you name him?" the woman asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the act of speaking was a monumental effort. 

The man leaned even closer still, his presence formidable yet strangely reassuring. His voice, a deep bass that resonated around the room. "What he deserves." The Duke's eyes, reflecting the flicker of candlelight, surveyed him with a discerning, calculating, yet proud, gaze. "What he deserves. As a true son, he bears the true names of our honored grandfather."

Grandfather? Another piece of the puzzle, another thread in the tapestry of this new, confusing reality. Whose grandfather? Mine? His? The questions swirled, unanswerable in his infant mind.

Who's he, you might be asking? 

Well, that's honestly the easiest thing to answer out of this whole entire mess.

"Welcome to the family, Sammael Lucifer Ash-Shaytan."The name crashed over him like a wave, each syllable a jolt of recognition that pierced through the fog of newborn confusion. Sammael. Lucifer. Ash-Shaytan. The names resonated with a terrible familiarity, echoing in the depths of a mind far older than his newborn body.

Me? That's... me?

Fuck.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The cool night air danced across his skin, a cocktail of the town’s scents hitching a ride - exhaust fumes, greasy fast food, and beneath it all, the tantalizing tang of fear. He inhaled deeply, savoring the bouquet like a sommelier at a wine tasting. His nostrils flared slightly, catching the faintest traces of Xander's panic-sweat and Jesse's newfound vampiric musk. Mmm, essence of terror with notes of undeath. Vintage 1997. A good year.

From his rooftop perch, Sam watched the unfolding drama below with the keen interest of a chess master observing an amateur match. His supernatural eyesight picked out every detail in the murky alley, transforming the darkness into a high-definition spectacle of human fragility and vampiric hunger.

He'd seen Harris bolt from the Bronze earlier, the dark-haired teenager wearing an expression that 'deer in headlights' couldn't quite capture. It was more 'mouse in a blender', really - the wide-eyed, slack-jawed look of someone whose world had just been put through a cosmic spin cycle. 

Sam clicked his tongue, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. "Tsk tsk, X-Man," he murmured, head tilting in mock disappointment. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to run from predators?" He shook his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "They love the hunt."

His fingers drummed out a complex rhythm on the concrete ledge, a tune that seemed to dance just on the edge of recognition. Was it Beethoven? Led Zeppelin? Baby Shark? The melody shifted and morphed, never quite settling into anything definitive. 

Much like himself, really.

Sixteen years had only served to make things only slightly less confusing.

The Devil watched, equal parts amused and intrigued, as Xander's sneakers slapped against the grimy alley floor. Each step was a desperate negotiation with gravity, a rhythmic echo of mortality fleeing its inevitable end. Splash, slap, stumble, repeat. It was almost musical, in a chaotic, mortal sort of way. Poetry in motion, Sam mused, his lips quirking into a half-smile. If the poet was drunk and the motion was a stumbling mess.

A smirk played across Sam's lips, his teeth gleaming momentarily in a sliver of moonlight like a shark's fin breaking the ocean's surface. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the rooftop's edge, his posture a study in casual elegance that seemed almost out of place in the grungy setting. From his vantage point, the shadows seemed to cling to him like eager puppies, the cool night air wrapping around him like a tailor-made cloak. He observed the scene with the detached interest of someone channel-surfing through a B-movie marathon. 

"Run, Xander, run," Sam murmured, the words barely a whisper against the backdrop of distant sirens, screams from The Bronze and the vague nocturnal rustlings of a town too steeped in denial. His words dripped with irony, a rich chuckle bubbling up from his chest as he watched the all-too-human scramble for survival. It was like watching a hamster on a wheel - lots of effort, zero progress.

Sam's head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing as he considered the fleeing boy. He'd given Xander his card for a reason, hoping the teen would find cause to use it, to call on him. Give in to fear, Xander-boy. Run far away from where Buffy could find you. The thought brought a wider smile to his face, teeth flashing in the darkness like a neon 'Danger' sign.

The teenager's gait was labored, pain etched into every awkward angle of his run. It was a dance of desperation, choreographed by fear and adrenaline, with Death himself waiting in the wings. Xander's jeans, dark with blood and clinging to his leg like a macabre fashion statement, flapped grotesquely with each limping step.

The sight brought a flutter of excitement to Sam's stomach, a primal response to the scent of blood and terror that he quickly tamped down. It was like standing in front of a bakery when you're on a diet - tempting, but ultimately not worth the calories. 

Or in this case, the complications.

He's not here to indulge those urges, after all. 

Not tonight, at least.And certainly not on innocent humans.

Still, Sam could almost taste the metallic tang of panic that hung around the fleeing boy like a cheap cologne. It was intoxicating, a heady mix of sweat and adrenaline that made his Devil instincts roar and his tongue wet with saliva. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the bigger picture. Hm. He tilted his head to the side, his scarlet dreadlocks falling across his face. Even despite the panic, he didn't piss himself.

The young Devil nodded, a gesture of grudging respect. Commendable. His lips quirk into a half-smile, acknowledging the unexpected strength in the seemingly unremarkable human boy. 

Seemingly.

The word hung in his mind, pregnant with possibilities. How many times had he seen the "seemingly unremarkable" change the course of history? How many times had the overlooked pawn become the queen that won the game? Sam's smile widened, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. 

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Below, Jesse's transformation from friend to fiend was almost comical, if one's sense of humor is dark enough. 

And Sam's certainly was. 

He watched with barely concealed delight as the newly turned vampire strutted down the alley, reveling in his newfound power. It was like watching a toddler discover they could walk - adorable in its naivety, hilarious in its hubris. Jesse's cackle, once harmless, now carried the weight of unspoken threats and hunger, the sound bouncing off the alley's graffiti-laden walls. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sam whispered to the night, his voice taking on the cadence of a ringmaster, "welcome to the greatest show on Earth. In this corner, we have the newly minted vampire, drunk on power and stupidity. And in this corner, our plucky human hero, fueled by fear and a stubborn refusal to die. Place your bets!"

Jesse's pursuit was leisurely, almost casual. His jog was smooth, unhurried, the confidence of the predator who knows the outcome is inevitable. Each step was a study in preternatural grace, a stark contrast to Xander's frantic scramble. Sam's eyes narrowed, assessing the newly turned vampire with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

"The little blood rats of this world," he mused, his voice dripping with condescension, "very egoistic for how weak they are." He clicked his tongue, the sound sharp enough to cut through steel. "Tsk, tsk, Jesse-boy. Pride goeth before a fall, and all that jazz."

There was no way the vampire boy would live past tonight.

Even if he could easily cow him, most Nosferatu required decades to tamp down the repressed ego and simmering malice hidden in their souls before their sire’s kiss let it consume them. I can’t stand a minimum of five years of that.

Jesse's voice, when it cut through the air, was filled with a mocking cheerfulness that belied the darkness of his intent. "Where you goin', bud?" he called out, the familiarity of the term belied by the chilling alteration of his tone, now laced with the promise of death. 

Sam couldn't help but roll his eyes. Amateur hour at the apocalypse, he thought, suppressing a chuckle. "Really?" he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's the best you can do? No 'I vant to suck your blood'? No 'Your soul is mine'? Kids these days, no appreciation for the classics."

On the other hand, Xander's flight was much less an outright run than a frantic, panicked stagger, his movements erratic and pained, each step an uneven negotiation with the slick cobblestones and litter that cluttered his path. Blood loss and fear left him moving on instinct alone, a puppet with cut strings flailing in a desperate bid for survival.

His breathing was ragged, all sharp intakes and frantic exhales that punctuated the night with the rhythm of hunted fear. It was a primal sound, one that spoke to the most basic instincts of survival. Sam closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the symphony of terror playing out below, despite himself. 

A second later, he shook his head. Devil instincts are so much stronger here than home. Odd but not unexpected. Compressing so many hell dimensions worth of infernal energy on a small little town might have an effect… who knew?

When he opened them again, they gleamed red with an otherworldly light, reflecting the sparse illumination of the alley like a cat's eyes in the dark.

"You smell kinda good, bro. Is that weird of me to say?" Jesse's voice, tinged with the hollow timbre of the undead, echoed up to Sam's ears. The absurdity of the question, compared with the seriousness of the chase, drew a quiet chuckle from Sam. 

How quaint, he thought, his smirk widening, the beast reducing its eloquence to the banal niceties of human interaction. It was almost poetic, in a twisted sort of way.

Is now really the time to be wondering about being gay? He tilted his head to the side, the movement smooth and serpentine. Well, we are teenagers.

Sam's eyes, glowing with an otherworldly blue, track Xander's desperate flight with the intensity of a predator. The slight stumble, the sharp intake of breath, the way Xander's hands clutch at the stitch in his side—it's all so human, so painfully fragile. And yet, there's a beauty to it, the raw, unfiltered essence of survival stripped of all pretense. 

I almost miss it, Sam thought, a fleeting sense of nostalgia washing over him. He quickly pushes the feeling aside, reminding himself of the power and freedom his current form affords him.

"Come on, Buffy," Xander's breathless plea to the absent heroine was a prayer cast into the void, a last-ditch appeal to a savior ensnared in her own battles. The words hung in the air, a testament to the boy's faith in his friend, even in the face of certain death. Sam's head tilted, his expression a mix of curiosity and pity. He couldn’t help but feel that it was much less admirable when not on a screen.

The confrontation was anticlimactic.

Jesse's sudden appearance in front of Xander, the vampire's features a grotesque parody of the friend he once was, carried with it the inevitability of a well-worn plot twist. The impact against the brick wall, the flash of the stake, the desperate, final thrust—inevitable, expected and surprising for the fact that it is.

As Xander slumped to the ground, his life bleeding out onto the cold, indifferent concrete, Sam stood, the observer's role no longer sufficient. 

In many other timelines, other worlds, the boy would survive against all odds. A last-minute rescue, a fortuitous turn of events, a deus ex machina born of narrative necessity. But in this one, a doomed one, the Powers pay it no mind. 

Less work, after all, to let the dice fall where they may.

He feels the blood splatter on the card in Xander's possession. Where he kept it, his pocket probably, Sam didn't care. 

The sensation was a tingle against his consciousness, a whisper of desperation carried on the currents of magic and blood. It's like hearing a phone ring underwater—muffled, distorted, but unmistakable. I can't leave Buffy and Willow alone. He could feel Xander's thoughts intruding on his own, his pleading for help in his mind. They need me.... I need them.

Sam tilted his head to the side, his expression one of amused contemplation. You're not wrong on that, he conceded.The irony wasn't lost on him—the sidekick, so often overlooked, might just be the linchpin holding the whole operation together. Who'd have thought?

I just wanna be the hero for once. I wanna matter. The thought was a desperate whisper, a final plea from a dying boy to an uncaring universe. The words carried with them the weight of a contract, and that’s all he needs.

Sam smiled, the expression a mix of mischief and malevolence. Now, that I can do.

He flared his Infernal Energy, a flash of red surrounding him like a hellish aura. The power coursed through him, electric and intoxicating. In the blink of an eye, reality bent around him and he appeared on the alley floor below, the transition so smooth it's as if he's simply stepped through a door.

Sam locks eyes with the bleeding teenage boy on the filthy ground, his gaze intense and unblinking. He can see the fear, the desperation, and beneath it all, a flicker of hope in Xander's eyes

"...you?" Xander's voice is a ragged whisper, a mix of confusion and desperate hope.

A mouth full of perfectly straight, brilliant white teeth smiled back at Xander. "Me."