In Supernatural TV/Vampire Diaries with The Force as the Chosen One

Azazel's POV:

The corner office on the 43rd floor of Roman Enterprises offers me a commanding view of Chicago's skyline.

Floor-to-ceiling windows transform the night city into a tapestry of light and shadow, not unlike the fires of Hell when viewed from certain angles.

I've always appreciated that irony.

I swirl 30-year-old scotch in a crystal tumbler, watching the city below. 

Behind me, my office speaks of restrained wealth and power. Mahogany desk. Leather chairs.

Abstract art worth millions adorning walls that have heard countless deals and deaths. On the desk lies an open folder - reports from my operatives about a certain incident in Riverdale, Minnesota.

I turn from the window, setting down the untouched scotch. Loosening my tie - these human affectations are tedious but necessary - I settle into the chair behind my desk.

The leather creaks beneath me as I pick up the report again, scanning details that make my lips curl into a smile.

"Well, well," I murmur to the empty office. "Sammy, you're just full of surprises."

I tap long fingers against the polished wood, considering. The report details an encounter with a wraith in Riverdale - standard hunter business, nothing remarkable.

Until the second youngest Winchester - no oldest Milligan, technically - displayed abilities far beyond normal human capacity.

And then Sam, my special boy, somehow channeled power through contact with the child.

Fascinating.

I reach for a blank sheet of paper and a fountain pen. Old-fashioned, perhaps, but I've walked this earth for millennia. Some habits persist.

"Let's review where we stand," I say to myself, beginning to write in elegant script.

My original plan had been elegant in its simplicity.

Sam Winchester - Lucifer's true vessel, though the boy doesn't know it yet - needs to follow a specific path.

As in Heaven, so on Earth. The vessel must mirror the angel.

Lucifer rebelled against his father; Sam must rebel against John. Lucifer grew to despise humanity; Sam must learn the same hatred.

For years, I've orchestrated subtle influences throughout Sam's life.

A fourth-grade teacher who recognized his "special potential" and suggested advanced placement - separating him from Dean for the first time.

A high school guidance counselor who planted the first seeds about college scholarships.

A debate coach who nurtured his argumentative skills, perfect for challenging John's authority.

None of them knew they were possessed, of course. I'm too skilled for that. Just brief possessions, subtle nudges, then moving on before hunter instincts could detect anything amiss.

"And it was working beautifully," I muse, leaning back in my chair.

I've known about Kate Milligan and her sons for years. A contingency, perhaps, but not particularly relevant to my plans.

The woman provides John with some semblance of normalcy, keeps him functioning. Adam - the youngest - is simply too young to be of immediate concern.

But Lucien... that was an oversight.

The boy had seemed unremarkable at first - just another of John Winchester's spawn. Until I felt that pulse of power during a routine surveillance.

Nothing concrete, just potential. I'd made a mental note to watch the child but hadn't considered him a priority.

First after two weeks when he joined his dear little papa and big brothers- I visited, and found out the boy, was a boy wonder, and was a psychic.

Didn't think too much of it. Perhaps he would have use in the future, if I could find one for him that is- I had thought.

But no- the Riverdale incident changes everything.

I pull a fresh sheet of paper, writing "LUCIEN" at the top in bold letters.

"Psychic abilities far beyond the children I've created- besides Sam of course," I note. "Power transfer capabilities. Strong familial bonds."

I tap the pen against my lips. This complicates matters.

If Lucien can share power with Sam, he might become an anchor, keeping Sam connected to his humanity when the time comes for Lucifer's possession, having Sam rely on his brother for power rather than his demon blood ones.

Unacceptable.

My first instinct is elimination. Simple. Clean. Problem solved.

But something stays my hand. Experience, perhaps. Millennia of watching humans react to tragedy tells me that killing Lucien wouldn't separate Sam from his family - it would bind them together in grief and vengeance.

No, death isn't the answer. Not yet.

"What if..." I murmur, feeling a smile form as an idea takes shape. I begin writing again, faster now.

What if Lucien becomes not an obstacle but a tool? The perfect instrument to ensure Sam's fall?

I laugh softly, the sound like dry leaves scraping stone.

"Oh, that's good. That's very good."

I stand abruptly, moving to a bookshelf that contains leather-bound religious texts spanning centuries.

My fingers trail over spines until I find what I seek - a medieval treatise on signs of the Anti-Christ.

I flip through pages, scanning ancient woodcuts and Latin text. The traditional signs are delightfully vague, applicable to almost anyone with the right framing: unusual powers, mysterious origins, signs and wonders following in their wake.

"Perfect," I whisper. "No need for fabrication when the truth serves just as well."

I return to my desk, drafting my first approach. Direct action - manipulating hunters to target Lucien immediately. Simple. Effective.

And completely wrong.

I crumple the paper, holding it in my palm. With a thought, the sheet bursts into flames, burning to ash without scorching my skin. I brush the remnants away with irritation.

"Too obvious," I chide myself. "Too traceable."

The second draft focuses on creating evidence - planted texts, fabricated prophecies. But this too ends in flames between my fingers.

"Amateur work," I mutter. "John would spot external manipulation immediately."

I still, eyes fixed on the city beyond my window but seeing something far more distant. When I move again, but with a better thought in mind.

"The best lies contain truth," I say softly, beginning a third draft. "And the best manipulations make humans believe they've reached conclusions independently."

This plan is more elegant: no fabricated evidence, no direct attacks. Instead, a series of coincidences. Careful positioning. Letting human nature - particularly hunters' paranoia - do the work for me.

I smile as I write, occasionally consulting the religious texts spread across my desk. Lucien already fits several traditional descriptions of the Anti-Christ or false prophet without any embellishment:

Child with unusual powers. Born to a father with connections to darkness (John's obsession with hunting) Appears innocent while harboring great power. Signs and wonders follow in his wake.

All I need to do is ensure the right hunters witness these "signs" in the right context.

"Hunters," I chuckle. "So predictable in their paranoia."

I've been manipulating hunters for centuries. They're a suspicious lot by nature - they have to be.

When your life depends on identifying the supernatural, you develop a certain... eagerness to find monsters everywhere.

Add religious zealotry to that mix, and you have the perfect storm of gullibility.

I begin listing potential targets:

Gordon Walker - Zealous, brutal, sees everything in black and white. Already distrusts anything with supernatural abilities. Too unstable for initial contact, but useful later.

Isaac and Tamara - Husband-wife team, lost their daughter to supernatural forces. Religious. Vulnerable to suggestions about protecting other children.

I pause, tapping the pen against the paper. These are just the beginning. There are dozens more who could serve my purpose with the right nudge.

The next phase of my plan takes shape, requiring true subtlety. Hunters aren't fools - they've survived this long by detecting manipulation.

The key is to arrange circumstances so natural that not even they would suspect demonic involvement.

First, for example, the Mark of the Beast. Lucien was born on June 6th - the sixth day of the sixth month - it seems God is smiling on me, giving me such a useful coincidence.

Hunters are like conspiracy theorists- well, they are conspiracy theorists who are right, not truly theorists - but what both have in common is that they love putting together clues.

So clues they shall have.

"True manipulation," I whisper to myself, "is invisible even to those who suspect they're being manipulated."

The most powerful element will be time itself. These observations, individually meaningless, will accumulate over years.

No single hunter will see the complete picture, but they'll share stories. Patterns will emerge in their collective consciousness without my further involvement.

Doubt planted with such care doesn't just grow - it transforms into conviction.

"And humans are so good at seeing patterns," I murmur, "especially patterns that confirm their existing fears."

I lean back, considering the timeline. This is delicate work, requiring patience. Rushing would ruin everything.

The seeds must be planted now, allowed to grow during Sam's college years, and bloom into full paranoia by the time I arrange his return to hunting.

Rising from my desk, I move back to the window.

Chicago spreads before me, millions of souls going about their insignificant lives, unaware of the grand design unfolding around them.

Somewhere out there, Sam Winchester is preparing college applications, dreaming of escape from his family's legacy.

John is training his sons, unaware that one of them will become a target for his own community.

And Lucien, poor, powerful Lucien, has no idea he's about to become the catalyst for his brother's damnation.

I allow my eyes to shift, just for a moment, the familiar yellow glow reflecting in the glass. My true nature, hidden beneath this corporate disguise.

"The best plans," I tell my reflection, "are the ones where your enemies do your work for you."

I return to my desk, gathering the papers that outline my strategy. With a thought, they ignite in my hand, burning to ash that I let fall into the wastepaper basket.

No evidence, no trace. Just as I've operated for millennia.

My office door opens, and my executive assistant - a low-level demon wearing a perfectly tailored suit and an impeccably professional expression - enters with a folder.

Internally I can't help but feel disgust well up within, me the Regent of Hell, Lord Lucifer's right hand, having these low-lives so close to me. I can not wait till I open the gate, and my subjects crawl out.

Well, besides Lilith- that bitch always gives me a headache. And I really would rather not have to deal with her trying to climb Sam like a tree anytime soon- going for our Lord's human half when she can not reach his great self.

She's always been obsessed with our father in an unworthy fashion- like she truly can be Queen.

Please, she'll know eventually that, that delusion will never come to fruition.

"Sir, the quarterly reports you requested," she says, placing them on my desk. Then, voice lower: "And our operatives report the Winchesters are heading back to Singer Salvage Yard. The boy is still unconscious."

"Excellent," I reply. "Maintain surveillance, but at a distance. John's particularly alert right now."

She nods and exits silently, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I flip open the company reports without really seeing them. My mind is elsewhere, plotting the intricate web that will ensnare the Winchesters in the years to come.

Sam will leave for college soon - my careful manipulations have ensured that. During his absence, the whispers about all things not normal- particularly psychics will grow, till it affects Lucien.

Not enough to trigger a hunt, not yet. Just enough to plant seeds of suspicion.

By the time I arrange whatever bitch I pair up with Sammy's tragic demise and Sam returns to hunting, he'll find his brother increasingly ostracized by the very community Sam once idealized.

The hunters - those self-proclaimed protectors of humanity - will reveal their true nature: fearful, prejudiced, quick to condemn what they don't understand.

And Sam, my special child, will see humanity for what it truly is. Just as Lucifer did.

The symmetry is beautiful. The vessel mirroring the angel in every way.

I can't help but laugh, the sound echoing in my empty office. Outside my window, a storm is gathering over Chicago, lightning illuminating the clouds in brief, brilliant flashes.

Almost like Heaven's fires, reflected in Earth's sky.

"Soon, Father," I whisper, though Lucifer cannot hear me from his cage. "Your true vessel approaches. And when he comes, he will understand why you rose."

I gather my coat, preparing to leave this human façade behind for the night. There's work to be done - subtle manipulations to set in motion, pieces to position on the board.

The game is complex, the stakes cosmic. But I've been playing it since Adam walked this earth.

And I do so love to win.

As I step into the private elevator, I allow myself one final smile of satisfaction. Everything is proceeding according to plan.

Actually, better than planned.

The doors slide closed, and I descend into the night, yellow eyes gleaming briefly before returning to human appearance. Just another businessman working late, heading home in the gathering storm.

No one notices. No one ever does.

That's how I prefer it.

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

Do tell me how you found it.

Tell me, do you think Azazel's plan has any merit? Will the Winchesters catch on to it? 

Will anybody else?

Or will it work, and be too late?

I'm interested in your thoughts. Well, I hope to see you all later,

Bye!)