Hell
Dean dangled limply from the chains holding him suspended in the green-gray void and waited to pass out. Waited for the pain to recede under his mind's defenses. Waited for the pull of his body weight to dislocate his joints, sever his nerves. Waited for the meat hooks though his wrists to tear the rest of the way through his arms. Waited for time to lose meaning, insanity to set in, anything to make his situation more bearable. This was Hell, though. There was no passing out or receding pain in Hell. Torn joints and ligaments and nerves patched themselves back up in a process as painful as the tearing, and the meat hooks never lost their grip. And time just kept dragging on, second by second, day by day. Torture by torture. Eternity was too large a concept for human minds to truly grasp, an abstract with no bearing on real life. Everything began and everything ended. The dead had no such luxury of abstraction. Dean was aware of every passing moment and only too aware that his suffering was never, ever going to end. He tried sometimes to remember why he was here, that he'd chosen this, that it was for the greater good. Greater good was hard to understand when you could feel your kidney trying to heal itself around a rusted hook.
The demons came and went, with knives, flails, screws, contraptions, and things that Dean was pretty sure the human race had no names for. Things that stripped, crushed, tore, expanded, stabbed, restrained, or burned. Dean screamed, a never ending wail that echoed back to him despite the enormity and emptiness of Hell, but otherwise ignored them. They were formless, faceless tormentors, less important than the faces he tried to hold in his mind, the names he attached to them without always remembering why: Sam, Dad, Bobby, Lana, Meg. Sam, Dad, Bobby, Lana, Meg. Sam, Dad -- Sam, Dad --
Sam. Dad.
Dad, please, somebody help me!
"Well would you look at that. Somebody still has hope."
A hand gripped his face, pulling his head up, wiping away the dried blood caked at the edges of his lips, gentle at first, then pressing harder and harder until he lifted his eyes and looked the demon in the face. It smiled.
"Hey there, Dean. Name's Alastair. I've got a business proposition for you."
The pain eased when Dean listened so Dean listened until Alastair was done talking. Until Alastair dropped his grip on Dean's face and Dean's head flopped forward. He gasped for breath he sometimes wondered if he should really need. Alastair told him to think carefully. To take his time. The pain started to fade and he felt almost whole.
That was a mistake. It just made it easier for Dean to remember why he was here, what he'd been fighting for. He lifted his head slowly, looking Alastair in the eye. Alastair stared back. Dean slowly smiled.
"Go find a corner to rot in, you unholy fucker."
There was nothing in his mouth to spit, but Dean did his best, anyway.
And screamed anew when Alastair set to work, prying apart his ribs to get to his heart even as he started talking about all the horrible things happening to Sam up top without his precious big brother there to keep an eye on him. The pain didn't ease, but Dean listened. Didn't have a choice when Alastair pulled off his ears and ate them like candy, and his voice became all Dean could hear. He didn't want to look, but had no choice in that, either, as Alastair pulled out his eyes and strung them on around his neck, and Alastair's face became all he could see. Then he took Dean's tongue and Alastair's name was the only one he could speak. He cut off Dean's nose and Alastair's breath was all he could breathe. Alastair took Dean's every sense and filled his heart and mind, brushing the names and faces of the people away like flies until Alastair was all that was left, Dean himself all but obliterated by the work of Hell's master torturer.
And then Alastair said "I'll see you tomorrow," and left. And Dean was alone, deaf, blind, mute, and breathless, with nothing but the pain of his wounds, the passing seconds of night, and the enormity of forever stretching out before him.
And the next day, Alastair returned. And it started all over again.
[ooc: NFI, NFB, and yes. I am a sick puppy. Also, I almost never get to use that icon. . . .]
The demons came and went, with knives, flails, screws, contraptions, and things that Dean was pretty sure the human race had no names for. Things that stripped, crushed, tore, expanded, stabbed, restrained, or burned. Dean screamed, a never ending wail that echoed back to him despite the enormity and emptiness of Hell, but otherwise ignored them. They were formless, faceless tormentors, less important than the faces he tried to hold in his mind, the names he attached to them without always remembering why: Sam, Dad, Bobby, Lana, Meg. Sam, Dad, Bobby, Lana, Meg. Sam, Dad -- Sam, Dad --
Sam. Dad.
Dad, please, somebody help me!
"Well would you look at that. Somebody still has hope."
A hand gripped his face, pulling his head up, wiping away the dried blood caked at the edges of his lips, gentle at first, then pressing harder and harder until he lifted his eyes and looked the demon in the face. It smiled.
"Hey there, Dean. Name's Alastair. I've got a business proposition for you."
The pain eased when Dean listened so Dean listened until Alastair was done talking. Until Alastair dropped his grip on Dean's face and Dean's head flopped forward. He gasped for breath he sometimes wondered if he should really need. Alastair told him to think carefully. To take his time. The pain started to fade and he felt almost whole.
That was a mistake. It just made it easier for Dean to remember why he was here, what he'd been fighting for. He lifted his head slowly, looking Alastair in the eye. Alastair stared back. Dean slowly smiled.
"Go find a corner to rot in, you unholy fucker."
There was nothing in his mouth to spit, but Dean did his best, anyway.
And screamed anew when Alastair set to work, prying apart his ribs to get to his heart even as he started talking about all the horrible things happening to Sam up top without his precious big brother there to keep an eye on him. The pain didn't ease, but Dean listened. Didn't have a choice when Alastair pulled off his ears and ate them like candy, and his voice became all Dean could hear. He didn't want to look, but had no choice in that, either, as Alastair pulled out his eyes and strung them on around his neck, and Alastair's face became all he could see. Then he took Dean's tongue and Alastair's name was the only one he could speak. He cut off Dean's nose and Alastair's breath was all he could breathe. Alastair took Dean's every sense and filled his heart and mind, brushing the names and faces of the people away like flies until Alastair was all that was left, Dean himself all but obliterated by the work of Hell's master torturer.
And then Alastair said "I'll see you tomorrow," and left. And Dean was alone, deaf, blind, mute, and breathless, with nothing but the pain of his wounds, the passing seconds of night, and the enormity of forever stretching out before him.
And the next day, Alastair returned. And it started all over again.
[ooc: NFI, NFB, and yes. I am a sick puppy. Also, I almost never get to use that icon. . . .]