SPN: on with the action now, by wraith816
Title: on with the action now
Author: wraith816
Pairing: none, ’tis gen
Rating: PG-13 for torture
Word Count: ~1,300
Spoilers: through episode 4x10
Summary: Five strategies for five souls.
A/N: Thanks to sgflutegirl for looking this over.
two
This isn’t a priority. The blues man isn’t a VIP, or someone with promise for delicious cruelty, or even worth the short time he’ll take to turn. Just another wretched little human too stupid to know when something’s too good to be true. When his eyes edge into black and he goes his own way - not long, now - he probably won’t have the power to dream of getting topside.
But he serves as an amusing distraction.
“I have to say, Mr. Johnson, I’m a fan,” Alastair says. He hums a few measures, a grating, penetrating sound against the background noise of hoarse screams. “Whoever brokered your deal, she did good work with you.”
So many things, so many ways to tear the humanity from his charge, and Alastair trails his fingers along them, over knives and needles and things there aren’t words for. With a crooked gash of a smile, he chooses, hand closing around the handle of a blade of sharpened bone. He turns, still humming, and sets his knife lightly against the man’s head, where only one quick motion would take an ear, and the music the blues man lived for.
Alastair says, “I do good work too, Mr. Johnson. And I’m hoping by the time we’re done here, you’ll be a fan of mine.”
four
Lilith is no less a tyrant than Azazel was - maybe more so because she’s got something to prove - but she sends out her salesmen and her hellhounds more and more, and has little time to spend minding the results. And so Alastair reaps the benefits, like one Bela Talbot, newly added to the rack, and who greets him with jagged-edged pleading.
“The ones who brought me here… they said that you make bargains.”
“And you’re interested already? You do know what it entails?”
“Yes.”
“An interesting proposition. I don’t think we’ve had anyone give in this quickly before.” He takes a moment, lets it stretch between them as she begins to hope, and when that optimism blushes on her face, there’s a pleasure in robbing her of it. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but that’s not in our Lady Lilith’s plans. You see, you didn’t end Sam Winchester when you had the chance, and now she wants you to really suffer and you’ve barely been here a day.”
There’s something like joy, like rapture that rises up in him as she cries and begs, and he tells her, “That’s funny. Really. Begging for mercy from me? You’re very funny. I think I’ll be spending quite some time with you.”
Her fear thrums through her, like it has since she was a teenager, living and pounding in her blood, and Alastair lets it gush out, covers her in it.
one
Arguments in Hell are never small affairs.
When the metaphorical dust settles and the respective armies retreat to their corners, the witch-queen backs down and gives Azazel the rights to the new girl. What Azazel says to her, no one knows; all are barred from the area for days, and even the heavyweights are warned to stay away. There are theories, of course, from those with ambition, things about contingency plans, about the endgame. Alastair doesn’t speculate, because like many, she eventually comes into his skillful care.
“We’ve come to an agreement,” Azazel tells him, “so I’ll need some… special work from you. Don’t damage her too much. Take the specifics, leave the generalities.”
“Whatever you need.”
She’s a pretty, sobbing thing when he first sees her, a mess of devotion and poorly chosen affection responsible for dragging her down here. She shakes and shivers, knowing that the terms of her arrangement can’t be as easy as she thinks they are, and Alastair aches to prove her right with his preferred blade.
“I think we’ll take your name first,” he says, and begins to carve out that bit of soul-flesh in her chest where she holds it close.
Each day, he takes it first, that tiny piece dissected from her, cut out or torn out or ripped out by hellhounds’ teeth. Each day, she comes back a little less whole, the memory of who she was a little slower to come.
When her name is forgotten, along with the name of the man she loved, along with everything that made her a ‘person’ instead of just human, Alastair pronounces, “I think we’ll call you Ruby.”
three
“How’d you like a babysitting job?” Azazel says when he hands over a dull-eyed and sluggish John Winchester. “Call it a gift for your loyal service.”
To Winchester, he says, “Don’t worry, John, I’ll be back to collect you when my business with your Sammy is done. If things go well, you’ll get to say ‘hi.’”
Every part of John’s soul smolders, inextricable, even with Alastair’s methods, if he were allowed to do permanent harm. Winchester burns hotter than hellfire, with his mission, his need for vengeance, and three names: Sam, Dean, and loudest of all, Mary.
“She’s here,” Alastair says, “your pretty little wife. Even when your soul isn’t the price, turns out the higher powers don’t appreciate those who deal with demons.” The right lies flow off his tongue as easy as blood while he sinks his hands deeper into Winchester’s warm insides, toying with his sense of purpose. “Maybe you’ll see her sometime. And it doesn’t look like too long before we have the whole set.”
Much later, Alastair wipes dripping blood from the ruin of his hands and tells John, “This is normally where I’d make you an offer, but since you’re just on loan…” With a wave of his hand, broken bones knit together, flesh heals itself, stains fade away. “It looks like we’ll just have to start again.”
five
There’s celebration in Hell the day Lilith calls open season on Dean Winchester’s soul.
A soul in the shape of a body, spread before Alastair day after day for him to taunt and torture.
“Dean… I can call you Dean now, right?” Alastair circles him, long, curved knife in hand, biding time ’til that initial cut. “We know each other so well by now. We’re familiar.”
“Fuck you,” he bites out, spirit still firmly in place.
“Tsk, tsk. Talking back isn’t going to get you anywhere. You need to learn a little humility, I think.”
Dean’s pride lives in his hands, in the work he did and the lives he saved, and Alastair takes them first, slicing off thin strips of skin to expose muscle and bone. When there’s nothing of that left, he moves on to the guts - Dean’s bravery - and haphazardly shreds them, letting the pieces fall further into the black depths. Dean’s bravado in his lips and tongue, in the things he says and doesn’t mean, that takes small slices, almost delicate.
Dean’s heart, a beacon of his love for his brother, even here where no light shines. It’s hard as iron, and pure enough to sting when he lifts it, still beating, from Dean’s chest. Like every day, Alastair takes his blade to it. Like every day, it never cuts through. Not even a mark, yet. There’s no hacking it out, no ripping it from him.
Yet.
“I’ll tear this out, eventually,” Alastair tells him. “There has to be a hungry hound around here somewhere that’d love to taste this heart of yours. It may take time, but I will rid you of this foolhardy devotion to your brother. Because you see, Dean, Sam’s not coming for you. He’d rather let himself get killed than actually figure out how to bring you back.” The right lies with the right granule of truth, another weapon. “And when Sam does die, he’ll just be joining you, you have to know. Still sure you don’t want to take my offer? I was hoping you’d be ready by the time he gets down here. No? Well, we’ve got an eternity to work on it.”
On with the action now, I'll strip your pride.
I'll spread your blood around, I'll see you ride.
- Am I Evil?
Author: wraith816
Pairing: none, ’tis gen
Rating: PG-13 for torture
Word Count: ~1,300
Spoilers: through episode 4x10
Summary: Five strategies for five souls.
A/N: Thanks to sgflutegirl for looking this over.
two
This isn’t a priority. The blues man isn’t a VIP, or someone with promise for delicious cruelty, or even worth the short time he’ll take to turn. Just another wretched little human too stupid to know when something’s too good to be true. When his eyes edge into black and he goes his own way - not long, now - he probably won’t have the power to dream of getting topside.
But he serves as an amusing distraction.
“I have to say, Mr. Johnson, I’m a fan,” Alastair says. He hums a few measures, a grating, penetrating sound against the background noise of hoarse screams. “Whoever brokered your deal, she did good work with you.”
So many things, so many ways to tear the humanity from his charge, and Alastair trails his fingers along them, over knives and needles and things there aren’t words for. With a crooked gash of a smile, he chooses, hand closing around the handle of a blade of sharpened bone. He turns, still humming, and sets his knife lightly against the man’s head, where only one quick motion would take an ear, and the music the blues man lived for.
Alastair says, “I do good work too, Mr. Johnson. And I’m hoping by the time we’re done here, you’ll be a fan of mine.”
four
Lilith is no less a tyrant than Azazel was - maybe more so because she’s got something to prove - but she sends out her salesmen and her hellhounds more and more, and has little time to spend minding the results. And so Alastair reaps the benefits, like one Bela Talbot, newly added to the rack, and who greets him with jagged-edged pleading.
“The ones who brought me here… they said that you make bargains.”
“And you’re interested already? You do know what it entails?”
“Yes.”
“An interesting proposition. I don’t think we’ve had anyone give in this quickly before.” He takes a moment, lets it stretch between them as she begins to hope, and when that optimism blushes on her face, there’s a pleasure in robbing her of it. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but that’s not in our Lady Lilith’s plans. You see, you didn’t end Sam Winchester when you had the chance, and now she wants you to really suffer and you’ve barely been here a day.”
There’s something like joy, like rapture that rises up in him as she cries and begs, and he tells her, “That’s funny. Really. Begging for mercy from me? You’re very funny. I think I’ll be spending quite some time with you.”
Her fear thrums through her, like it has since she was a teenager, living and pounding in her blood, and Alastair lets it gush out, covers her in it.
one
Arguments in Hell are never small affairs.
When the metaphorical dust settles and the respective armies retreat to their corners, the witch-queen backs down and gives Azazel the rights to the new girl. What Azazel says to her, no one knows; all are barred from the area for days, and even the heavyweights are warned to stay away. There are theories, of course, from those with ambition, things about contingency plans, about the endgame. Alastair doesn’t speculate, because like many, she eventually comes into his skillful care.
“We’ve come to an agreement,” Azazel tells him, “so I’ll need some… special work from you. Don’t damage her too much. Take the specifics, leave the generalities.”
“Whatever you need.”
She’s a pretty, sobbing thing when he first sees her, a mess of devotion and poorly chosen affection responsible for dragging her down here. She shakes and shivers, knowing that the terms of her arrangement can’t be as easy as she thinks they are, and Alastair aches to prove her right with his preferred blade.
“I think we’ll take your name first,” he says, and begins to carve out that bit of soul-flesh in her chest where she holds it close.
Each day, he takes it first, that tiny piece dissected from her, cut out or torn out or ripped out by hellhounds’ teeth. Each day, she comes back a little less whole, the memory of who she was a little slower to come.
When her name is forgotten, along with the name of the man she loved, along with everything that made her a ‘person’ instead of just human, Alastair pronounces, “I think we’ll call you Ruby.”
three
“How’d you like a babysitting job?” Azazel says when he hands over a dull-eyed and sluggish John Winchester. “Call it a gift for your loyal service.”
To Winchester, he says, “Don’t worry, John, I’ll be back to collect you when my business with your Sammy is done. If things go well, you’ll get to say ‘hi.’”
Every part of John’s soul smolders, inextricable, even with Alastair’s methods, if he were allowed to do permanent harm. Winchester burns hotter than hellfire, with his mission, his need for vengeance, and three names: Sam, Dean, and loudest of all, Mary.
“She’s here,” Alastair says, “your pretty little wife. Even when your soul isn’t the price, turns out the higher powers don’t appreciate those who deal with demons.” The right lies flow off his tongue as easy as blood while he sinks his hands deeper into Winchester’s warm insides, toying with his sense of purpose. “Maybe you’ll see her sometime. And it doesn’t look like too long before we have the whole set.”
Much later, Alastair wipes dripping blood from the ruin of his hands and tells John, “This is normally where I’d make you an offer, but since you’re just on loan…” With a wave of his hand, broken bones knit together, flesh heals itself, stains fade away. “It looks like we’ll just have to start again.”
five
There’s celebration in Hell the day Lilith calls open season on Dean Winchester’s soul.
A soul in the shape of a body, spread before Alastair day after day for him to taunt and torture.
“Dean… I can call you Dean now, right?” Alastair circles him, long, curved knife in hand, biding time ’til that initial cut. “We know each other so well by now. We’re familiar.”
“Fuck you,” he bites out, spirit still firmly in place.
“Tsk, tsk. Talking back isn’t going to get you anywhere. You need to learn a little humility, I think.”
Dean’s pride lives in his hands, in the work he did and the lives he saved, and Alastair takes them first, slicing off thin strips of skin to expose muscle and bone. When there’s nothing of that left, he moves on to the guts - Dean’s bravery - and haphazardly shreds them, letting the pieces fall further into the black depths. Dean’s bravado in his lips and tongue, in the things he says and doesn’t mean, that takes small slices, almost delicate.
Dean’s heart, a beacon of his love for his brother, even here where no light shines. It’s hard as iron, and pure enough to sting when he lifts it, still beating, from Dean’s chest. Like every day, Alastair takes his blade to it. Like every day, it never cuts through. Not even a mark, yet. There’s no hacking it out, no ripping it from him.
Yet.
“I’ll tear this out, eventually,” Alastair tells him. “There has to be a hungry hound around here somewhere that’d love to taste this heart of yours. It may take time, but I will rid you of this foolhardy devotion to your brother. Because you see, Dean, Sam’s not coming for you. He’d rather let himself get killed than actually figure out how to bring you back.” The right lies with the right granule of truth, another weapon. “And when Sam does die, he’ll just be joining you, you have to know. Still sure you don’t want to take my offer? I was hoping you’d be ready by the time he gets down here. No? Well, we’ve got an eternity to work on it.”
On with the action now, I'll strip your pride.
I'll spread your blood around, I'll see you ride.
- Am I Evil?