( for all that time passes far more quickly in hell than it does above-ground, the stretch of years that lay across dean winchester's shoulders in rigid, unbreakable lines weigh heavy with each passing tick, each sounding chime. each soul he tortures for the sake of it, relentless and unyielding, and in the back he can hear the sound of alistair's taunting laughter, the tone of his voice tinged with that knowing smugness.
all it took was a little push, didn't it dean? when i said you were meant for this, i wish you would have believed me. we could have gotten this underway so, so much sooner.
he hates the bastard. hates himself for giving in just to get off the hook – both figuratively and quite literally – but his hands are sure, steady when they close around the implements at his disposal, a hunter and a fighter in every sense of movement. when put to the task, he delivers beautifully every time, and the devil himself might have been impressed had he deigned to look into these little sessions from time to time. ( something that should not be, because even though he is far from the righteous man these angels are searching for, he still doesn't belong here.
but the things you do for family, right?
sammy's life for his own, and he would do it all over again if he had the chance, a thousand times over if it means keeping his little brother safe, alive, even if he doesn't think for a second that the moron is upstairs trying to find a way to bring him back. even when he'd made him promise that he wouldn't. )
he waits, and he waits, the months and years passing by him in a slow crawl of blood and creeping darkness, the day-to-day routine playing over and over again in his head and he thinks, maybe, that he's finally become numb to it. that it doesn't mean much to pick up a blade, a hook, listen to the resulting screams and not even dare to blink. there's fire all around him, and he breathes brimstone, every bit the monster he's always been afraid of becoming.
and still, he doesn't belong here. and still …
he's never begged for salvation. never thought himself worthy of it for all the things he's done, all the things he hasn't, and while it wouldn't have been any sort of surprise to anyone that he spends a large chunk of his time attempting to atone for the things that had led him here, there's a small bit in the back of his mind that is convinced that he could be stuck downstairs until the proverbial end of the world and it still wouldn't be enough.
faith is one thing, really believing is another, and sam has always had him beaten in that respect. give him something tangible, something he can put his hands on, something he can see with eyes that have already seen too much with as few years as he's been given so far – but here he is, hanging out in the pit by dint of being selfless, by caring more for the only blood family he has left over himself.
( and it's always going to be about sammy. always, always, the one name that continuously rests on the back of his tongue in those quiet, dark and breathless moments when he briefly loses his hold on himself. sam, sam, you'd better be taking care of yourself, you son of a bitch. because he can threaten as much as he wants from downstairs, every one of which he would follow through with if he ever found himself topside again. )
and in his own little corner of hell, it's quiet. for once, or at the very least, he's been down here so long that he's learned to tune out the sounds of screams in the distance. ( one more reason to think he's been numbed to it all, and it's such a proficient argument that he dares anyone to try for a rebuttal. ) he's oblivious to the war being waged all around him, to the presence of angels and the diminishing numbers of demons, content in his own right to focus on any one thing that makes those years pass by a little faster.
but they've come for him – he has come for him – and it's with that first burst of bright, cleansing light that his attention is finally snatched to his surroundings, the darkness around him melting away, shadows crawling back to where they'd originated and leaving him feeling oddly exposed, naked and confused.
it's unlike he's ever seen before, and of course it is, because with that whole lack of faith thing he has going for him? why would he ever think to find himself face-to-face with an angel of the lord, one that not only has spent the better part of ten years searching for him, but has come to retrieve him himself, with the rest of his garrison at his back providing any sort of cover he might need?
no. there's no way this is real. no damn way, and even with those elongated, outstretched hands reaching for him and that intangible voice inside his head telling him that everything is going to be fine and dandy, that he's safe, he doesn't dare believe it.
who the hell are you?
forgive him for being immediately defensive; he's always had a handful of trust issues when it comes to something he doesn't understand, doesn't think he should need to, and … well. the list of people he trusts with more than just holding onto his wallet is short, only has two people on it, and he sure as shit doesn't think there's going to be room for this humanoid freak show of light on it. )
no subject
all it took was a little push, didn't it dean?
when i said you were meant for this, i wish you would have believed me.
we could have gotten this underway so, so much sooner.
he hates the bastard. hates himself for giving in just to get off the hook – both figuratively and quite literally – but his hands are sure, steady when they close around the implements at his disposal, a hunter and a fighter in every sense of movement. when put to the task, he delivers beautifully every time, and the devil himself might have been impressed had he deigned to look into these little sessions from time to time. ( something that should not be, because even though he is far from the righteous man these angels are searching for, he still doesn't belong here.
but the things you do for family, right?
sammy's life for his own, and he would do it all over again if he had the chance, a thousand times over if it means keeping his little brother safe, alive, even if he doesn't think for a second that the moron is upstairs trying to find a way to bring him back. even when he'd made him promise that he wouldn't. )
he waits, and he waits, the months and years passing by him in a slow crawl of blood and creeping darkness, the day-to-day routine playing over and over again in his head and he thinks, maybe, that he's finally become numb to it. that it doesn't mean much to pick up a blade, a hook, listen to the resulting screams and not even dare to blink. there's fire all around him, and he breathes brimstone, every bit the monster he's always been afraid of becoming.
and still, he doesn't belong here. and still …
he's never begged for salvation. never thought himself worthy of it for all the things he's done, all the things he hasn't, and while it wouldn't have been any sort of surprise to anyone that he spends a large chunk of his time attempting to atone for the things that had led him here, there's a small bit in the back of his mind that is convinced that he could be stuck downstairs until the proverbial end of the world and it still wouldn't be enough.
faith is one thing, really believing is another, and sam has always had him beaten in that respect. give him something tangible, something he can put his hands on, something he can see with eyes that have already seen too much with as few years as he's been given so far – but here he is, hanging out in the pit by dint of being selfless, by caring more for the only blood family he has left over himself.
( and it's always going to be about sammy. always, always, the one name that continuously rests on the back of his tongue in those quiet, dark and breathless moments when he briefly loses his hold on himself. sam, sam, you'd better be taking care of yourself, you son of a bitch. because he can threaten as much as he wants from downstairs, every one of which he would follow through with if he ever found himself topside again. )
and in his own little corner of hell, it's quiet. for once, or at the very least, he's been down here so long that he's learned to tune out the sounds of screams in the distance. ( one more reason to think he's been numbed to it all, and it's such a proficient argument that he dares anyone to try for a rebuttal. ) he's oblivious to the war being waged all around him, to the presence of angels and the diminishing numbers of demons, content in his own right to focus on any one thing that makes those years pass by a little faster.
but they've come for him – he has come for him – and it's with that first burst of bright, cleansing light that his attention is finally snatched to his surroundings, the darkness around him melting away, shadows crawling back to where they'd originated and leaving him feeling oddly exposed, naked and confused.
it's unlike he's ever seen before, and of course it is, because with that whole lack of faith thing he has going for him? why would he ever think to find himself face-to-face with an angel of the lord, one that not only has spent the better part of ten years searching for him, but has come to retrieve him himself, with the rest of his garrison at his back providing any sort of cover he might need?
no. there's no way this is real. no damn way, and even with those elongated, outstretched hands reaching for him and that intangible voice inside his head telling him that everything is going to be fine and dandy, that he's safe, he doesn't dare believe it.
who the hell are you?
forgive him for being immediately defensive; he's always had a handful of trust issues when it comes to something he doesn't understand, doesn't think he should need to, and … well. the list of people he trusts with more than just holding onto his wallet is short, only has two people on it, and he sure as shit doesn't think there's going to be room for this humanoid freak show of light on it. )