Supernatural drabble: Flake
Disclaimer: All hail Kripke, Keeper of Supernatural.
Set: pre-season 4.
Note: this was actually a response to a comment meme on hoodie_time, but I lost my nerve about posting it.
***
The only thing about Hell that is certain is pain. Otherwise Hell is like being suspended in ether. A flake of pulp in a glass of orange juice. The hooked steel lines that make up-no, made up-his Rack stretched for miles. Him in infinity, eternity.
His torturer-a mere dark shape with flashing instruments-never said anything. The only thing Dean ever heard was Alastair's beckon: “end the pain, Dean, come off the Rack and torture souls.” Dean cursed when Alastair's words came across as a caress, a gentle seduction, rather than the slime that they were.
Alastair's words slipped over and through Dean every day, then every hour, then every minute, then finally every second until finally Dean lost it, his sanity, his hope, his grip on the world above, who he used to be. Hell had hammered Dean into less of himself, less of a person. More of a demon.
Dean was still malleable though. And when his shadow was hovering over a newly deposited soul to Hell a repressed memory of who he was rises and with it a wave of horror and disgust at himself for raising a blade with intention to pulp the pale, bright struggling soul.
But Alastair's words flow into Dean again with a seductive lilt. And they curl around his shoulders like a father's arm and guide Dean's arm to slash precisely into the soul. The long scream of the soul and flickering out of some of its light is drowned out by Alastair's words and they are the first words Dean has heard otherwise. “Good job, Dean.” Dean drinks in the words, basks in them. Dean thinks Alastair's voice will be his salvation.
Set: pre-season 4.
Note: this was actually a response to a comment meme on hoodie_time, but I lost my nerve about posting it.
***
The only thing about Hell that is certain is pain. Otherwise Hell is like being suspended in ether. A flake of pulp in a glass of orange juice. The hooked steel lines that make up-no, made up-his Rack stretched for miles. Him in infinity, eternity.
His torturer-a mere dark shape with flashing instruments-never said anything. The only thing Dean ever heard was Alastair's beckon: “end the pain, Dean, come off the Rack and torture souls.” Dean cursed when Alastair's words came across as a caress, a gentle seduction, rather than the slime that they were.
Alastair's words slipped over and through Dean every day, then every hour, then every minute, then finally every second until finally Dean lost it, his sanity, his hope, his grip on the world above, who he used to be. Hell had hammered Dean into less of himself, less of a person. More of a demon.
Dean was still malleable though. And when his shadow was hovering over a newly deposited soul to Hell a repressed memory of who he was rises and with it a wave of horror and disgust at himself for raising a blade with intention to pulp the pale, bright struggling soul.
But Alastair's words flow into Dean again with a seductive lilt. And they curl around his shoulders like a father's arm and guide Dean's arm to slash precisely into the soul. The long scream of the soul and flickering out of some of its light is drowned out by Alastair's words and they are the first words Dean has heard otherwise. “Good job, Dean.” Dean drinks in the words, basks in them. Dean thinks Alastair's voice will be his salvation.