Ut Animadeverto Opportunus Mythology: Chapter Three Point Oh (Rated: PG-13/R-ish)
But first a disclaimer: This story is a product of my own mind and any resemblance to actual people and events are accidental. Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert and Tucker Carlson belong to themselves as do the entire cast and crew of their respective shows. All characters and events mentioned that are not related to the previous people and shows belong to Eric Kripke and Supernatural. I don't own them, nor do I want to, as I would not do them justice...although if I could borrow....ahem, that's besides the point, basically I don't own anything in this story except the plot. Now enjoy my pretend and very, very false world...
Title: Ut Animadverto Opportunus Mythology (or The One Where Jon And Stephen Learn About Prophets, Winchesters, and The Sewers of New York)
Characters: Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Chuck the Prophet (a.k.a Chuck Shurley), Dean and Sam Winchester, and a surprise villain!
Rating: PG(13?)
Summary: Jon is not one to dwell on depressing subjects that have nothing to do with his job, but when it appears that someone wants him dead, he may have to change his attitude.
Chapter: Interlude (a.k.a chapter III.I)
Notes: In an attempt to justify the complete randomness of Chuck’s outburst here is an interlude through Chuck’s eyes about those four months when Dean was in hell. It starts directly from Dean going to hell and will end after Castiel comes to get him (hopefully). There may also be mentions of Sam and Ruby as well. I hope it alleviates some of the confusion! Everything related is all things that Chuck saw via his visions, assume that anytime there are breaks from Dean are periods where he did not see/feel what Dean was experiencing.
View Character List: dfhdancr.livejournal.com/8579.html
Previous Chapters Here: Chapter I - dfhdancr.livejournal.com/8413.html
Chapter II - dfhdancr.livejournal.com/9412.html
Chapter III - dfhdancr.livejournal.com/15640.html
Pain. Lots and lots of pain. There were hooks digging into his shoulders piercing the delicate skin and pulling him apart at the seams. He was scared, terrified. Up until the hellhounds had begun pulling him apart he had held out hope that Sammy would find a way out. Save him, like he promised. Now he just hung, suspended and alone in infinite space with nothing below or above him, no sensations. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, all he could do was listen and feel. Listen to the screams of the damned, the laughter and jeering of the demons; feel the heat licking his body, not flames but there, like a faint itch he couldn’t scratch: An uncomfortable sensation that would slowly drive him crazy.
He waited for something, anything to happen, but there was nothing. It felt like weeks, months, and all the while he was alone; anticipating the horrors that hell was supposed to give and receiving none. He drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite sleeping, always aware of where he was and the hooks sinking deeper and deeper in his body. They reached down into him, so deep that they were almost to the bone, mirroring the permeating sense of loneliness: a hole that grew wider and wider with each bout of consciousness.
Finally, after months of tension and waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, he was awakened to an intense pain, more than he had experienced since his first descent to hell. Gasping, he opened his eyes to see his torturer for the first time. The creature was shadow and blood. Red eyes, a shade deeper than the blood seeping from its body, shone with a mixture of lust and malice and it seemed to tremble with anticipation.
It spoke, not using a mouth (since it seemed to have none) but its words were heard to the very pit of Dean’s being, felt in that chasm of pain that he kept hidden almost from himself, “I have been waiting a long time Dean. A very long time for you.”
Smiling, it reached out a tendril of its form, extending like a warped version of an arm: to caress Dean’s face, his cheeks, eyelids, and finally stopping over his lips. Unable to move and stubbornly refusing to speak, Dean glared silently, all the while screaming from inside praying for salvation. The thing tightened its grip on Dean’s lips and pushed its essence into his body, forcing itself down his throat. Finally, after months of silence, Dean screamed.
Chuck woke with a start, panting and sweating. He had never felt physical sensations in his nightmares before. Three years ago Chuck began having flashes of such vivid dreams, that they stayed with him, so much so that he was compelled to write them down. He had never, ever felt them physically; no matter how real they seemed when he closed his eyes. Trembling, Chuck got up from the couch he had passed out on and cradled his head in his hands. Dean. Dean. Dean. He felt like crying. Dean and Sam, Sam and Dean his characters that were almost like family. His boys, he called them, in his more sentimental moments (usually when he was to drunk to move and could only think). I don’t want to feel this, he thought, moving towards the kitchen where his salvation lay. He poured a glass of whiskey, drowning himself in pain and the liquid that allowed him to shut out some of his depression, and lowered into a chair. He sat, staring at the amber color that was his dearest friend, until he was pulled under by sleep. He did not dream.
Months of torture, escalating with each day until the ultimate was reached: pain induced from the spectral forms of John and Sam. Each day another wound inflicted in his already fragile psyche. He was hoping that it would be John today. Sam had been coming steadily for six months and Dean was tired. He was tired of relieving every fear, each insecurity that Sam’s image brought to light. No doubt John would be just as bad, but at least it would be a change. He waited, trembling, and like clockwork a form appeared and took shape. Dean gasped, not expecting what he saw. John was there, his hand on a young Sam.
“Hey Dean,” the John-like figure said, “it’s been a while.” Sam said nothing, just smiled, his face twisted into a crude imitation of a grin.
“Why are the two of you together today?” Dean asked, voice trembling in fear.
“We need you,” Sam answered, face still in that unnerving expression.
“You are the reason that we fight Dean, without you we have nothing to say,” John continued, his hand tightening on Sam’s shoulder. “Should we tell you what we get up to without you? Give you a little show?” Dean stared as John turned to Sam, pulling him until they were in each others space.
“Sam,” John whispered, “tell me. Tell me what you want.”
“I want Dean to go away. I want him to leave me alone. Make him leave me alone Daddy.”
John turned to Dean then, moving behind him to get better access to his ear and whispered words, insults, saying how much better off they’d be without him. He told Dean how he was no longer needed, his job was over, how Sam didn’t need protection anymore, told him to disappear. Months, years of abuse both physically and mentally had taken their toll, and what Dean had been resistant to had been slowly eroded until there was nothing left. As John whispered in his ear, Dean broke.
“Let me down!” he sobbed, “please let me down!” All at once the form of john and Sam disappeared, and in their place was his chief torturer: Alastair.
“Dean, Dean, Dean thirty-years and you break. I am so proud.” Dean was down; he could feel his shoulders healing and his body closing all the wounds that had been opened during the day. He regarded Alastair wearily, apprehension about what was coming. The demon smiled, for once a happy grin that sent chills down Dean’s spine.
“Come Dean; let me teach you how to induce the most exquisite pain.”
Chuck cried out, twisting in his bed sheets, trying to claw out of his nightmare and unable to. He was held fast, forced to see and feel the depths of Dean’s character and how completely it was broken. He whimpered as he was thrust forward, glimpses of images rushing by. He saw Dean learning each trick and technique, felt his perverse pleasure at inflicting as much pain as possible on his victims, striving to release some of his agony and emptiness. He saw and felt it all, and he wept for the best man he had ever known; real or imagined.
Dean was grinning, working into a young man. Alastair had told him that his victim was the worst, a pedophile and rapist, Dean had listened but hadn’t heard. It didn’t matter to him who the man was. All he cared about was that there was another soul to destroy, another person to inflict his punishment on. He had given everything in life and received nothing in return. In death he was given a gift in turn, he was able to leave his mark in a soul, something he was never allowed in life.
Dean had been working on this particular man for a year now and was almost at the breaking point. He could feel it in his bones, the thrum of terror emanating from the man before him. Dean’s methods had been different than usual. This man liked to talk, to get a reaction, so Dean had not spoken. He had simply gone about his business, methodically stripping down the layers only to start again the next day. It had been a year since he had spoken but Dean didn’t mind. He could see how his silence was affecting his victim and he relished in it.
The day was halfway over and Dean felt it was time to offer salvation. He hadn’t done so yet, not taking the preferred method and choosing to inflict the agony of silence on the man instead. Now, when the man was teetering on the edge, Dean made his move. He willed the tools he had been using away and turned to look the man in the eyes. He saw fear looking back at him, and felt a thrill that was seen in his deep yellow eyes.
He spoke softly and gently, like a lover, in his victim’s ear, “are you ready to submit? Have you lost yourself? Do you want to be found?” The man tried to pull away but Dean reached out a hand and brought his head closer to his mouth.
“Tell me what you want and I will give it to you,” he said.
“I-I have paid fo-for my sins. Let me be saved. Please. I want salvation,” his victim begged. Dean laughed high and cold and amused,
“You want to be saved? You, the scum of the earth? Do you want to ascend to heaven and live in eternal bliss?” The man nodded, tears filling his eyes.
“You don’t get to be saved. What makes you think you deserve the reward better men than you have been denied?” For the first time Dean was not happy, was not indifferent, for the first time in ten years he was angry.
“Shall I tell you a story of who I was before I became what I am?” he asked. The man stared wide eyed, frightened and unable to look away. Dean opened his mouth to begin but before he could speak Dean heard, like a nudge in the back of his mind, someone calling him. He paused, listening and when it wasn’t repeated he shook his head and continued.
“I was a hunter in life. Of things that didn’t belong; ghosts, shape shifters, and demons. I was as righteous as one could be living outside the law. Yet I sold my soul to the very demons I hunted. Do you want to know why?” His victim shook his head but Dean ignored him.
“I sold my soul to bring my brother back. The noblest of deeds, isn’t it? To trade your soul for another’s, condemning yourself for eternity so another can live. I was not saved; I was not allowed eternal bliss. I, who fought the good fight and was sent to hell because I loved my brother too much, was not saved. No one is saved, pet. No one escapes. Hell is for everyone the rapists and the righteous alike.”
He laughed, and stoked his victims’ hair tenderly. The man’s eyes widened and Dean turned. He saw a shape, both more frightening and lovelier than anything residing in hell, then a white light engulfed him and Dean knew no more.
Chuck awoke, his eyes burning from the dream. A feeling of peace saturated his bones and for the first time in months he was glad to be alive. Chuck turned to his window, light seeping through his dark world, and smiled.
(Surprisingly this is my favorite chapter I've written so far. Unexpected as it was not something I was planning.) As always, read and review!
Title: Ut Animadverto Opportunus Mythology (or The One Where Jon And Stephen Learn About Prophets, Winchesters, and The Sewers of New York)
Characters: Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Chuck the Prophet (a.k.a Chuck Shurley), Dean and Sam Winchester, and a surprise villain!
Rating: PG(13?)
Summary: Jon is not one to dwell on depressing subjects that have nothing to do with his job, but when it appears that someone wants him dead, he may have to change his attitude.
Chapter: Interlude (a.k.a chapter III.I)
Notes: In an attempt to justify the complete randomness of Chuck’s outburst here is an interlude through Chuck’s eyes about those four months when Dean was in hell. It starts directly from Dean going to hell and will end after Castiel comes to get him (hopefully). There may also be mentions of Sam and Ruby as well. I hope it alleviates some of the confusion! Everything related is all things that Chuck saw via his visions, assume that anytime there are breaks from Dean are periods where he did not see/feel what Dean was experiencing.
View Character List: dfhdancr.livejournal.com/8579.html
Previous Chapters Here: Chapter I - dfhdancr.livejournal.com/8413.html
Chapter II - dfhdancr.livejournal.com/9412.html
Chapter III - dfhdancr.livejournal.com/15640.html
Pain. Lots and lots of pain. There were hooks digging into his shoulders piercing the delicate skin and pulling him apart at the seams. He was scared, terrified. Up until the hellhounds had begun pulling him apart he had held out hope that Sammy would find a way out. Save him, like he promised. Now he just hung, suspended and alone in infinite space with nothing below or above him, no sensations. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, all he could do was listen and feel. Listen to the screams of the damned, the laughter and jeering of the demons; feel the heat licking his body, not flames but there, like a faint itch he couldn’t scratch: An uncomfortable sensation that would slowly drive him crazy.
He waited for something, anything to happen, but there was nothing. It felt like weeks, months, and all the while he was alone; anticipating the horrors that hell was supposed to give and receiving none. He drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite sleeping, always aware of where he was and the hooks sinking deeper and deeper in his body. They reached down into him, so deep that they were almost to the bone, mirroring the permeating sense of loneliness: a hole that grew wider and wider with each bout of consciousness.
Finally, after months of tension and waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, he was awakened to an intense pain, more than he had experienced since his first descent to hell. Gasping, he opened his eyes to see his torturer for the first time. The creature was shadow and blood. Red eyes, a shade deeper than the blood seeping from its body, shone with a mixture of lust and malice and it seemed to tremble with anticipation.
It spoke, not using a mouth (since it seemed to have none) but its words were heard to the very pit of Dean’s being, felt in that chasm of pain that he kept hidden almost from himself, “I have been waiting a long time Dean. A very long time for you.”
Smiling, it reached out a tendril of its form, extending like a warped version of an arm: to caress Dean’s face, his cheeks, eyelids, and finally stopping over his lips. Unable to move and stubbornly refusing to speak, Dean glared silently, all the while screaming from inside praying for salvation. The thing tightened its grip on Dean’s lips and pushed its essence into his body, forcing itself down his throat. Finally, after months of silence, Dean screamed.
Chuck woke with a start, panting and sweating. He had never felt physical sensations in his nightmares before. Three years ago Chuck began having flashes of such vivid dreams, that they stayed with him, so much so that he was compelled to write them down. He had never, ever felt them physically; no matter how real they seemed when he closed his eyes. Trembling, Chuck got up from the couch he had passed out on and cradled his head in his hands. Dean. Dean. Dean. He felt like crying. Dean and Sam, Sam and Dean his characters that were almost like family. His boys, he called them, in his more sentimental moments (usually when he was to drunk to move and could only think). I don’t want to feel this, he thought, moving towards the kitchen where his salvation lay. He poured a glass of whiskey, drowning himself in pain and the liquid that allowed him to shut out some of his depression, and lowered into a chair. He sat, staring at the amber color that was his dearest friend, until he was pulled under by sleep. He did not dream.
Months of torture, escalating with each day until the ultimate was reached: pain induced from the spectral forms of John and Sam. Each day another wound inflicted in his already fragile psyche. He was hoping that it would be John today. Sam had been coming steadily for six months and Dean was tired. He was tired of relieving every fear, each insecurity that Sam’s image brought to light. No doubt John would be just as bad, but at least it would be a change. He waited, trembling, and like clockwork a form appeared and took shape. Dean gasped, not expecting what he saw. John was there, his hand on a young Sam.
“Hey Dean,” the John-like figure said, “it’s been a while.” Sam said nothing, just smiled, his face twisted into a crude imitation of a grin.
“Why are the two of you together today?” Dean asked, voice trembling in fear.
“We need you,” Sam answered, face still in that unnerving expression.
“You are the reason that we fight Dean, without you we have nothing to say,” John continued, his hand tightening on Sam’s shoulder. “Should we tell you what we get up to without you? Give you a little show?” Dean stared as John turned to Sam, pulling him until they were in each others space.
“Sam,” John whispered, “tell me. Tell me what you want.”
“I want Dean to go away. I want him to leave me alone. Make him leave me alone Daddy.”
John turned to Dean then, moving behind him to get better access to his ear and whispered words, insults, saying how much better off they’d be without him. He told Dean how he was no longer needed, his job was over, how Sam didn’t need protection anymore, told him to disappear. Months, years of abuse both physically and mentally had taken their toll, and what Dean had been resistant to had been slowly eroded until there was nothing left. As John whispered in his ear, Dean broke.
“Let me down!” he sobbed, “please let me down!” All at once the form of john and Sam disappeared, and in their place was his chief torturer: Alastair.
“Dean, Dean, Dean thirty-years and you break. I am so proud.” Dean was down; he could feel his shoulders healing and his body closing all the wounds that had been opened during the day. He regarded Alastair wearily, apprehension about what was coming. The demon smiled, for once a happy grin that sent chills down Dean’s spine.
“Come Dean; let me teach you how to induce the most exquisite pain.”
Chuck cried out, twisting in his bed sheets, trying to claw out of his nightmare and unable to. He was held fast, forced to see and feel the depths of Dean’s character and how completely it was broken. He whimpered as he was thrust forward, glimpses of images rushing by. He saw Dean learning each trick and technique, felt his perverse pleasure at inflicting as much pain as possible on his victims, striving to release some of his agony and emptiness. He saw and felt it all, and he wept for the best man he had ever known; real or imagined.
Dean was grinning, working into a young man. Alastair had told him that his victim was the worst, a pedophile and rapist, Dean had listened but hadn’t heard. It didn’t matter to him who the man was. All he cared about was that there was another soul to destroy, another person to inflict his punishment on. He had given everything in life and received nothing in return. In death he was given a gift in turn, he was able to leave his mark in a soul, something he was never allowed in life.
Dean had been working on this particular man for a year now and was almost at the breaking point. He could feel it in his bones, the thrum of terror emanating from the man before him. Dean’s methods had been different than usual. This man liked to talk, to get a reaction, so Dean had not spoken. He had simply gone about his business, methodically stripping down the layers only to start again the next day. It had been a year since he had spoken but Dean didn’t mind. He could see how his silence was affecting his victim and he relished in it.
The day was halfway over and Dean felt it was time to offer salvation. He hadn’t done so yet, not taking the preferred method and choosing to inflict the agony of silence on the man instead. Now, when the man was teetering on the edge, Dean made his move. He willed the tools he had been using away and turned to look the man in the eyes. He saw fear looking back at him, and felt a thrill that was seen in his deep yellow eyes.
He spoke softly and gently, like a lover, in his victim’s ear, “are you ready to submit? Have you lost yourself? Do you want to be found?” The man tried to pull away but Dean reached out a hand and brought his head closer to his mouth.
“Tell me what you want and I will give it to you,” he said.
“I-I have paid fo-for my sins. Let me be saved. Please. I want salvation,” his victim begged. Dean laughed high and cold and amused,
“You want to be saved? You, the scum of the earth? Do you want to ascend to heaven and live in eternal bliss?” The man nodded, tears filling his eyes.
“You don’t get to be saved. What makes you think you deserve the reward better men than you have been denied?” For the first time Dean was not happy, was not indifferent, for the first time in ten years he was angry.
“Shall I tell you a story of who I was before I became what I am?” he asked. The man stared wide eyed, frightened and unable to look away. Dean opened his mouth to begin but before he could speak Dean heard, like a nudge in the back of his mind, someone calling him. He paused, listening and when it wasn’t repeated he shook his head and continued.
“I was a hunter in life. Of things that didn’t belong; ghosts, shape shifters, and demons. I was as righteous as one could be living outside the law. Yet I sold my soul to the very demons I hunted. Do you want to know why?” His victim shook his head but Dean ignored him.
“I sold my soul to bring my brother back. The noblest of deeds, isn’t it? To trade your soul for another’s, condemning yourself for eternity so another can live. I was not saved; I was not allowed eternal bliss. I, who fought the good fight and was sent to hell because I loved my brother too much, was not saved. No one is saved, pet. No one escapes. Hell is for everyone the rapists and the righteous alike.”
He laughed, and stoked his victims’ hair tenderly. The man’s eyes widened and Dean turned. He saw a shape, both more frightening and lovelier than anything residing in hell, then a white light engulfed him and Dean knew no more.
Chuck awoke, his eyes burning from the dream. A feeling of peace saturated his bones and for the first time in months he was glad to be alive. Chuck turned to his window, light seeping through his dark world, and smiled.
(Surprisingly this is my favorite chapter I've written so far. Unexpected as it was not something I was planning.) As always, read and review!