Folks linin' up outside just to get down
There is no end to the workday in Hell. No one punches out their time card, no one goes home to shower away the accumulated grunge of a long day working in the pit.
There is no surcease from agony down here. Not for anyone, not even the damned.
Not even Dean Winchester.
It's a good thing Dean loves his job.
There is no surcease from agony down here. Not for anyone, not even the damned.
Not even Dean Winchester.
It's a good thing Dean loves his job.
Comments 20
It's one of those puzzles, like hands drawing hands, or is it a vase or two faces. An eternity can pass, and you'll still have an eternity to go. And every day is like . . . well, it's like the Galveston hurricane slamming into the last day of Pompeii.
Dean can still only measure in decades. Lilith no longer even bothers to measure in millenia.
He's not expecting her, but he'll hear her coming. There's a murmur that follows her, from the demons and the damned and the walls of Hell itself.
"Dean."
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"Just a minute," he says, gaze fixed on the needle and thread in his hands. Looks like life up above was good for something, even if it was just rock-steady hands.
"Loose lips and all that, right? I'll be right back."
The needle clinks as he sets it down and turns toward Lilith.
"Pretty sure he's gonna keep himself warm for me. What's up?"
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But then, there's nothing general about Dean.
Dean is special.
Lilith's focus is, for the moment, on the poor unfortunate soul behind Dean.
"Very nice," she says, fingers tracing Dean's stitches. "They're so even. And tiny. You almost can't see them at all."
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Okay, a lot proud.
"Just as long as he doesn't try to talk or anything. You hear that?"
He raises his voice for that last bit, just to make sure.
Whimpering is sweet.
Plus he can kinda imagine it sounds like a real tinny rendition of Hell's Bells.
"Looks like he does. Awesome. So -- what'd you want me for?"
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