For theatrical_muse
#170 - Time
In hell there is no sense of time just lengths of agony and pain. Weeks on earth are months and months are years. Without time there is no concept of duration, just a blur of repetitive actions and eternal damnation.
Dean aches for the familiar monotony of seconds turning into minutes and stretching into hours, at least then he knows how long he's been biting back a scream for.
The hooks are deep, pushed through thick muscle and carved through bone and he can feel every corded movement like it's one of his own.
Hell is a pit, neverending and eternity is a long time to spend trapped in an abyss of nothingness, just an endless web of chains and hooks. One slips and another pierces his skin, snaring him again, like they have a mind of their own.
There's a creaking sound, ingrained in metal and Dean feels it rip through him in what could only be a split second, splintering the sense of purgatory. He hangs there for a moment, breath torn from him and left to escape him in gasps. He counts them, one at a time, just needing something to focus on outside of the pain and the overwhelming feeling of despair.
Realistically Dean knows this isn't his body because that got ripped up to high heaven upstairs but that doesn't mean it hurts any less, it is his soul after all. Probably hurts more because of that. Dean feels another hook slips and grunts as he drops and it's the one through his shoulder that catches him, stopping abruptly at the thirty second mark.
He licks his lower lip and breathes through another pained movement. "One Mississippi," he murmurs, thickly and gruffly. Hell may have no concept of time, but Dean can make his own. It might be the only thing that keeps him sane and his father taught him to never give up, even if you're facing unreasonable odds and the enemy has the upper hand.
Muse : Dean Winchester
Fandom : Supernatural (Misc TV)
Word Count : 333
In hell there is no sense of time just lengths of agony and pain. Weeks on earth are months and months are years. Without time there is no concept of duration, just a blur of repetitive actions and eternal damnation.
Dean aches for the familiar monotony of seconds turning into minutes and stretching into hours, at least then he knows how long he's been biting back a scream for.
The hooks are deep, pushed through thick muscle and carved through bone and he can feel every corded movement like it's one of his own.
Hell is a pit, neverending and eternity is a long time to spend trapped in an abyss of nothingness, just an endless web of chains and hooks. One slips and another pierces his skin, snaring him again, like they have a mind of their own.
There's a creaking sound, ingrained in metal and Dean feels it rip through him in what could only be a split second, splintering the sense of purgatory. He hangs there for a moment, breath torn from him and left to escape him in gasps. He counts them, one at a time, just needing something to focus on outside of the pain and the overwhelming feeling of despair.
Realistically Dean knows this isn't his body because that got ripped up to high heaven upstairs but that doesn't mean it hurts any less, it is his soul after all. Probably hurts more because of that. Dean feels another hook slips and grunts as he drops and it's the one through his shoulder that catches him, stopping abruptly at the thirty second mark.
He licks his lower lip and breathes through another pained movement. "One Mississippi," he murmurs, thickly and gruffly. Hell may have no concept of time, but Dean can make his own. It might be the only thing that keeps him sane and his father taught him to never give up, even if you're facing unreasonable odds and the enemy has the upper hand.
Muse : Dean Winchester
Fandom : Supernatural (Misc TV)
Word Count : 333