[BCM] Deprivation
Hell had a way of bringing out the darker side of a person. They probably never even intended to turn the souls that they captured into demons. That was just a natural side effect of the space; the natural turn of the deprivation and rage on the human psyche. And of all the demons in Hell, Alastair was the expert at how to get just what he wanted out of his new recruits. Dean felt the expert skill with every twist of the knife into his guy, every time he tore his body to shreds. He hated him for it, hated him more than Dean ever thought he could possibly hate anything, but Hell seemed to amplify every emotion he felt. Every fear, every ounce of pain, every iota of hate he could possible come up with was amplified times a thousand and threatened to tear his body to shreds just as effectively as anything those demons would do to him.
At first, the sole focus of his hate was Alastair. Alastair was the one who was causing him pain. He was the one who was putting him through this, inflicting the pain upon him, therefore Alastair was the one he hated. But it didn’t take long for his mind to turn that hate in another direction, slowly eating it’s way back on the people who had hurt him, the people who had made his life what it was and put him in this position.
It started off with the demon. The one who had started this whole mess for them. He saw the yellow eyes standing above him as the hot pokers were driven into his gut, and he wanted to reach out and cause him the same amount of pain. He knew that Azazel was dead. He knew that for a fact as he had pulled the trigger himself, but for some reason, he was there, right in front of him. And Dean wanted to feel the man’s neck under his fingers. He burn his eyes out and make him feel every iota of pain that he suffered because of that damn demon. He’d make him feel his mother’s death, his father’s pain, his brother’s death-everything that he had taken away from Dean, Dean would dish back the best he could. Rage began to eat at him, consuming him slowly until that was all he was, just anger and rage at the demon who had ruined his life, inside and out.
After that, things started to get distinctly more personal. The yellow eyes started to form a face, one that he knew just as well as he knew his own. At first, he thought it was a flash back to when Azazel had possessed his father, but after a while the yellow eyes began to fade, and it was John standing over him, taunting him as the demons tore him apart over and over again. There was nothing but fear in the beginning, fear that he was feeling the kind of rage he was towards his father. Then the fear started crumbling away, giving away from the hate that bubbled under his skin. He hated his father for what he did to him. He hated how he made him grow up before he was ready. He hated how Sam was always his responsibility. He hated how everything was always laid on his shoulders, how he was supposed to be the one to hold the family together, and how he was always caught in the middle when he and Sam fought. He hated that John pushed Sam away from them, forced him to leave Dean alone for those years while he was at Stanford, how he never returned his phone calls, even when it was an emergency.
Then he went and sold his soul for his son, not thinking of the way it would tear Dean-ever loyal, ever faithful Dean-into a million pieces when he did. When John died, Dean lost his north star, his guiding light. If John hadn’t died, Dean wouldn’t be here. If John hadn’t sold his soul to keep his son alive, maybe Dean would have had a chance at something other than this-at some kind of blessed salvation beyond the grips of the demons and the way his soul was being torn to shreds.
Dean hated his father. He hated the man who had deprived him of loving human contact beyond that of his baby brother. He hated the man who kept him from being a child. And eventually the begging for his father to stop the demon, to do something to save him twisted from fear to anger, and from anger to hate. Hate that reverberated off the walls as Dean screamed at the vision of his father. Screamed at him for all the pain he caused him, all the anguish he put him through, all the pressure he had on him. And when he had screamed his throat raw, through the pain, the ripping and the tearing, the face started to change again.
When he first saw who it was, the built up anger was turned on the demons, telling them to stay the hell away from his brother. Sam didn’t deserve to go to Hell. Sam deserved so much more than Dean had ever been able to give him, and any hate regarding Sam was hate for himself because he couldn’t give his brother what he wanted. He couldn’t keep Sam happy, and that was why Sam left him. Sam had wanted more-Dean couldn’t be enough. No matter how enough Sam was for him. No matter how badly Dean needed his family to stay together, Dean couldn’t be enough for his brother, and he only had himself to blame on that.
Eventually, thoughts started to turn, twist into something no longer resembling Dean blaming himself. Sam was the one who did this to him. Sam was the one who had put him in this position. Sam was the one who couldn’t save him from his deal. He had made the deal for Sam in the first place-Sam who couldn’t think to watch his own back. Sam who needed constant protection all the time. Dean had tried to warn him that Jake was coming-he’d tried to save his brother. In fact, he fought like hell most of the time to keep Sam alive, and Sam couldn’t do the simple thing like pay attention. Because his dumb, pain in the ass baby brother was always getting himself into trouble. Dean had given his life to protect Sam, over and over again, and how did Sam repay him?
He left him.
He left Dean alone to deal with John. He left Dean to hunt alone, travel alone-hell, he was even going to leave Dean to find John alone when he went missing. Sam never cared about Dean. Sam only started coming hunting with him again because Jess died and he wanted to find John. It was never about wanting to spend time with his brother. Dean was just the annoying pain-in-the-ass older brother who has gotten in the way of finding the demon that killed his girlfriend. Dean was just along for the ride. The convenient source of transportation.
The stooge who he counted on to keep him alive.
He fought the hate in the pit of his stomach for weeks, months. He wasn’t going to hate his brother. The thoughts were irrational, they didn’t make any sense. Sam loved his brother. Dean knew it. He knew that more than he knew anything else. But the longer he was on the meat racks, the more doubts started to seep in.
Why hadn’t Sam gotten him out already? Why was he still here? Why was he still being tortured?
The doubts slowly but surely soured, twisting his desperation and fear to hate again, and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Dean didn’t have any kind of hope to hold on to anymore. Everything he was, everything he felt, was hate, agony and pain. He held onto his hate, held onto it with everything he could because it was the only thing that didn’t hurt. In fact, it felt good. It felt damn good.
So tell me, Dean, the silver voice would whisper in his ear at the end of the day, finishing the latest round on the meat racks with a bit of childish glee. Are you ready to come play with the big boys?
Usually Dean said no. Every single time, Dean told him to shove it. But Dean had nothing left to hold onto-and this time Dean said yes.
The pain was gone. No more hooks in his shoulders, no more pain in the side. He was part of the team now. He was the one who got to pull the strings and cause the pain. And now he had an outlet for his hate. He saw the souls in front of him, and he saw his father’s or his brother’s face, and he didn’t have to hold back. They deserved everything that was coming to them. They deserved everything he had to give them. The cold metal of the meat hook was smacked into his palm and he leaned over the soul in front of him, watching them carefully for a moment, before raising the hook over his head and bringing it down, driving it in so that he could make it hurt as much as possible.
So that they could feel all the pain they caused him.
1598 words