Hell-ish, PG 13, No Pairings.
Firstly I apologise if you have posted a BigBang I haven't seen. I am behind and will probably read them all after the event, oh noes. But read them I shall.
The fabulous comm ohnokripkedidnt ran a fic challenge. I saw a prompt there that niggled at me, but could never complete it as prompted. I ended up writing the below, which bears no resemblance to the original person’s prompt, but it’s a fabulous comm, and I thought I should ref it anyway.
A character in this owes some inspiration to Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus books.
Title: Hell-ish
Rating: PG13
No Pairings
Summary: Sam finally gets to hell, but it’s not what he expected. Post S3. Crack/humor fic.
With many thanks to astrothsknot for the very fine and helpful beta, and to bitchtude for the much appreciated britpick. The usual disclaimers apply.
***
The fire grasps him with thick, heavy flames that threaten to drag him into its depths and never let him go.
Sam forces his way onward, ignores the bones that crunch under his feet and the cries that surround him on all sides. Cries of such horror and fear that they rip through Sam’s body as if they’ll leave a physical mark. All Sam can smell is rotting corpse and burning flesh. The smoke fills his lungs and eyes, but his purpose is clear. Dean is here, among the endless sea of red, and Sam has to find him.
He has no idea where to begin to find him.
He takes a path right to the center. Someone there will be able to tell him.
Someone there will be forced to tell him.
The smoke becomes small tufts, lazy spirals that drift into the air, like an old man with his pipe. They reveal a thick wooden door, interrupted only by a big golden doorknob. Sam tries it, although he doesn’t expect it to work.
The door swings open. Sam takes a breath, keeps his hand steady on the knife, his only weapon and hope, and edges his way in. The bones covering the floor start to thin out and the coolness of tile underneath is a relief to Sam’s burned feet. It’s dark still, but there’s a light up ahead, at the end of a short corridor; Sam follows it toward a glistening, moving blue.
When he reaches the edge of the corridor, he stops and -
“What the -” Sam says. He blinks, assuming the heat’s gotten to him and the vision will be gone when he opens his eyes again. It isn’t. There’s a blue pool ahead of him, an Olympic sized swimming pool, surrounded by shining white tile. The tile is dotted with carelessly arranged sunloungers, and each pair of loungers has been allotted a large umbrella. None of the tenants underneath the umbrellas can be seen. There’s a bar at the back, behind the furthest reach of white tile, and light dances on a variety of colored bottles.
It’s not as hot in here, and the sweat on Sam is starting to fade away. It’s not too cold either; in fact it’s kind of perfect. Unbidden, a memory swims into Sam’s head; a perfect day, one of the few times they visited California with Dad, when the three of them played football on the beach.
Until Sam lost the ball in the sea, and it was carried too far out for even Dad to get it back.
A waft of black smoke - demon smoke - materializes next to Sam, or started to arrive so gradually he hadn’t noticed, creeping up on him. Sam’s hand doesn’t leave the knife; whatever this place is, it can’t be good news.
The smoke starts to take form, jutting out two feet first, too large to be human, and with only two toes per foot. Legs follow that look pretty human, then a body, but scales start to sprout, and four arms, and the head… well Sam isn’t sure where the ears are, but he can certainly count several attempts.
“Er…Hello?” Sam may as well get some answers.
“Hello!” The - demon, Sam figures - replies, crossly, as if he’s been interrupted in the middle of a very important phone call. Then he blinks, two sets of lids, and a crooked smile takes over from his annoyance. “Well, well.”
A chuckle erupts that would scare small children into dropping their candy and running for the hills. “I should introduce myself. I am Ronulaeus, Scourger of the Innocent and Flayer of the Flesh! Treasurer to Lucifer and Bringer of the Plagues!”
Sam’s fingers must be white where they are gripping the knife. This Ronulaeus might know Dean, or some information that can help Sam (and maybe explain the loungers). “I’m Sa-“
“You’re Samuel Winchester, Son of John and Mary, and Brother to Dean.” The demon intones this with more than a modicum of sarcasm, but his eyes glisten with hidden awe. “Lone Survivor of the Special Children! Drinker of the blood of Aza-“
“Okay okay.” Sam’s been given a winning hand here; he has to press any lead he has. “If you’ve heard of me then-”
“Of course I’ve heard of you. You can call me Ron by the way.” Ron sniffs one of his noses and reaches out a hand to shake Sam’s. Sam stares at it, and Ron drops it to his side with another loud sniff. “Notice you didn’t tell me I could call you Sam. Fine, Mr High and Mighty Chosen One. We were expecting you. Well, I was expecting you around four on Tuesday, took it in the pool, but you can’t have everything.”
“Right.” Sam’s own voice sounds faint and distant; it’s still on earth and attempting to shout from there. Sam tried to sort his jumbled thoughts back into the order of his plan. Research. Find Dean. Find a way out. Find out what’s going on. “The pool, is that made of acid or something? And the drinks, do they choke you, make your throat swell?”
Ron makes a noise that sounds like a cat being strangled. Sam wonders if that’s what passes for a laugh. Or at least, what follows confirms that he’s being made fun of. “Do you also believe the moon is made of cream cheese?”
“Now, look-“
“Boy, I wish they’d had you on the planning committee. No, it’s a regular, clear, unpolluted pool.” The words ooze from Ron’s tongue, dripping with the evident nasty taste they give him. “And those are-“ and here he raises a hand to his eyes and shakes his head dramatically-“Double strength cocktails at the bar.”
“I don’t get it. This is supposed to be hell. I am…” Sam wishes he’d been able to bring a map. “I am in hell?”
“Of course you are. Where else would you forced to be polite and nice and think of other people first? Where else would I not be able to cause pain or suffering? Where else would I be driven mad by cleanliness everywhere I go.” Ron bellows the last past, saying it so loudly the nearest umbrella topples over, eliciting a shriek from whoever or whatever it lands on.
“Of course,” Ron waves all four arms, “you’re human and probably one of those good humans, maybe you like it. Pity. I was hoping the demon blood gave you more oomph."
“I got oomph.” Sam says. “I need-“
“Your brother? Over there - dangerously close to the entrance to the sexual fantasy tent I think…”
“Where else.”
Sam wends his way between the loungers, noticing the faint scent of…pineapple, or pomegranate, or something that makes Sam half believe he took a wrong turn and ended up in Hawaii by mistake. Soon a big pair of boots loom into view, accompanied by a very prostrate, comfortable looking Dean, incongruously sipping a cocktail glass filled with a pink drink and complete with sunny yellow umbrella.
“Sam!” Dean hops up, nearly trips over, and throws a (drunken, Sam notes) arm around him, sloshing pink liquid from the glass onto Sam’s back. “Knew you’d come. Thought it’d be more like Tuesday though.”
“What the-“
Dean pulls back, and claps his spare hand onto the side of Sam’s face, a hand rough with healing burns. He sits back down on the lounger again, grins up at Sam. “What? Hey. What’s got your panties in a bunch?”
“Dean. I watched your soul get torn from you. I had visions of you strung up on meat hooks.” There are black dots marking Dean’s shoulders, jagged edges spiking into pale flesh, Sam notes. “I battled my way through, I walked on flesh and bone, I got singed by the fires of hell, I coughed on the remnants of who knows, only to find you-“ Sam notices vaguely that he’s still clutching the knife, and he points it viciously in the direction of the glass -“sipping a pink martini!”
“They don’t serve beer.” Dean crinkles his forehead and sniffs at his glass.
“That’s not the point! I was worried! I-“
“I know. I-“ Dean shifts his feet and pats the side of the lounger. Despite himself, Sam sits down. It’s very comfortable, soft and moulding itself to Sam’s ass. He immediately wants to lie down on it. “I was coming to find you. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“What kept you?” The snap sounds in Sam’s voice even though he tries to keep it out, ‘cause really, he’s just relieved to have found Dean.
Dean squirms. “I was strung up when I first got here…hooks, fire, pain… the whole eternal torment deal. I had to fight my way out and I found this and I… I thought I’d rest first.”
“Right.” Sam tucks the knife into the back of his pants. It’s close enough if he needs it.
“My body okay? And the car?” Dean’s eyes narrow and sweep over Sam. He shuffles over to the side.
“Both are fine. Are you okay?” Sam leans back next to Dean. Sam’s not sure he wants to leave.
“Am now.” Dean’s face twists into a wry smile. “Hey, I found Bela. She’s over there somewhere trying to steal the non-stop ice-cream maker and the personal mood music gadgets.”
“What?”
“Plays the perfect song for your mood.” Dean’s eyes close briefly.
“Dean have we…” Sam tilts his head and watches as Dean’s eyes flicker open.
“What?”
“Is this heaven?”
“Ah. No,” Dean gives a shake of his head so vigorous the yellow umbrella falls out of his glass. “Heaven would involve more naked people and beer. And my car. And-it’s not heaven.”
“I didn’t think it’d look like this. Hell. ‘Course-“ Sam watches Ron, well, not really walk, more glide past, muttering about damn people who try and offer him cupcakes -“I don’t think the demons like it.”
“You think that’s how it works?”
“In heaven, they like it? And here they don’t, so it’s hell?”
“Maybe.” Sam’s eyes start to drift shut. He’s found Dean now, he’s done his task. He can rest…a new fear stumbles around his chest, a hatchling straight from its egg. ”We should go.”
Dean’s spare hand moves to grab his wrist and pull him back down. “Why so fast?” Dean waves his glass around. “Can’t we take a vacation first? Or stay here a while? Look at it.”
“Dean-“ Sam pictures Bobby’s face, waiting in the light of the Impala at the gate. He remembers the newspaper articles littered across Bobby’s table - the maybe cases Sam had refused to look at. “There are demons on earth. We have to stop them. Do our jobs. We can’t… we can’t forget, stay trapped here.”
Dean sighs theatrically. “I been in worse traps.” He downs the contents of his glass and puts it down. “Damn demons.”
“I know.” Sam remembers Dad taking them swimming, once, in a pool where the tiles were broken, the water tepid, and kids tried to push Sam out of their way. “Imagine liking sinful, sick, dirty earth when-“ A new plan clicks into place. Sam knows what must be done.
“Don’t do it, Sam.”
“What?” Sam stands, allows the perfect scent to fill his lungs.
“You always were a spoilsport.” Dean gets up, levels Sam’s gaze. “We really gotta destroy it?” There’s only a hint of a question, as Sam hears Dean’s last vestiges of doubt fall away.
Sam nods. “Then it’s no trap for us, and demons might want to stay here, and that means…”
“Saving people,” Dean says, gloomily. A smile stretches across his face and meets his eyes. “I’ll pee in the pool?”
“I’ll take the ice-cream makers.”
“Meet you by the plasma TVs!”
**
Feedback is adored.
The fabulous comm ohnokripkedidnt ran a fic challenge. I saw a prompt there that niggled at me, but could never complete it as prompted. I ended up writing the below, which bears no resemblance to the original person’s prompt, but it’s a fabulous comm, and I thought I should ref it anyway.
A character in this owes some inspiration to Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus books.
Title: Hell-ish
Rating: PG13
No Pairings
Summary: Sam finally gets to hell, but it’s not what he expected. Post S3. Crack/humor fic.
With many thanks to astrothsknot for the very fine and helpful beta, and to bitchtude for the much appreciated britpick. The usual disclaimers apply.
***
The fire grasps him with thick, heavy flames that threaten to drag him into its depths and never let him go.
Sam forces his way onward, ignores the bones that crunch under his feet and the cries that surround him on all sides. Cries of such horror and fear that they rip through Sam’s body as if they’ll leave a physical mark. All Sam can smell is rotting corpse and burning flesh. The smoke fills his lungs and eyes, but his purpose is clear. Dean is here, among the endless sea of red, and Sam has to find him.
He has no idea where to begin to find him.
He takes a path right to the center. Someone there will be able to tell him.
Someone there will be forced to tell him.
The smoke becomes small tufts, lazy spirals that drift into the air, like an old man with his pipe. They reveal a thick wooden door, interrupted only by a big golden doorknob. Sam tries it, although he doesn’t expect it to work.
The door swings open. Sam takes a breath, keeps his hand steady on the knife, his only weapon and hope, and edges his way in. The bones covering the floor start to thin out and the coolness of tile underneath is a relief to Sam’s burned feet. It’s dark still, but there’s a light up ahead, at the end of a short corridor; Sam follows it toward a glistening, moving blue.
When he reaches the edge of the corridor, he stops and -
“What the -” Sam says. He blinks, assuming the heat’s gotten to him and the vision will be gone when he opens his eyes again. It isn’t. There’s a blue pool ahead of him, an Olympic sized swimming pool, surrounded by shining white tile. The tile is dotted with carelessly arranged sunloungers, and each pair of loungers has been allotted a large umbrella. None of the tenants underneath the umbrellas can be seen. There’s a bar at the back, behind the furthest reach of white tile, and light dances on a variety of colored bottles.
It’s not as hot in here, and the sweat on Sam is starting to fade away. It’s not too cold either; in fact it’s kind of perfect. Unbidden, a memory swims into Sam’s head; a perfect day, one of the few times they visited California with Dad, when the three of them played football on the beach.
Until Sam lost the ball in the sea, and it was carried too far out for even Dad to get it back.
A waft of black smoke - demon smoke - materializes next to Sam, or started to arrive so gradually he hadn’t noticed, creeping up on him. Sam’s hand doesn’t leave the knife; whatever this place is, it can’t be good news.
The smoke starts to take form, jutting out two feet first, too large to be human, and with only two toes per foot. Legs follow that look pretty human, then a body, but scales start to sprout, and four arms, and the head… well Sam isn’t sure where the ears are, but he can certainly count several attempts.
“Er…Hello?” Sam may as well get some answers.
“Hello!” The - demon, Sam figures - replies, crossly, as if he’s been interrupted in the middle of a very important phone call. Then he blinks, two sets of lids, and a crooked smile takes over from his annoyance. “Well, well.”
A chuckle erupts that would scare small children into dropping their candy and running for the hills. “I should introduce myself. I am Ronulaeus, Scourger of the Innocent and Flayer of the Flesh! Treasurer to Lucifer and Bringer of the Plagues!”
Sam’s fingers must be white where they are gripping the knife. This Ronulaeus might know Dean, or some information that can help Sam (and maybe explain the loungers). “I’m Sa-“
“You’re Samuel Winchester, Son of John and Mary, and Brother to Dean.” The demon intones this with more than a modicum of sarcasm, but his eyes glisten with hidden awe. “Lone Survivor of the Special Children! Drinker of the blood of Aza-“
“Okay okay.” Sam’s been given a winning hand here; he has to press any lead he has. “If you’ve heard of me then-”
“Of course I’ve heard of you. You can call me Ron by the way.” Ron sniffs one of his noses and reaches out a hand to shake Sam’s. Sam stares at it, and Ron drops it to his side with another loud sniff. “Notice you didn’t tell me I could call you Sam. Fine, Mr High and Mighty Chosen One. We were expecting you. Well, I was expecting you around four on Tuesday, took it in the pool, but you can’t have everything.”
“Right.” Sam’s own voice sounds faint and distant; it’s still on earth and attempting to shout from there. Sam tried to sort his jumbled thoughts back into the order of his plan. Research. Find Dean. Find a way out. Find out what’s going on. “The pool, is that made of acid or something? And the drinks, do they choke you, make your throat swell?”
Ron makes a noise that sounds like a cat being strangled. Sam wonders if that’s what passes for a laugh. Or at least, what follows confirms that he’s being made fun of. “Do you also believe the moon is made of cream cheese?”
“Now, look-“
“Boy, I wish they’d had you on the planning committee. No, it’s a regular, clear, unpolluted pool.” The words ooze from Ron’s tongue, dripping with the evident nasty taste they give him. “And those are-“ and here he raises a hand to his eyes and shakes his head dramatically-“Double strength cocktails at the bar.”
“I don’t get it. This is supposed to be hell. I am…” Sam wishes he’d been able to bring a map. “I am in hell?”
“Of course you are. Where else would you forced to be polite and nice and think of other people first? Where else would I not be able to cause pain or suffering? Where else would I be driven mad by cleanliness everywhere I go.” Ron bellows the last past, saying it so loudly the nearest umbrella topples over, eliciting a shriek from whoever or whatever it lands on.
“Of course,” Ron waves all four arms, “you’re human and probably one of those good humans, maybe you like it. Pity. I was hoping the demon blood gave you more oomph."
“I got oomph.” Sam says. “I need-“
“Your brother? Over there - dangerously close to the entrance to the sexual fantasy tent I think…”
“Where else.”
Sam wends his way between the loungers, noticing the faint scent of…pineapple, or pomegranate, or something that makes Sam half believe he took a wrong turn and ended up in Hawaii by mistake. Soon a big pair of boots loom into view, accompanied by a very prostrate, comfortable looking Dean, incongruously sipping a cocktail glass filled with a pink drink and complete with sunny yellow umbrella.
“Sam!” Dean hops up, nearly trips over, and throws a (drunken, Sam notes) arm around him, sloshing pink liquid from the glass onto Sam’s back. “Knew you’d come. Thought it’d be more like Tuesday though.”
“What the-“
Dean pulls back, and claps his spare hand onto the side of Sam’s face, a hand rough with healing burns. He sits back down on the lounger again, grins up at Sam. “What? Hey. What’s got your panties in a bunch?”
“Dean. I watched your soul get torn from you. I had visions of you strung up on meat hooks.” There are black dots marking Dean’s shoulders, jagged edges spiking into pale flesh, Sam notes. “I battled my way through, I walked on flesh and bone, I got singed by the fires of hell, I coughed on the remnants of who knows, only to find you-“ Sam notices vaguely that he’s still clutching the knife, and he points it viciously in the direction of the glass -“sipping a pink martini!”
“They don’t serve beer.” Dean crinkles his forehead and sniffs at his glass.
“That’s not the point! I was worried! I-“
“I know. I-“ Dean shifts his feet and pats the side of the lounger. Despite himself, Sam sits down. It’s very comfortable, soft and moulding itself to Sam’s ass. He immediately wants to lie down on it. “I was coming to find you. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“What kept you?” The snap sounds in Sam’s voice even though he tries to keep it out, ‘cause really, he’s just relieved to have found Dean.
Dean squirms. “I was strung up when I first got here…hooks, fire, pain… the whole eternal torment deal. I had to fight my way out and I found this and I… I thought I’d rest first.”
“Right.” Sam tucks the knife into the back of his pants. It’s close enough if he needs it.
“My body okay? And the car?” Dean’s eyes narrow and sweep over Sam. He shuffles over to the side.
“Both are fine. Are you okay?” Sam leans back next to Dean. Sam’s not sure he wants to leave.
“Am now.” Dean’s face twists into a wry smile. “Hey, I found Bela. She’s over there somewhere trying to steal the non-stop ice-cream maker and the personal mood music gadgets.”
“What?”
“Plays the perfect song for your mood.” Dean’s eyes close briefly.
“Dean have we…” Sam tilts his head and watches as Dean’s eyes flicker open.
“What?”
“Is this heaven?”
“Ah. No,” Dean gives a shake of his head so vigorous the yellow umbrella falls out of his glass. “Heaven would involve more naked people and beer. And my car. And-it’s not heaven.”
“I didn’t think it’d look like this. Hell. ‘Course-“ Sam watches Ron, well, not really walk, more glide past, muttering about damn people who try and offer him cupcakes -“I don’t think the demons like it.”
“You think that’s how it works?”
“In heaven, they like it? And here they don’t, so it’s hell?”
“Maybe.” Sam’s eyes start to drift shut. He’s found Dean now, he’s done his task. He can rest…a new fear stumbles around his chest, a hatchling straight from its egg. ”We should go.”
Dean’s spare hand moves to grab his wrist and pull him back down. “Why so fast?” Dean waves his glass around. “Can’t we take a vacation first? Or stay here a while? Look at it.”
“Dean-“ Sam pictures Bobby’s face, waiting in the light of the Impala at the gate. He remembers the newspaper articles littered across Bobby’s table - the maybe cases Sam had refused to look at. “There are demons on earth. We have to stop them. Do our jobs. We can’t… we can’t forget, stay trapped here.”
Dean sighs theatrically. “I been in worse traps.” He downs the contents of his glass and puts it down. “Damn demons.”
“I know.” Sam remembers Dad taking them swimming, once, in a pool where the tiles were broken, the water tepid, and kids tried to push Sam out of their way. “Imagine liking sinful, sick, dirty earth when-“ A new plan clicks into place. Sam knows what must be done.
“Don’t do it, Sam.”
“What?” Sam stands, allows the perfect scent to fill his lungs.
“You always were a spoilsport.” Dean gets up, levels Sam’s gaze. “We really gotta destroy it?” There’s only a hint of a question, as Sam hears Dean’s last vestiges of doubt fall away.
Sam nods. “Then it’s no trap for us, and demons might want to stay here, and that means…”
“Saving people,” Dean says, gloomily. A smile stretches across his face and meets his eyes. “I’ll pee in the pool?”
“I’ll take the ice-cream makers.”
“Meet you by the plasma TVs!”
**
Feedback is adored.