This silence will be the end of Hell | PG-13 | evil!Sam, Dean, gen
Title: This silence will be the end of Hell
Author lackadaisy
Character(s)/Pairing: Sam, Dean
Genre: Horror/Gen
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 793
Summary: What the writer's strike killed. Sam in all his glory, seen through a Hell-made torturer!Dean's eyes, come to rescue him. This is a gift for my darling Lottie, Lotrabc and to everyone else who is so immensely dissatisfied with Sam's less than stellar bad-assery level as of late. As a nod to said 'everyone else', if you're all happy with this, I'd be more than happy to continue this as a verse.
Dean dipped the knife in acid and dragged it across the raw and blistered flesh where the nameless soul's fingernail used to be. There was a delightful hissing and popping and one more scream to add to the cacophony. A bloody hand grabbed at his ankle and he saw yet another soul reaching for him from the heap of bones and blood and he kicked it in the face, sending it spiraling back down into the abyss around them. They were always trying to get to him, the souls trapped here like he was. There was something about him in particular that drew them in, some sort of power that none of the others had. Alastair called it his sickness and that it should be gotten rid of.
Dean was turning around to get a different knife, fresh one so as to execute a proper Chelsea Smile. That's when he heard it. The screaming wasn't as loud as it was a moment ago. There was less, and if anything, seemed to be disappearing. He examined the gaping valleys with their hideous moats of bodily fluids, the knolls made of decaying flesh, the racks, and the hill leading up towards the surface. There was no sky, just the distinct impression that he was stuck into the side of a pit that went on forever, and there might be a ceiling somewhere up there.
If he squinted, examined that farthest bit of the slope that he could make out, there were flashes of light, sparks and screams and then silence. Something was coming, and he might be next. He might be another one of those momentary light shows to illuminate the gloom and then there would finally be nothing. What happens when a soul dies? Is it really...gone?
Dean dropped his knife and tossed himself down the side of the hill, tripping and stumbling over the jagged bones that cut deep into his feet. It was a welcome pain, something different from the torture of so many years ago, and it wasn't all that bad. He'd inflicted worse on others, and this almost...tickled. He almost lost a toe on his climb up the opposite side of the canyon. Of all the things he'd endured, swimming through the moat of piss and shit and who knows what else wasn't the worst but it was pretty high on his list.
The lights and the silence was drawing nearer, and Dean could almost see a someone instead of a something. Was it a demon? Was it Alastair? Dean did lose a toe eventually, the smaller ones on his right foot, he tripped over someone's abandoned knife. It fucked up his balance and when he fell again he stayed down and waited. He was close enough, whoever was coming would reach him soon. It was a man, a tall one by the looks of it, he towered so high, and his eyes were bright and golden like flood lights. All he had to do was look at the demons around him and the black smoke writhed and crawled in the air and then burst into florescent sparks and disappeared. He was killing them? This man could kill demons with just a look?
When the demon-killer threw a glance at a nearby soul and the tortured thing scrabbled off the rack and started running up the hill, that's when Dean got it. The silence-souls were leaving. Without their torturers, the souls were taking off for the exit. This would be the end of Hell, the emptiness. What's a prison without prisoners?
The demon-killer drew closer, and that's when they started to look familiar. Dean recognized the broad shoulders, the sweep of brown hair, he knew the amulet hanging around that long neck. He knew that face. Those eyes. The reason he sent himself here, the reason he'd stay here forever if it meant safety for them.
“S-Sa-” Dean couldn't say it, he stared up at the hand being held out to him.
“There you are,” Sam rumbled, his voice too deep and monstrous and huge to belong to Dean's baby brother.
Dean allowed himself to be pulled up, and then encased in strong arms, and he clung back, shivering and confused and thinking maybe he'd wake up on the rack. Maybe Alastair was torturing him. But Sam could hear his thoughts and he shook his head.
“No, Dean, it's alright, I'm here to save you,” Sam told him, “it's time for you to come home.”
Dean shook his head, in denial? Confusion? Disbelief?
“We don't have a home, S-Sammy,” Dean mumbled, his words shaking as much as he was.
Sam grinned at him, dimples and all, yellow eyes sparkling with mirth, “I'll make one.”
Author lackadaisy
Character(s)/Pairing: Sam, Dean
Genre: Horror/Gen
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 793
Summary: What the writer's strike killed. Sam in all his glory, seen through a Hell-made torturer!Dean's eyes, come to rescue him. This is a gift for my darling Lottie, Lotrabc and to everyone else who is so immensely dissatisfied with Sam's less than stellar bad-assery level as of late. As a nod to said 'everyone else', if you're all happy with this, I'd be more than happy to continue this as a verse.
Dean dipped the knife in acid and dragged it across the raw and blistered flesh where the nameless soul's fingernail used to be. There was a delightful hissing and popping and one more scream to add to the cacophony. A bloody hand grabbed at his ankle and he saw yet another soul reaching for him from the heap of bones and blood and he kicked it in the face, sending it spiraling back down into the abyss around them. They were always trying to get to him, the souls trapped here like he was. There was something about him in particular that drew them in, some sort of power that none of the others had. Alastair called it his sickness and that it should be gotten rid of.
Dean was turning around to get a different knife, fresh one so as to execute a proper Chelsea Smile. That's when he heard it. The screaming wasn't as loud as it was a moment ago. There was less, and if anything, seemed to be disappearing. He examined the gaping valleys with their hideous moats of bodily fluids, the knolls made of decaying flesh, the racks, and the hill leading up towards the surface. There was no sky, just the distinct impression that he was stuck into the side of a pit that went on forever, and there might be a ceiling somewhere up there.
If he squinted, examined that farthest bit of the slope that he could make out, there were flashes of light, sparks and screams and then silence. Something was coming, and he might be next. He might be another one of those momentary light shows to illuminate the gloom and then there would finally be nothing. What happens when a soul dies? Is it really...gone?
Dean dropped his knife and tossed himself down the side of the hill, tripping and stumbling over the jagged bones that cut deep into his feet. It was a welcome pain, something different from the torture of so many years ago, and it wasn't all that bad. He'd inflicted worse on others, and this almost...tickled. He almost lost a toe on his climb up the opposite side of the canyon. Of all the things he'd endured, swimming through the moat of piss and shit and who knows what else wasn't the worst but it was pretty high on his list.
The lights and the silence was drawing nearer, and Dean could almost see a someone instead of a something. Was it a demon? Was it Alastair? Dean did lose a toe eventually, the smaller ones on his right foot, he tripped over someone's abandoned knife. It fucked up his balance and when he fell again he stayed down and waited. He was close enough, whoever was coming would reach him soon. It was a man, a tall one by the looks of it, he towered so high, and his eyes were bright and golden like flood lights. All he had to do was look at the demons around him and the black smoke writhed and crawled in the air and then burst into florescent sparks and disappeared. He was killing them? This man could kill demons with just a look?
When the demon-killer threw a glance at a nearby soul and the tortured thing scrabbled off the rack and started running up the hill, that's when Dean got it. The silence-souls were leaving. Without their torturers, the souls were taking off for the exit. This would be the end of Hell, the emptiness. What's a prison without prisoners?
The demon-killer drew closer, and that's when they started to look familiar. Dean recognized the broad shoulders, the sweep of brown hair, he knew the amulet hanging around that long neck. He knew that face. Those eyes. The reason he sent himself here, the reason he'd stay here forever if it meant safety for them.
“S-Sa-” Dean couldn't say it, he stared up at the hand being held out to him.
“There you are,” Sam rumbled, his voice too deep and monstrous and huge to belong to Dean's baby brother.
Dean allowed himself to be pulled up, and then encased in strong arms, and he clung back, shivering and confused and thinking maybe he'd wake up on the rack. Maybe Alastair was torturing him. But Sam could hear his thoughts and he shook his head.
“No, Dean, it's alright, I'm here to save you,” Sam told him, “it's time for you to come home.”
Dean shook his head, in denial? Confusion? Disbelief?
“We don't have a home, S-Sammy,” Dean mumbled, his words shaking as much as he was.
Sam grinned at him, dimples and all, yellow eyes sparkling with mirth, “I'll make one.”