(no subject)
Title: Ut Animadverto Opportunus Mythology (or The One Where Jon And Stephen Learn About Prophets, Winchesters, and The Sewers of New York)
Characters: Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Chuck the Prophet (a.k.a Chuck Shurley), Dean and Sam Winchester, and a surprise villain!
Rating: PG(13?)
Summary: Jon is not one to dwell on depressing subjects that have nothing to do with his job, but when it appears that someone wants him dead, he may have to change his attitude.
Notes: I do not own the fabulous Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, the Winchesters and Chuck belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. The following is a product of my evil mind and under active muse (so blame them) and takes place sometime after the fourth season of SPN. I am also assuming, for the sake of this story, that Stephen Colbert has not left TDS yet (only because I wanted the four of them, along with Chuck of course, to interact) but this is AU and it is perfectly within my rights to screw with anything I want, so HA! Also, special thanks to Enouva for being an excellent sieve for my ideas.
View Character List: dfhdancr.livejournal.com/8579.html
Where Everything Begins: A.K.A Chapter One
Jon Stewart was not one to dwell on the imperfections and inaccuracies of life for the simple fact that he spent the better part of the week distilling them and agonizing over the wonder of it all. This led to his general attitude that life is all about taking things as they come and not too personally. He was swiftly deviating from that philosophy, however, in light of the events of the past two weeks. Everyday, without fail, some potentially life threatening incident occurred to him in his office or apartment in New York.
This morning it happened to be brake failure. Without warning or reason his brakes simply stopped and he found himself flung forwards in his car and thanking a god (that he wasn't sure existed) that he was only pulling into his parking spot. After confirming that he was alive and peeling himself from the wheel of his car he noticed a pouch sitting just under the dash, almost directly behind the steering wheel. Picking it up, he opened the door and ascended the stairs to his offices in order to confer with the one person he trusted more than his wife, Stephen Colbert.
Stephen met Jon at his office door, as he was wont to do, with a large cup of coffee and a fairly significant stack of newspapers. Jon stole the coffee (with an indignant squawk from Stephen) and gave him the little pouch in exchange. As he settled himself on one of the many beanbag chairs that graced the medium sized office, Stephen wandered over to Jon's desk, opening the pouch as he went and nearly missing the chair completely. “What the..?” Stephen exclaimed, “where did you get this Jon?” looking up from the tiny bag that he had dropped on the desk in disgust. “My car, after the accident” Jon grumbled, sipping his coffee and rubbing his graying hair in an effort to wake himself up. Stephen looked from Jon to the pouch distractedly, his eyeglasses slipping steadily down his nose. “There's bones in this thing,” he said and Jon nearly inhaled the coffee he had just slipped past his lips. He jumped up and around his desk in a move entirely out of character for his short stature and peered over Stephen's shoulder with an expression of curiosity and fear playing across his face. “Holy...who would put a bag full of freaking bones in my car!?” Stephen turned and calmly said, “someone who is trying to scare you.” Jon sputtered at the calmness with which Stephen alluded to, what he believed, to be a serious attempt on his life, but before he could say anything the door opened and a stage hand entered along with a small man he had never seen before.
“I can't believe I agreed to this,” Chuck thought to himself surveying the studio with a large sign that read The Daily Show with Jon Stewart on one side. He had been behaving rather out of character ever since he had met Sam and Dean, who were not supposed to be real, after which he nearly got killed multiple times. Never the less, now that he was aware that he was “tuning in” as Sam said to all things Winchester, he felt compelled to act on a vision he had in which he met the anchor of the Daily Show. So he contacted his publisher about setting up an interview and (possibly) writing a new book, and hoped for the best.
Smoothing his hair nervously and feeling naked without his beard to hide most of his face, he climbed nervously up the steps until he met a secretary, who led him through the studio and into an office that was occupied by the man who he was going to interview with. The first thing he noticed was how much like home the office felt, the second thing he noticed was the bag sitting open on the desk. “Hi, I'm Jon...” the man said, trailing off when it became obvious that Chuck was not listening. He inched carefully towards the desk, ignoring the quizzical looks both men were shooting him, and nearly fainted as he got a better look at what was in the pouch. “Hey! Are you alright man?” the taller of the two asked, jumping up and guiding Chuck to a chair across from the one he had just vacated. Chuck shook his head in response, and tried to control his breathing.
He had never actually seen a hex bag, had only glimpsed them a few times when Sam and Dean dealt with that coven, but he knew the implications and was suddenly very glad that he had called the brothers and begged them to come with him to New York despite all the teasing he had to endure from Dean. “Dude, are you o.k?” Jon asked, a frown creasing his eyebrows and Chuck shook himself back into reality. “I, I'm fine, I just uh, need a drink,” he said pulling out a flask and taking a swig. “O.k, um I need to call...some people,” he said regretting that he had not agreed to go with the cover story that Sam had come up with, “do you have a phone?” Jon nodded and slid a phone across the desk. Chuck typed in Dean's number needing the brother he was more comfortable with when he was so out of sorts. The phone rang twice before it was answered, which surprised Chuck, as it wasn't even ten o'clock yet.
“What?” the deep, soothing voice of Dean Winchester did wonders for Chuck's nerves and he was able to get right to the point.
“I was right Dean, he is in some sort of trouble,” Chuck said and heard rustling and whispering that had to be Sam.
“What kind of trouble,” Dean asked, sounding slightly muffled as though he was holding the phone with his chin.
“It's a hex bag, and nothing is around that would actually use one anymore.” He heard Dean curse at that and some more whispering, as Dean filled Sam in.
“What do you mean, nothing would use that anymore? What about witches?”
“No, not since the,” he hesitated, not wanting to mention 'apocalypse' or 'lucifer' in case it would make to other two in the room hysterical, “the rising,” he said in a whisper. “Everything is carefully planned and nothing that leaves marks is allowed without permission.”
“Permission?” Dean asked, “permission from who?” Chuck could hear the weariness in his voice, knowing what his answer would be, and not wanting to hear it.
“You know who Dean, hurry up, I don't think I can explain this to them.” He heard Dean sigh, although not in exasperation, simply as a way to show he heard, before the line went dead. Chuck replaced the phone and turned back to the two men who were staring openly at him. He sighed, reached into his bag, pulling out two copies of the first Supernatural book, and handed them over to Jon saying, “read this and then ask your questions.”
Where Shit Happens ( And Stephen Seriously Considers Investing In A Helmet): A.K.A Chapter Two
Jon felt like he was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Not that he'd actually seen an episode of The Twilight Zone, but if he had this would have definatley qualified. At the very least he had been sucked into an alternate reality where ghosts were real, people actually behaved like those old western movie cowboys, and Jon felt completely inadequate in all of his five-foot seven-inch glory. Alright, so maybe that last bit wasn't so unusual. With all of the gorgeous, successful, infinatley taller celebrities he interviewed, it wasn't surprising that the two men he was currently staring at fit right in with the starlets he usually associated with. Except that they were not movie stars, and still managed to look better than Jon could ever hope to achieve.
He had finished reading the first book, not convinced, but at least willing to listen because there was really no other explanation for the string of ridiculously bad luck he had been subjected to recently. Closing the book, he and Stephen exchanged glances with raised eyebrows and cynical expressions, expressions that they had perfected out of necessity for the sake of comical relevance. Stephen was about to put forth a variety of questions to the man responsible for shaking their faith in reality, when two men entered the room and Jon knew he was in trouble.
The first clue he had to his plight was that the smallest of the two was at least six feet tall, and the taller was easily five inches bigger. The second indication that Jon was in trouble was the fact that both could be equally described as gods among men. Not that Jon actually paid attention to their physical appearance, nope. He just happened to be very observant and was currently observing one man who had bright green eyes, framed by long lashes, lips that were fuller than most women's, and a body that was what all men strove for (and rarely achieved); and the other who had a face like and angel (look, there really was no other way to describe it), equally captivating eyes, and (if it was even possible) a better body than the first man. It was a very good thing that Jon was completely comfortable in his sexuality, otherwise he would have been going through a slight crisis, and seeing as he had a full plate with the whole trying to come to grips with the supernatural thing, he really didn't need any more stress at the moment.
“Dean and Sam, I presume?” Stephen asked, seeing as how Jon was still taking in the newcomers. The smaller of the two smirked and took in the stage, eyes lingering on the desk and the bleachers that had collapsed last Thursday (narrowly missing Jon in the process).
The taller smiled and moved level with Stephen and answered, “yeah, I'm Sam and this is my older brother Dean.” Jon tore his eyes away from Dean, who was currently inspecting the makeshift chairs set up in place of the bleachers, and said “you're the younger brother?” Sam laughed, Dean huffed, and Chuck seemed to think that that was enough chit-chat because he spoke.
“I think we should get this figured out, alright?” Dean and Sam exchanged glances, not unlike the ones that Stephen and Jon gave each other but with much more substance behind it, and nodded to Chuck who motioned for Jon and Stephen to lead the way.
As the small group entered Jon's office, Stephen felt as if he had been shoved into an alternate reality. The fact that he was sharing the alternate reality with three of his heroes did not help to settle his nerves. Stephen had been ecstatic when he heard that his favorite author was to be Jon's guest. He was an avid reader of the Supernatural books, and was something of a believer, however peripherally, of all things paranormal. It had been a bit of a shock when he made the connection between Sam and Dean and the two men currently taking up much of Jon's office and all of his attention. Being the geek that he was, it was rather unnerving to be in the presence of two of the most kick ass ghost hunters that Stephen had ever had the pleasure of reading about. Granted the competition for that label was scarce, being between the Ghostbusters, the Ghostchasers, and Sam and Dean. So it was not surprising that the two brothers had run away with that title ever since they had escaped from right under the FBI's noses after taking out a shape shifter in a bank in Milwaukee.
It had never even crossed his mind that his two heroes were actually real people, so really, it wasn't his fault that he engaged in something of a fan-boy moment when everyone had gotten settled.
“So how much of these stories are real?” he asked, practically bouncing in his seat. Dean looked at him, with his eyebrows raised, a look that had Stephen practically squealing with joy.
“Dude, seriously chill out!” Stephen nodded his head and attempted to settle himself down, although it was really hard with Dean still looking at him in that totally Dean way.
“It's all real, everything,” Dean answered, after which he turned his attention to Jon and the pouch that they had been called in to investigate. Seeing that Dean had dismissed him as an idiot, Stephen turned his attention to Sam who had his laptop open and was conferring with Chuck.
“Every thing's real? Like, everything?” he asked. Sam looked up and smiled tightly, glancing over at Dean who had just laughed at something Jon said.
“Yes, everything,” he answered.
“Even the whole..hell thing?” he asked. Sam tensed up, glancing over at Dean, who had stood up abruptly and was glaring at Stephen in a way that would have made him very uncomfortable, had he been paying attention.
“Yes,” Sam answered in a tone that indicated his desire to get off the topic. Now Stephen was generally a pretty smart guy, and he usually knew when to keep his mouth shut, but every once in a while his good sense left him and he ended up looking like a jackass (which was one of the reasons he and Jon made such a good team, Jon was frequently able to do damage control when Stephen took leave of his senses). So he didn't really do the smart thing and take the warning both Dean and Sam had given him.
“How'd you get out of hell then?” he asked, addressing Dean. Jon groaned, and Stephen realized (to late) that he had made a bit of a faux pas.
“None of your business. We're here to stop something from killing your boss, and that means you have no need for our freakin' life story, alright?!” Dean growled. Stephen nodded, and resolved to keep his big mouth shut, he so didn't want to get beat up by his heroes. Sam moved over to Dean, placing a hand on his shoulder and appeared to be reasoning with him. Whatever he said seemed to work because Dean nodded, took a deep breath, and shook himself back into control.
“I'm gonna go see if there is a way for anyone to get in the studio without being seen. Sam, take Jon and Chuck and see if you can dig up anything.” Sam nodded and motioned for Jon and Chuck to follow him.
“What am I gonna do?” Stephen asked. Dean turned and stared at him for such a long time that Stephen began to squirm under his gaze.
“You're going to come with me.”
“Where?” he asked.
“The lovely sewers of New York,” Dean answered exiting the the office, leaving behind a slightly green Stephen.
“The...the sewers?” he squeaked, following Dean out and thinking that he should've known not to invoke the brother's wrath.
Where Someone Is Enlightened (And Someone Else Turns Into A Girl): A.K.A Chapter Three
It took maybe five minutes for Jon to become uncomfortable with the current situation. He had been walking a few paces behind Chuck and Sam, watching them have a very heated discussion that occasionally dissolved into shifty glances Jon's way. There was, however, a standard limit to the amount of talking that Jon permits going over his head. He usually lasts at least fifteen before needing to interject some sort of opinion (usually a humorous one), but considering this whole situation kinda revolved around him it was perfectly understandable to poke a little earlier than was his norm.
“Hey, umm, guys,” he said, more timidly than usual. To be fair, Sam could squash him like a bug if he wanted to, so the current absence of spine was totally not his fault. Sam turned his head, but continued walking and Chuck looked back once before promptly ignoring Jon's little outburst.
He tried again, “could you maybe tell me what is going on, and also why I had to write a list of people who hate and/or would like for me to die a horrible death?” Sam and Chuck shared a look, and abruptly stopped. Jon was startled and very nearly slammed into Sam's broad back but managed to prevent himself from any brain damage.
Chuck motioned for Jon to sit, which he did with a bit of apprehension. He hadn't meant talking right in the middle of New York, maybe in a nice coffee shop or diner. Food was always an excellent source of distraction if the conversation became uncomfortable (which was a very real possibility considering the subject matter). He was slightly relieved when Sam sat next to him, as he didn't want to have his neck permanently folded at a ninety degree angle. No one spoke and Jon became restless again. He looked to the less intimidating of the two, but Chuck seemed to have glued his mouth shut and appeared very interested in the cracks littering the sidewalk. Jon turned his head slightly to the stoic man next to him and had to physically prevent himself from scooting as far away as possible. Of the two brothers, Sam had been the more expressive and outgoing one. He had explained and answered all Jon and Stephen's questions and seemed to treat them equally. Now, however, his face had closed and his eyes had been shuttered with a dull glow. Sam heaved a sigh, as if preparing himself and turned to look Jon in the face.
“Look,” he said in a voice totally devoid of emotion, “once I start don't interrupt o.k? It's hard to...just don't talk.” Jon nodded and braced himself for a painful story.
Sam really, really, really didn't want to tell Jon his life story. It was hard enough to have lived it, but to have to share his most personal moments and experiences with a man he hardly knew was not something he relished doing. The topic had come up, however, and it wasn't fair to keep Jon in the dark since (if Chuck's hunch was correct, which his hunch's usually are) he was in a lot more danger than he realized. After seeing Jon's nod of understanding, Sam paused deciding where to start and settled on the visions and run in with the yellow-eyed demon.
“The day my mom died,” he began, “a demon visited me. He...ummm...well, for lack of a better word, he transferred some of his powers over to me. So, when I turned twenty-two I started having these visions where...well it doesn't matter what they were about, the point is they were a test to see which of the special children he transferred power to were strong enough to lead his army. My Dad was tracking it and researching a way to kill it, which was why he left Dean.” He gulped seeing in his minds eye, living pictures, as he related how fucked their life became. He saw Dean bleeding on the floor, his dad crying, begging for Sam to shoot him, Dean in a coma with tubes and machines the only thing keeping him alive, Dad, arguing with him and then finding him on the floor, burning Dad's body, and the weeks he and Dean didn't talk, the hole that he saw expanding every time he looked in Dean's eyes. He shook himself, and continued.
“After that, we kinda focused on my visions and figuring out what they meant. It took a year and we finally got it.” He paused, wanting to skip over the next few months but knowing he couldn't if he wanted Jon to understand, to forgive. “He took me and the rest of the special children for a final showdown. He needed the strongest, you see. He didn't need us to be his soldiers, he already had that. He needed a general. He needed someone to open the gates of hell and lead his army.”
Jon gasped and Sam stopped, looking over at him. Jon's face was pale but his eyes were cold and hard, like steel and fire. Sam studied the man for a moment, trying to understand why he was crucial enough to have the attention of Lucifer. He and Dean had watched some of the episodes and interviews trying to get clues that might point them in the right direction. He was certainly smart, with an almost Oscar Wilde like humor that was charismatic and irreverent. Mixed with his natural, cynical nature (sprung from generations of Jewish heritage and comedians) this made him both poignant and irresistible. Looking at him now Sam thought he understood the impact the man had. Although Jon was definatley shocked and scared he was holding his ground. His eyes were downcast, not in a submissive gesture, but in a thoughtful one as if he was planning his course of action, the meaning behind what Sam had told him, and what it meant. He had the capacity to get people to listen, to think, to be better and, perhaps most importantly, he had the gift of making people laugh. When Jon looked up, apparently finished with his musings, Sam continued.
“Dean tried to find me but he was to late. All I remember is relief 'cause Dean was there, then pain. Lots of pain. Dean was running and screaming. H...he never screamed that way, not even when the demon was pulling him apart.” Sam took a couple deep breath's, fortifying himself, knowing that the worst was yet to come. “He was holding me then, and crying....” He faltered and looked up at Chuck for help. Chuck's eyes were closed and he seemed to be concentrating but, as if he felt Sam's gaze, he nodded his head and gave a faint smile.
“Next thing I knew, I woke up in a room and Dean was hugging me. Then,” Sam said, rushing to get through the worst year of his life, “hell was unleashed.”
He paused again and Jon, unable to stop himself, spoke, “what happened after you were hurt?” Sam rubbed a hand over his face and answered, “I died.”
Jon frowned, confused, then his face cleared as he put the pieces together, “Oh! So that's why Dean went to hell?” Sam nodded. Then, as if trying to get it all out in one breath, he pushed forward through the following year mercilessly.
He glossed over plenty of the bad but couldn't get around the terms of the deal, Lilith, Ruby, and Dean's last twenty-four hours. He spoke in a monotone, fist clenched painfully in his lap and staring straight ahead at nothing. Truthfully, Sam hadn't thought about the previous two years for any length of time. Instead he had suppressed all the pain and desperation into a little ball, adapting Dean's personal preference to deal, right down to the feelings eating him up from the inside. He took a breath, but before Jon could say anything, continued. Hearing a noise to his right, he turned and found Jon looking at him. Just looking, no judgment, no sympathy. Nothing but a hand on Sam's arm and a small smile to show he was listening.
“The next four months were...hard.” Chuck snorted and Sam gave him an abashed look. “I wanted to die, I tried everything but none of the demons were dealing with me. So I” Sam was interrupted by Chuck's huff of annoyance and looked up.
“What did you do Sam? Huh? Share with us the agony and pain. Tell us how you remembered your brother!” Sam was startled at first, then his face grew hard and his lips curled.
“You have something to say, say it!” he growled, expecting Chuck to back down, as was his custom. Chuck simply squared his shoulders and continued, undettered.
“Do you know what it was like in hell?” Sam was shocked, this wasn't what he was expecting at all. Chuck didn't give him a chance to say anything, but plowed ahead destroying everything, leaving a shell of Sam behind.
“I know. You know how I know? Because I felt it. I felt everything Dean felt, and saw everything he saw. I did everything he did, everything.” He had stopped yelling, but what replaced it was much worse. It was a cold, hard tone that was unnatural coming from Chuck and surprised both Jon and Sam.
“I don't feel the visions, usually, but when Dean was in hell I did. Don't know why. It hurt. It wasn't physical pain only, it was emotional too. John left over and over. You left over and over. I, he didn't know what to do. Then Da-John would come back. You came back. You said the most awful things. You might've been worse, if it wasn't for John. John was the worst.” Chuck's voice broke for the first time, unable to repeat what Dean had heard, seen, in hell. Unable to say what Dean felt to the very core of his being, the reason he opened the first gate.
“Dean is, I am, still in hell. Every time he looks at you he sees you leaving, hears what you said there. Even if it wasn't you, even if you don't really want to leave it doesn't matter. Dean believes it, he tries not to. He tries so hard to believe that he deserves to live, deserves to have you Sam. He can't and it tears him apart. He tries so hard.”
At the end of Chuck's outburst Sam was crying. Chuck seemed to come out of a trance and, seeing Sam breaking before his eyes, looked remorseful and disgusted with himself. Jon simply sat, not knowing what to say or what to do. It was silent for eternity, broken by Sam's sobs. Then, as if sent by divine intervention, a sewage covered Stephen and a laughing (but only slightly wet Dean) pierced the veil of silence.
“I fucking hate sewers!” Stephen yelled, glaring at the still laughing Dean. He turned to the silent trio and smirked evilly, “so, any of you want to give me a hug?”
An Interlude: A.K.A Chapter Three Point Oh
Pain. Lots and lots of pain. There were hooks digging into his shoulders piercing the delicate skin and pulling him apart at the seams. He was scared, terrified. Up until the hellhounds had begun pulling him apart he had held out hope that Sammy would find a way out. Save him, like he promised. Now he just hung, suspended and alone in infinite space with nothing below or above him, no sensations. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, all he could do was listen and feel. Listen to the screams of the damned, the laughter and jeering of the demons; feel the heat licking his body, not flames but there, like a faint itch he couldn’t scratch: An uncomfortable sensation that would slowly drive him crazy.
He waited for something, anything to happen, but there was nothing. It felt like weeks, months, and all the while he was alone; anticipating the horrors that hell was supposed to give and receiving none. He drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite sleeping, always aware of where he was and the hooks sinking deeper and deeper in his body. They reached down into him, so deep that they were almost to the bone, mirroring the permeating sense of loneliness: a hole that grew wider and wider with each bout of consciousness.
Finally, after months of tension and waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, he was awakened to an intense pain, more than he had experienced since his first descent to hell. Gasping, he opened his eyes to see his torturer for the first time. The creature was shadow and blood. Red eyes, a shade deeper than the blood seeping from its body, shone with a mixture of lust and malice and it seemed to tremble with anticipation.
It spoke, not using a mouth (since it seemed to have none) but its words were heard to the very pit of Dean’s being, felt in that chasm of pain that he kept hidden almost from himself, “I have been waiting a long time Dean. A very long time for you.”
Smiling, it reached out a tendril of its form, extending like a warped version of an arm: to caress Dean’s face, his cheeks, eyelids, and finally stopping over his lips. Unable to move and stubbornly refusing to speak, Dean glared silently, all the while screaming from inside praying for salvation. The thing tightened its grip on Dean’s lips and pushed its essence into his body, forcing itself down his throat. Finally, after months of silence, Dean screamed.
Chuck woke with a start, panting and sweating. He had never felt physical sensations in his nightmares before. Three years ago Chuck began having flashes of such vivid dreams, that they stayed with him, so much so that he was compelled to write them down. He had never, ever felt them physically; no matter how real they seemed when he closed his eyes. Trembling, Chuck got up from the couch he had passed out on and cradled his head in his hands. Dean. Dean. Dean. He felt like crying. Dean and Sam, Sam and Dean his characters that were almost like family. His boys, he called them, in his more sentimental moments (usually when he was to drunk to move and could only think). I don’t want to feel this, he thought, moving towards the kitchen where his salvation lay. He poured a glass of whiskey, drowning himself in pain and the liquid that allowed him to shut out some of his depression, and lowered into a chair. He sat, staring at the amber color that was his dearest friend, until he was pulled under by sleep. He did not dream.
Months of torture, escalating with each day until the ultimate was reached: pain induced from the spectral forms of John and Sam. Each day another wound inflicted in his already fragile psyche. He was hoping that it would be John today. Sam had been coming steadily for six months and Dean was tired. He was tired of relieving every fear, each insecurity that Sam’s image brought to light. No doubt John would be just as bad, but at least it would be a change. He waited, trembling, and like clockwork a form appeared and took shape. Dean gasped, not expecting what he saw. John was there, his hand on a young Sam.
“Hey Dean,” the John-like figure said, “it’s been a while.” Sam said nothing, just smiled, his face twisted into a crude imitation of a grin.
“Why are the two of you together today?” Dean asked, voice trembling in fear.
“We need you,” Sam answered, face still in that unnerving expression.
“You are the reason that we fight Dean, without you we have nothing to say,” John continued, his hand tightening on Sam’s shoulder. “Should we tell you what we get up to without you? Give you a little show?” Dean stared as John turned to Sam, pulling him until they were in each others space.
“Sam,” John whispered, “tell me. Tell me what you want.”
“I want Dean to go away. I want him to leave me alone. Make him leave me alone Daddy.”
John turned to Dean then, moving behind him to get better access to his ear and whispered words, insults, saying how much better off they’d be without him. He told Dean how he was no longer needed, his job was over, how Sam didn’t need protection anymore, told him to disappear. Months, years of abuse both physically and mentally had taken their toll, and what Dean had been resistant to had been slowly eroded until there was nothing left. As John whispered in his ear, Dean broke.
“Let me down!” he sobbed, “please let me down!” All at once the form of john and Sam disappeared, and in their place was his chief torturer: Alastair.
“Dean, Dean, Dean thirty-years and you break. I am so proud.” Dean was down; he could feel his shoulders healing and his body closing all the wounds that had been opened during the day. He regarded Alastair wearily, apprehension about what was coming. The demon smiled, for once a happy grin that sent chills down Dean’s spine.
“Come Dean; let me teach you how to induce the most exquisite pain.”
Chuck cried out, twisting in his bed sheets, trying to claw out of his nightmare and unable to. He was held fast, forced to see and feel the depths of Dean’s character and how completely it was broken. He whimpered as he was thrust forward, glimpses of images rushing by. He saw Dean learning each trick and technique, felt his perverse pleasure at inflicting as much pain as possible on his victims, striving to release some of his agony and emptiness. He saw and felt it all, and he wept for the best man he had ever known; real or imagined.
Dean was grinning, working into a young man. Alastair had told him that his victim was the worst, a pedophile and rapist, Dean had listened but hadn’t heard. It didn’t matter to him who the man was. All he cared about was that there was another soul to destroy, another person to inflict his punishment on. He had given everything in life and received nothing in return. In death he was given a gift in turn, he was able to leave his mark in a soul, something he was never allowed in life.
Dean had been working on this particular man for a year now and was almost at the breaking point. He could feel it in his bones, the thrum of terror emanating from the man before him. Dean’s methods had been different than usual. This man liked to talk, to get a reaction, so Dean had not spoken. He had simply gone about his business, methodically stripping down the layers only to start again the next day. It had been a year since he had spoken but Dean didn’t mind. He could see how his silence was affecting his victim and he relished in it.
The day was halfway over and Dean felt it was time to offer salvation. He hadn’t done so yet, not taking the preferred method and choosing to inflict the agony of silence on the man instead. Now, when the man was teetering on the edge, Dean made his move. He willed the tools he had been using away and turned to look the man in the eyes. He saw fear looking back at him, and felt a thrill that was seen in his deep yellow eyes.
He spoke softly and gently, like a lover, in his victim’s ear, “are you ready to submit? Have you lost yourself? Do you want to be found?” The man tried to pull away but Dean reached out a hand and brought his head closer to his mouth.
“Tell me what you want and I will give it to you,” he said.
“I-I have paid fo-for my sins. Let me be saved. Please. I want salvation,” his victim begged. Dean laughed high and cold and amused,
“You want to be saved? You, the scum of the earth? Do you want to ascend to heaven and live in eternal bliss?” The man nodded, tears filling his eyes.
“You don’t get to be saved. What makes you think you deserve the reward better men than you have been denied?” For the first time Dean was not happy, was not indifferent, for the first time in ten years he was angry.
“Shall I tell you a story of who I was before I became what I am?” he asked. The man stared wide eyed, frightened and unable to look away. Dean opened his mouth to begin but before he could speak Dean heard, like a nudge in the back of his mind, someone calling him. He paused, listening and when it wasn’t repeated he shook his head and continued.
“I was a hunter in life. Of things that didn’t belong; ghosts, shape shifters, and demons. I was as righteous as one could be living outside the law. Yet I sold my soul to the very demons I hunted. Do you want to know why?” His victim shook his head but Dean ignored him.
“I sold my soul to bring my brother back. The noblest of deeds, isn’t it? To trade your soul for another’s, condemning yourself for eternity so another can live. I was not saved; I was not allowed eternal bliss. I, who fought the good fight and was sent to hell because I loved my brother too much, was not saved. No one is saved, pet. No one escapes. Hell is for everyone the rapists and the righteous alike.”
He laughed, and stoked his victims’ hair tenderly. The man’s eyes widened and Dean turned. He saw a shape, both more frightening and lovelier than anything residing in hell, then a white light engulfed him and Dean knew no more.
Chuck awoke, his eyes burning from the dream. A feeling of peace saturated his bones and for the first time in months he was glad to be alive. Chuck turned to his window, light seeping through his dark world, and smiled.
Where Ass Kicking Makes An Appearance: A.K.A Chapter Four
Stephen was highly uncomfortable. He had tried, at first, to ease the tension between Chuck, Sam, and Jon to no avail and was currently pouting behind Sam, Dean, and Chuck with Jon at his side. The five men were heading back towards the Daily Show studios, after a failure to find anything remotely interesting. Stephen had had a scare in the sewers when Dean snuck up behind him and screamed in his ear, causing Stephen to fall on his ass in the sewage and Dean to laugh his own ass off. He had managed a small revenge involving some water, a little tampering of the hose system attached to one of the pipes, and an excellent sense of timing; however, the overwhelming victory went to Dean.
The party stomped up the stairs and Dean started arguing heavily with both Sam and Chuck. Jon pulled Stephen off to the side and begun explaining what had transpired outside. He had just finished when all the lights went out. Dean, Sam, and Chuck stopped yelling abruptly and the quiet seemed to close in, pushing at their lungs.
“Can’t someone get a flashlight?” Jon asked, turning towards where the other three had been and promptly stepping on Stephen’s foot. He yelped, and Stephen heard someone running, and what sounded like a collision.
“Ouch!” Dean yelled, “Jon sit down, Stephen don’t move, Chuck…” there was a series of scuffles and then a body was pushed down next to Stephen.
“O.k” Sam said, after all movement had ceased, “Dean and I are going to investigate, nobody move.” Stephen nodded his head, although no one could see the gesture, and nervously tried to pierce the darkness.
Two pairs of footsteps moved away and the lights went on suddenly. Stephen had just enough time to spot Jon, sitting on the floor in the middle of the studio, before Jon was lifted high up into the lights of the stage. Jon yelped in surprise, Ste[hen screamed, and Chuck (the only one with any sense called out for Dean and Sam). The two boys rushed back in, both with sawed off’s that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. They quickly took in the scene, and with out any confirmation sprang into action. Sam moved over to stand in front of Stephen and Chuck and Dean rushed over to help Jon. Shots were fired, and somehow Stephen ended up on one side of the room with Sam, while Chuck and Dean were currently wrestling away from each other, burdened by Jon’s limp form.
“Dean,” Sam yelled in warning, Stephen looked over to see a blur of color before Dean and Chuck were shoved across the room and Jon was beset by a little man wearing a bright red and white stripped bow tie. Dean sprang to his feet, and Stephen tried to follow but was stopped by an invisible force field that appeared to hold Sam captive as well. Dean took a running leap and tackled the man off of Jon, pinning him with his knees.
“Let Sam and Stephen go!” Dean growled, the man flinched, Stephen wasn’t surprprised, Dean was pissed.
“Alright, alright! Just, umm, let me up o.k?” Dean studied the man carefully before nodding and releasing his captive. The man shifted tenderly onto his knees before screaming something in a foreign language. Dean moved to tackle him again but was too late. Out of thin air three ghosts materlialized and flung themselves at Dean, pushing him to the ground and tearing at him. Sam yelled out in rage and flung himself into the fray, Stephen (held captive by terror) heard a groan from Jon and made himself move over to help. The scuffles and cries of Sam, Dean and their antagonists were getting louder as the three bystanders watched transfixed. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Stephen turned his head to see the villain attempting to escape.
“Hey!” he called, and Jon turned, finally seeing the sixth man in the room.
“Carlson?!” he asked. At his exclamation the three ghosts disappeared and Sam and Dean were able to turn their attention to the man who was currently curling in on himself and trying to disappear in the same manner as the ghosts.
Tucker was pissed. Well mostly he was scared, master hadn’t told him about the two big men currently staring him down and carrying guns. Guns! Christ, what was so hard about getting a little revenge! The stupid man hadn’t even seen him coming, and now he was protected by these, these…brutes. Stupid Stewart with his stupidness and popularity. It wasn’t fair! Tucker had worked just as hard, hadn’t he? Had bit and clawed his way to his own show, and with one appearance Stewart had dismantled everything. The jerk didn’t deserve the clothes on his back.
“What are you doing?” Oh now the pompous prince was addressing him? Well, let’s see how he likes being taken down a peg. Tucker Carlson was not going to address the man, no he was not. No matter how angry and scary his bodyguards look, he wasn’t gonna say a thing!
“Mister, you had better explain yourself or me and my brother will continue our boxing session on your face,” the taller of the two, Sam wasn’t it?, said calmly. Tucker huffed and curled in tighter to himself.
“And who are you to talk to m-me like that?”
“Us?” Sam answered with a grin, “I’m Sam and this is my brother Dean.”
“S-Sam and, uhh, did you say Dean?” he squeaked, praying that they weren’t the same guys master had warned him about.
“Yeah,” Dean said, leering at Tucker and pushing into his personal space, “Sam and Dean Winchester.” Chuck, Jon, and Stephen grinned as Tucker let out a girly yelp and fainted dead away.
Please read and review! This is all I have right now (except for a general idea of what happens next and chapter titles) so feedback is needed before I continue, thanks!