Many are stubborn in pursuit of the path they have chosen, few in pursuit of the goal.
When he had been alive, the pain John felt at Mary’s loss had been extraordinary. She had been more than his wife, his best friend, his lover, and the mother of his children. She had understood him and loved him in spite of all his flaws (of which there were many), and John had known all too well how rare it was to find someone like that, someone who really got him. After Mary’s death, John hadn’t felt just hollow inside or like a dull ache was pulsing from somewhere deep within. He’d felt like half a person, as though part of his very essence had been taken from him, which it had. It had and it hurt. While he’d spent years tracking down the thing that killed her, that hurt had only grown more and more acute, to the point that it had become unbearable by the time he died.
In Hell, time was inconsequential. He could have been there moments or years. John didn’t know which it was, only that it seemed like an eternity, though of course it hadn’t been - though someday it would be. The intense, unyielding heat, so hot that it made his skin curl off in sheets and his flesh char on his bones before his entirety crumbled to ash only to be made whole again to endure the punishment over and over, was in and of itself painful. However, the unending pain of it all was almost pleasant compared to the torture of his mind and heart.
Demons lie.
John knew this, and yet that knowledge never quite managed to assuage the agony of the lies.
As he was being torn apart, burning into nothingness, Sam would appear before him with empty eyes and a mocking tone. ”It’s over. Dean couldn’t save me and you sure as hell couldn’t, so I saved myself, Dad. I’m a leader now, and I’ve got my good little soldiers to fight my good little war.” Sometimes it would be Dean, apologizing for being unable to protect his brother or to rail against John for the choices he made. Other times it would be Mary or Bill Harvelle or Caleb or Pastor Jim or Ellen. Every single time, no matter who the demons showed him, it tore him apart more effectively than the fire.
Although John was tortured and tormented, it didn’t dampen his spirit or his resolve. John was a hunter by nature and one of the most important qualities a hunter could have was patience. John Winchester could be a patient man. He would bide his time. He would observe. He would make note of routines and weaknesses. He would do these things, and one day he would find an out.
And one day, he did.
In the distance, there was a great whooshing sound, and all around John the inky blackness of demon ichor shot past him, heading for the sound. Voices shrieked and cackled, and he overheard one demon snarling, “It’s time! It’s open!” He had found his out.
Though he kept breaking apart with every step, John struggled forward, paying no mind to the loss of skin and sinew and bone. He didn’t slow down, not once, not even as his ashes swirled and rose and cobbled him back together again. With every fiber of his being, John Winchester stubbornly staggered toward the Devil’s Gate. He might have struck a deal with the demon to save his son’s life, but John refused to be damned forever. He was a hustler, and it was time for him to play the con and move on to whatever came next. Hell could go to Hell, for all he cared.
The doors loomed in front of him, and John felt himself become pieced back together as several demons jostled him hard to dart out and one grasped his elbow, trying to pull him back into the depths below. Wrenching his arm free, John propelled himself forward. He stumbled past the doors and out into the open.
In that moment, he felt more real than he had since the yellow-eyed demon claimed him, more whole somehow. Looking around him, John saw an ocean. He felt the unevenness of sand beneath his feet. He could practically smell the salt in the air.
If this was what he thought it was, there was only one person John wanted to see just then.
“Mary?”
[First can explain what's up; anyone else can find him wandering on the beach!]
In Hell, time was inconsequential. He could have been there moments or years. John didn’t know which it was, only that it seemed like an eternity, though of course it hadn’t been - though someday it would be. The intense, unyielding heat, so hot that it made his skin curl off in sheets and his flesh char on his bones before his entirety crumbled to ash only to be made whole again to endure the punishment over and over, was in and of itself painful. However, the unending pain of it all was almost pleasant compared to the torture of his mind and heart.
Demons lie.
John knew this, and yet that knowledge never quite managed to assuage the agony of the lies.
As he was being torn apart, burning into nothingness, Sam would appear before him with empty eyes and a mocking tone. ”It’s over. Dean couldn’t save me and you sure as hell couldn’t, so I saved myself, Dad. I’m a leader now, and I’ve got my good little soldiers to fight my good little war.” Sometimes it would be Dean, apologizing for being unable to protect his brother or to rail against John for the choices he made. Other times it would be Mary or Bill Harvelle or Caleb or Pastor Jim or Ellen. Every single time, no matter who the demons showed him, it tore him apart more effectively than the fire.
Although John was tortured and tormented, it didn’t dampen his spirit or his resolve. John was a hunter by nature and one of the most important qualities a hunter could have was patience. John Winchester could be a patient man. He would bide his time. He would observe. He would make note of routines and weaknesses. He would do these things, and one day he would find an out.
And one day, he did.
In the distance, there was a great whooshing sound, and all around John the inky blackness of demon ichor shot past him, heading for the sound. Voices shrieked and cackled, and he overheard one demon snarling, “It’s time! It’s open!” He had found his out.
Though he kept breaking apart with every step, John struggled forward, paying no mind to the loss of skin and sinew and bone. He didn’t slow down, not once, not even as his ashes swirled and rose and cobbled him back together again. With every fiber of his being, John Winchester stubbornly staggered toward the Devil’s Gate. He might have struck a deal with the demon to save his son’s life, but John refused to be damned forever. He was a hustler, and it was time for him to play the con and move on to whatever came next. Hell could go to Hell, for all he cared.
The doors loomed in front of him, and John felt himself become pieced back together as several demons jostled him hard to dart out and one grasped his elbow, trying to pull him back into the depths below. Wrenching his arm free, John propelled himself forward. He stumbled past the doors and out into the open.
In that moment, he felt more real than he had since the yellow-eyed demon claimed him, more whole somehow. Looking around him, John saw an ocean. He felt the unevenness of sand beneath his feet. He could practically smell the salt in the air.
If this was what he thought it was, there was only one person John wanted to see just then.
“Mary?”
[First can explain what's up; anyone else can find him wandering on the beach!]