Hellfire Memories
Title: Hellfire Memories
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Castiel, Alastair, Sam (pre-Dean/Castiel?)
Word Count: 2,235
Warnings: Spoilers up to 4.14, some angst, violence...
Disclaimer: I totally don't own these characters. This is just something I'd like to see!
Synopsis: Dean remembers Castiel pulling him out of Hell.
Notes: I'm not sure if this has been done yet, but the idea popped into my head, and I really wanted Dean to remember this...so I wrote it. I'd like to add more to it, but I'm still thinking about where it could go. Enjoy! Credit to sucuri for input and encouragement!! :)
Dean hadn’t always been lying. He really had blocked most of Hell out of his mind. The memories took some time to come back to him, and when they did, it was a slap in the face that he didn’t want to acknowledge; at least not out loud. They were too painful and guilt-ridden.
He thought he’d remembered it all until he realized that there was a gap between his time in Hell and his return to Earth. And, now that he’d opened his mind to accept memories he’d wished away, it wouldn’t take long to fill that gap. He could remember it if he tried. He could remember being saved.
He wasn’t sure why it scared him to think about it; to unlock that moment. It might’ve been that he was ashamed enough of himself already without acknowledging that a higher being had caught him quite literally red-handed. He knew that Castiel - that all of them - knew about what he’d done, but remembering that moment would leave him feeling even more exposed and vulnerable than he already did. Those feelings already caused him to lash out at and disobey Castiel as often as he could, but that was mostly because he was fighting to regain some certain sense of self, now that he was alive again. If only he could just go back to normal, to when he rebelled against everyone and everything except for his dad and Sammy, and he wasn’t the angels’ chosen one. He’d thought keeping his family together had been a weight on his shoulders, and now he literally carried the world on them, a crushing mass that pushed him to kneel before Castiel and whatever higher power was out there. He resisted it only for a sense of normalcy, even though he knew he’d never achieve it. There was no going back. Besides, he’d never really had a normal life to begin with. That was taken from him when he was four.
He hated that. He hated that he had no control over his life. He’d only started on this path because his family was destroyed, and he was only fighting to save the world now because the angels demanded it. He had no choice, no say in the matter. In fact, the one choice he had made had been negated. He’d chosen to go to Hell to bring Sam back to life, and the angels had pulled him out to do their bidding. They’d pulled him out after he’d been tortured for thirty years and turned into a monster. They’d pulled him out at just the right time for him to be so fucked up that he wished he didn’t exist, and expected him to pull the world out of this war that was fit to bring on the apocalypse. And Castiel wondered why he had an attitude. There were times when he wished he’d just been left in Hell to forget his former life and who he was. He’d been prepared to do that, anyway, if it meant Sam were to live.
And yet, as much as he resented his lot in life and the angels for stripping him of his free will, he couldn’t help but feel some sort of affection for Castiel, though he tried his best to hide it. It could’ve been because, aside from a couple of threats early on, Castiel had been the more reasonable one of the angels he’d met, still willing to listen, even though Dean bitched at him every chance he could get. He couldn’t help but feel that there was some sort of understanding between them, and, the way things were going nowadays, he could probably trust Castiel more than he could trust Sam. It also helped that, while Uriel was ready to smite Sam, Castiel was still willing to include him in their mission. Dean was always on board with anyone who’d potentially protect his brother, even if the two of them were having problems.
And so, Dean found himself remembering. He closed his eyes as he laid his head back on yet another flat hotel room pillow and unlocked that forbidden door. He was still conscious, not quite asleep, and knew he’d visibly flinched when his first memory was of himself, torturing and maiming some poor soul on the rack in front of him. He gasped, his eyes flying open, pulling himself away from the image burned onto the backs of his eyelids, and looked over at Sam’s bed, thankful to actually find him in it and sleeping heavily. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his now racing heart, telling himself that he could do this. If he was going to face all the things he’d have to in order to keep the world from ending, he could face this. He closed his eyes again, revisiting the memory he’d just left behind.
He never thought he’d get so much pleasure from tearing someone apart and hearing their screams. Sure, he’d enjoyed killing all kinds of Supernatural beings throughout his life, but this was different. Not to mention the fact that when he had hunted, he’d done it efficiently. It wasn’t long, drawn-out torture. He’d admit to being a tad unbalanced and prone to violence, but even he wasn’t that messed up. But Ruby had told him that Hell was forgetting who you were; that she had forgotten the bulk of who she was and lost most of her humanity, hence the whole demon thing. He’d resisted that for so long, part of his usual stubborn nature. No one could force him to become something he wasn’t. He was Dean Winchester, dammit, proud son of John Winchester, and he couldn’t let that pride go.
But he’d had enough. After all, thirty years was enough, right? Thirty years was enough to prove himself and lend more respect to his family’s good name. And it wasn’t as if he’d ended up there because he’d been a bad person. He was there to save Sam’s life. That still had to count for something. So, if he forgot himself and fell a little lower, it was just all part of the plan, wasn’t it?
Part of him hated to think about how relieved he was to get off the rack. But it was only natural. Any…person? Soul? Creature? Anybody would feel the same way he did. And the soul placed on the rack in front of him? Well, they were in Hell. Maybe the guy deserved what Dean found he was so ready to do to him. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe his situation was close to Dean’s, and he was only there to protect his family. That thought should’ve given Dean pause for longer than it did. But thirty years of torture and pain and demonic laughter made him eager to get started. That first time, he didn’t even use weapons, tools, flame. He dug in with his bare hands, surprised at what they could do on their own. He found himself breaking, tearing, pulling and scraping, covered in blood that wasn’t his own for once, hearing screams that weren’t ripped from his own throat. And once he’d started, it was as if the floodgates had opened. He took all of his anger out on that poor soul, almost gleefully, though he could feel disgust and despair somewhere still inside of him, and he had to fight back the nausea rising in the middle of it all.
And Alastair laughed. Alastair told him he was doing a good job, and that Dean was making him proud. He tore people apart while Alastair looked over his shoulder, and Dean couldn’t help but picture Alastair in his mind as he continued his torture. If this were another world, if Dean had any actual power here, he’d turn the tables on Alastair so quickly that the demon wouldn’t even have time to blink or curve his lips up into the sneering smirk he so loved to wear. It was Alastair Dean wanted under his hands, under his knives and blades. But maybe Dean was just telling himself that so that he could feel better about what he was doing; so he could feel better about the fact that he was enjoying his new position in Hell.
It was disturbing, how quickly he lost count of the amount of souls he’d tortured, almost constantly elbow-deep in blood. It seemed he’d even outdone some demons, who were surprised by how much he could accomplish with just his own brute strength. He was in the middle of it all, some poor bastard’s intestines in his hands and demons cheering him on, when Hell suddenly shook and opened up. Lesser demons began to flee the scene, and Dean heard Alastair cursing behind him, telling whoever had caused the commotion that they had no power here.
Dean looked around, confused until a blinding light shone before him, causing him to drop what he held in his hands and stumble backwards. He closed his eyes, which burned painfully behind his eyelids, barely even remembering what light was like after living in the darkness of Hell for forty years. He didn’t dare to open them again yet, couldn’t do it with the intensity of the light, but saw even brighter flashes on his lids, hearing electricity crackle around him. Lightning? As hot as Hell had been, the light had brought with it a coldness Dean hadn’t felt since he and Sam had worked that job in Colorado in the dead of winter, and he shivered, confusion giving way to fear when he felt the heat of each lightning bolt flashing in contrast around him. Shouts and screams filled the air around him, the anguished sounds coming from the demons this time, and Dean suddenly remembered the blood on his skin with more clarity, all too aware of it drying sticky on his body. The only thought he could manage was that, if demons were being struck down, he’d be next. The voice he heard only confirmed that notion, and it terrified him, the sound almost too much for him to handle, surprised that his ears hadn’t begun bleeding from the sharpness of the sudden pain.
“I’ve come to raise Dean Winchester.”
He hadn’t thought that it would be a good thing. The word “raise” didn’t mean anything to him, didn’t register properly in his brain. All he’d heard was that whoever had broken their way into Hell had come for him, and it wasn’t Sammy trying to bust him out. His fear ratcheted up a few notches, and he did his best to face it, opening his eyes to mere slits. Whatever was about to happen to him, he was sure that he deserved it. There was so much blood on his hands, and the glee he’d felt over it was long gone, replaced by shame and the sudden urge to cry and beg for forgiveness. He fought those urges, his barely open eyes revealing nothing more than what he could see when they’d been closed, the light obscuring anything within or beyond it. But Alastair was suddenly grabbing him from behind, trying to pull him away, and Dean wasn’t sure which way was up anymore. Alastair couldn’t possibly be trying to protect him, but the light was terrifying, humbling, weakening.
“He’s ours!” Alastair hissed, and the fight over him was beyond Dean’s comprehension.
“Not anymore.”
The pain that the voice caused was quickly followed by another flash and burn of lightning directly behind Dean, making him flinch and cry out, and he knew without looking that Alastair was gone. He stood alone, shaking and blind, unsure of what to do to defend himself, if he had to. But his body betrayed him, survival instincts seemingly gone, and he dropped to his knees, head lowered.
“Please,” he whispered, not even knowing what he was asking for as tears filled his eyes. “Please…”
One last scream was ripped from his throat in Hell, both out of shock and out of pain, his left bicep burning hotly where something gripped him tight. His eyes flew open of their own accord, somehow able to see through the burn, and another pair of eyes mirrored his. His scream died out, the pain nearly forgotten, as he looked into those eyes, a vibrant blue that was almost hypnotic in its gaze. Safety; that was Dean’s only thought. Safety.
There was a commotion around them again, demons shrieking and reaching for him, and he found himself clinging like a child. Clinging to what, he wasn’t sure, unable to see and truly feel an actual form in front of him, but he thrust his hands in the direction of those eyes, where he knew the grip on his arm was coming from, and wrapped them around what felt like ice to his overheated fingers. He closed his eyes again, squeezing them shut tight, and heard the snap of lightning around him. He was dimly aware of something folding around him, encircling him and protecting him, hearing the rustle of what he’d classify as wings back on Earth. He wasn’t sure what that sound was at that moment, but it didn’t matter, because he was moving now. He was leaving. He didn’t know what that meant or where he was going, but he was leaving. He was leaving, and he was safe. And that was all that mattered.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Castiel, Alastair, Sam (pre-Dean/Castiel?)
Word Count: 2,235
Warnings: Spoilers up to 4.14, some angst, violence...
Disclaimer: I totally don't own these characters. This is just something I'd like to see!
Synopsis: Dean remembers Castiel pulling him out of Hell.
Notes: I'm not sure if this has been done yet, but the idea popped into my head, and I really wanted Dean to remember this...so I wrote it. I'd like to add more to it, but I'm still thinking about where it could go. Enjoy! Credit to sucuri for input and encouragement!! :)
Dean hadn’t always been lying. He really had blocked most of Hell out of his mind. The memories took some time to come back to him, and when they did, it was a slap in the face that he didn’t want to acknowledge; at least not out loud. They were too painful and guilt-ridden.
He thought he’d remembered it all until he realized that there was a gap between his time in Hell and his return to Earth. And, now that he’d opened his mind to accept memories he’d wished away, it wouldn’t take long to fill that gap. He could remember it if he tried. He could remember being saved.
He wasn’t sure why it scared him to think about it; to unlock that moment. It might’ve been that he was ashamed enough of himself already without acknowledging that a higher being had caught him quite literally red-handed. He knew that Castiel - that all of them - knew about what he’d done, but remembering that moment would leave him feeling even more exposed and vulnerable than he already did. Those feelings already caused him to lash out at and disobey Castiel as often as he could, but that was mostly because he was fighting to regain some certain sense of self, now that he was alive again. If only he could just go back to normal, to when he rebelled against everyone and everything except for his dad and Sammy, and he wasn’t the angels’ chosen one. He’d thought keeping his family together had been a weight on his shoulders, and now he literally carried the world on them, a crushing mass that pushed him to kneel before Castiel and whatever higher power was out there. He resisted it only for a sense of normalcy, even though he knew he’d never achieve it. There was no going back. Besides, he’d never really had a normal life to begin with. That was taken from him when he was four.
He hated that. He hated that he had no control over his life. He’d only started on this path because his family was destroyed, and he was only fighting to save the world now because the angels demanded it. He had no choice, no say in the matter. In fact, the one choice he had made had been negated. He’d chosen to go to Hell to bring Sam back to life, and the angels had pulled him out to do their bidding. They’d pulled him out after he’d been tortured for thirty years and turned into a monster. They’d pulled him out at just the right time for him to be so fucked up that he wished he didn’t exist, and expected him to pull the world out of this war that was fit to bring on the apocalypse. And Castiel wondered why he had an attitude. There were times when he wished he’d just been left in Hell to forget his former life and who he was. He’d been prepared to do that, anyway, if it meant Sam were to live.
And yet, as much as he resented his lot in life and the angels for stripping him of his free will, he couldn’t help but feel some sort of affection for Castiel, though he tried his best to hide it. It could’ve been because, aside from a couple of threats early on, Castiel had been the more reasonable one of the angels he’d met, still willing to listen, even though Dean bitched at him every chance he could get. He couldn’t help but feel that there was some sort of understanding between them, and, the way things were going nowadays, he could probably trust Castiel more than he could trust Sam. It also helped that, while Uriel was ready to smite Sam, Castiel was still willing to include him in their mission. Dean was always on board with anyone who’d potentially protect his brother, even if the two of them were having problems.
And so, Dean found himself remembering. He closed his eyes as he laid his head back on yet another flat hotel room pillow and unlocked that forbidden door. He was still conscious, not quite asleep, and knew he’d visibly flinched when his first memory was of himself, torturing and maiming some poor soul on the rack in front of him. He gasped, his eyes flying open, pulling himself away from the image burned onto the backs of his eyelids, and looked over at Sam’s bed, thankful to actually find him in it and sleeping heavily. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his now racing heart, telling himself that he could do this. If he was going to face all the things he’d have to in order to keep the world from ending, he could face this. He closed his eyes again, revisiting the memory he’d just left behind.
He never thought he’d get so much pleasure from tearing someone apart and hearing their screams. Sure, he’d enjoyed killing all kinds of Supernatural beings throughout his life, but this was different. Not to mention the fact that when he had hunted, he’d done it efficiently. It wasn’t long, drawn-out torture. He’d admit to being a tad unbalanced and prone to violence, but even he wasn’t that messed up. But Ruby had told him that Hell was forgetting who you were; that she had forgotten the bulk of who she was and lost most of her humanity, hence the whole demon thing. He’d resisted that for so long, part of his usual stubborn nature. No one could force him to become something he wasn’t. He was Dean Winchester, dammit, proud son of John Winchester, and he couldn’t let that pride go.
But he’d had enough. After all, thirty years was enough, right? Thirty years was enough to prove himself and lend more respect to his family’s good name. And it wasn’t as if he’d ended up there because he’d been a bad person. He was there to save Sam’s life. That still had to count for something. So, if he forgot himself and fell a little lower, it was just all part of the plan, wasn’t it?
Part of him hated to think about how relieved he was to get off the rack. But it was only natural. Any…person? Soul? Creature? Anybody would feel the same way he did. And the soul placed on the rack in front of him? Well, they were in Hell. Maybe the guy deserved what Dean found he was so ready to do to him. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe his situation was close to Dean’s, and he was only there to protect his family. That thought should’ve given Dean pause for longer than it did. But thirty years of torture and pain and demonic laughter made him eager to get started. That first time, he didn’t even use weapons, tools, flame. He dug in with his bare hands, surprised at what they could do on their own. He found himself breaking, tearing, pulling and scraping, covered in blood that wasn’t his own for once, hearing screams that weren’t ripped from his own throat. And once he’d started, it was as if the floodgates had opened. He took all of his anger out on that poor soul, almost gleefully, though he could feel disgust and despair somewhere still inside of him, and he had to fight back the nausea rising in the middle of it all.
And Alastair laughed. Alastair told him he was doing a good job, and that Dean was making him proud. He tore people apart while Alastair looked over his shoulder, and Dean couldn’t help but picture Alastair in his mind as he continued his torture. If this were another world, if Dean had any actual power here, he’d turn the tables on Alastair so quickly that the demon wouldn’t even have time to blink or curve his lips up into the sneering smirk he so loved to wear. It was Alastair Dean wanted under his hands, under his knives and blades. But maybe Dean was just telling himself that so that he could feel better about what he was doing; so he could feel better about the fact that he was enjoying his new position in Hell.
It was disturbing, how quickly he lost count of the amount of souls he’d tortured, almost constantly elbow-deep in blood. It seemed he’d even outdone some demons, who were surprised by how much he could accomplish with just his own brute strength. He was in the middle of it all, some poor bastard’s intestines in his hands and demons cheering him on, when Hell suddenly shook and opened up. Lesser demons began to flee the scene, and Dean heard Alastair cursing behind him, telling whoever had caused the commotion that they had no power here.
Dean looked around, confused until a blinding light shone before him, causing him to drop what he held in his hands and stumble backwards. He closed his eyes, which burned painfully behind his eyelids, barely even remembering what light was like after living in the darkness of Hell for forty years. He didn’t dare to open them again yet, couldn’t do it with the intensity of the light, but saw even brighter flashes on his lids, hearing electricity crackle around him. Lightning? As hot as Hell had been, the light had brought with it a coldness Dean hadn’t felt since he and Sam had worked that job in Colorado in the dead of winter, and he shivered, confusion giving way to fear when he felt the heat of each lightning bolt flashing in contrast around him. Shouts and screams filled the air around him, the anguished sounds coming from the demons this time, and Dean suddenly remembered the blood on his skin with more clarity, all too aware of it drying sticky on his body. The only thought he could manage was that, if demons were being struck down, he’d be next. The voice he heard only confirmed that notion, and it terrified him, the sound almost too much for him to handle, surprised that his ears hadn’t begun bleeding from the sharpness of the sudden pain.
“I’ve come to raise Dean Winchester.”
He hadn’t thought that it would be a good thing. The word “raise” didn’t mean anything to him, didn’t register properly in his brain. All he’d heard was that whoever had broken their way into Hell had come for him, and it wasn’t Sammy trying to bust him out. His fear ratcheted up a few notches, and he did his best to face it, opening his eyes to mere slits. Whatever was about to happen to him, he was sure that he deserved it. There was so much blood on his hands, and the glee he’d felt over it was long gone, replaced by shame and the sudden urge to cry and beg for forgiveness. He fought those urges, his barely open eyes revealing nothing more than what he could see when they’d been closed, the light obscuring anything within or beyond it. But Alastair was suddenly grabbing him from behind, trying to pull him away, and Dean wasn’t sure which way was up anymore. Alastair couldn’t possibly be trying to protect him, but the light was terrifying, humbling, weakening.
“He’s ours!” Alastair hissed, and the fight over him was beyond Dean’s comprehension.
“Not anymore.”
The pain that the voice caused was quickly followed by another flash and burn of lightning directly behind Dean, making him flinch and cry out, and he knew without looking that Alastair was gone. He stood alone, shaking and blind, unsure of what to do to defend himself, if he had to. But his body betrayed him, survival instincts seemingly gone, and he dropped to his knees, head lowered.
“Please,” he whispered, not even knowing what he was asking for as tears filled his eyes. “Please…”
One last scream was ripped from his throat in Hell, both out of shock and out of pain, his left bicep burning hotly where something gripped him tight. His eyes flew open of their own accord, somehow able to see through the burn, and another pair of eyes mirrored his. His scream died out, the pain nearly forgotten, as he looked into those eyes, a vibrant blue that was almost hypnotic in its gaze. Safety; that was Dean’s only thought. Safety.
There was a commotion around them again, demons shrieking and reaching for him, and he found himself clinging like a child. Clinging to what, he wasn’t sure, unable to see and truly feel an actual form in front of him, but he thrust his hands in the direction of those eyes, where he knew the grip on his arm was coming from, and wrapped them around what felt like ice to his overheated fingers. He closed his eyes again, squeezing them shut tight, and heard the snap of lightning around him. He was dimly aware of something folding around him, encircling him and protecting him, hearing the rustle of what he’d classify as wings back on Earth. He wasn’t sure what that sound was at that moment, but it didn’t matter, because he was moving now. He was leaving. He didn’t know what that meant or where he was going, but he was leaving. He was leaving, and he was safe. And that was all that mattered.