14,581 Days
Title: 14,581 Days
Author: tricky_slip
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,190
Fandom/Pairing: SPN, Dean/Alastair, sligh Dean/Castiel
Summary: "Do you know why I am what I am, Dean?"
6
There is nothing quite like a fresh soul's screams. All that anger, pain, blind desperation: it's intoxicating. The flames of Hell burn especially bright to newborn eyes. The horror of understanding there is no other death down here, no matter how much blood is spilled, is maddening. It makes Alastair quake just thinking about it.
It takes Alastair 5 days to find Dean Winchester. He is all blood and burns, intestines spread out below his feet like a rug. The demon removing Dean's kidney with a rusty spoon looks up with ash gray eyes, clearly not expecting the grand Inquisitor of Hell to come and take away it’s brand new plaything. With a deadly sneer, Alastair makes it known that he is no good at sharing.
And Dean Winchester has always been on the top of the powerful demon's list.
157
"All you have to say, Dean, is one little word. Three little letters and you're off the rack."
There is no reply. But Alastair has a hunch this might have more to do with the fact that Dean's vocal chords are currently resting quite beautifully in the demon's hand and not so much from a lack of anything to say. Besides, the glare his plaything is sending his way is more than enough answer.
"No?"
Alastair picks up his favorite blade, all sharp edges and glowing steel, and starts making meticulous little cuts to the organ resting in his palm.
"Oh well. More time for me to play. I've always wondered what a Winchester would look like with his insides wrapped around his outsides. I imagine it would be rather festive. Like a Christmas Tree with all that fancy garland. What do you think?"
2,389
Alastair was jealous by nature.
If there was one thing he hated more than going topside, it was having to share. So when demons would come slithering over to his little corner of Hell, begging for just one day with Alastair's precious Dean, he would throw them right back on the rack where they belonged.
Ingrates. Worthless piles of dust. Alastair gave no mind to any of them. They had no skill in torture, no finesse with a blade. The lack of originality in all those useless newborns was infuriating. But Alastair cared not an ounce for showing them how it was really to be done. Where would all the fun be in pain if everyone knew how to filet skin from bone, layer by glorious layer? There would be no surprise. No grand finale. A demon of Alastair's stature wouldn't waste a second of his time on them.
No, none of those maggots would come anywhere near his boy. Only the best for Alastair's favorite.
6,392
"Do you remember the sky, Dean? How blue it would look right after a summer rainstorm, how spongy the ground felt beneath your feet. Like a cloud, mom would say. Do you remember our mother, Dean?"
"Stop it." Barely a whisper, Dean turned his face as best he could away from his current company, dressed up all pretty like Sammy. Oh, how Alastair loved to play pretend with the boy's brother. Made all the games more fun that way. "You're not him."
"I can remember how she smelled. All lavender and soap. I can't remember much other than that, beings as she burned up all pretty-like on my nursery ceiling. Like a bright, shining star right there everyone to see. She smelled like sulfur then though. Lavender, sulfur, and soap."
"Don't you dare talk about her. Not here." Strong words for a breaking boy. Nearly 18 years in, and still this soul holds on to his grotesque humanity, clinging to it's light like a boy to his mother. Disgusting.
"Well, what else do you want to talk about?" Sam/Alastair hisses out, running his fingers like knives down the boy's back, enjoying how it sends a shiver through his spine. The anticipation of pain is always more rewarding than the actual hurt. When Dean stops resisting his offer, Alastair plans on sharing this little piece of information with his predecessor. "You know, it stops hurting so much when you accept that the pain is inevitable. A constant. Just like my demon blood stopped causing me hurt the moment I understood it was a part of me, no matter what I did."
"No... you can't be-"
"Sammy? Yep, it's your one and only pain in the ass baby brother, in the flesh. And yeah, there's a few things you should probably know. That demon blood was no curse, Dean. It saved my life. And it could save yours too, if you just listen to me."
Rough hands grab Dean's chin, forcing blood shot eyes to look into yellow ones. "This world isn't so bad, really, it's not, if you just accept that there will always be evil in it. Say yes to the demon's offer, Dean. For me. For yourself. Say yes and be free from all this pain and torment. Say yes and be with me again."
When a thick, glob of spit landed squarely on Sam/Alastair's face, the demon was not surprised. More amused, really. With a deliriously gleeful smile, Sammy's yellow eyes changed into the cobalt black of the demon.
"Now, now, Dean. Nobody likes a sour puss."
"Go to Hell, you bastard."
And with that, Alastair made Dean perfectly aware why he should have taken his brother up on that offer.
9,621
The first time Alastair sees an Angel, the walls of Hell tremble.
At first, he doesn't notice the difference, the way the dark seems just a little bit thinner, how the screams grow into a deafening crescendo. There is no rulebook when it comes to something as uncommon as this. An Angel of the Lord does not walk through the world of the damned easily. The gates are locked for a reason.
But still, there he is, with his white wings tinged black.
Alastair can feel his home shift, just a little bit closer towards the earth, and his head spins.
"I have come for Dean Winchester." The words are like honey and silk, sandpaper coursing against the demon's mind.
"Well you can't have him." Alastair hisses out, his fingers in a vice grip around Dean's wrists. The boy has just been rejuvenated, turned whole after a bloody session with his favorite blade. "He's mine."
"It is not a request, demon." Silk and sawdust.
A soft cackle falls from Alastair's lips. "And neither was my reply, pigeon."
With that, the demon grabs his charge off the rack and flees to the deeper into the bowels of Hell, far from the Angel's reach.
9,862
"Do you know why I am what I am, Dean?”
Alastair runs his grimy hands down a ruined chest, a thin cut marks every rib, tissue and bone connected only by a precious few untouched pieces of flesh. A proud grin flickers across the demon's face.
“Demon’s are created. They are borne of fire and flame. Emerging from the womb of Hell covered in blood and sin, still stinking of their own humanity.” The demon pauses, remembering just how vile it was to smell the remains of his own ruined soul. “And no matter what they tell you, none were saved this horrid experience. Not even me.”
A pained scream rips through the air as Alastair makes use of the machete in his hand.
“Although, I have to say, my creation was a little different from all the rest, beings as I was one of only a handful of souls chained to the rack back then, nearly two millennium ago . Hell had just begun to take it’s occupants when I arrived.” Alastair hisses, “Lucifer tells me it is for the best, that I remember just how miserable it was to be human, to be trapped in that rotting meat suit and call it living.”
The cries had finally let up. After 27 years in Hell, it is all to clear that no amount of pleading, screaming, or begging would stop the pain. In fact, it would only make Alastair dig deeper with his blade, searching out all those lovely shades of red.
“Why are you telling me this?” A soft whisper falls from the lips of the bleeding boy, all sugar and sweet to the demon’s ears.
“Because you need to know that God does not care about you, Dean. God stopped caring about the world the moment I put his only son to death on that cross.”
Faded brown eyes look up in surprise at the demon, only to be cut out with the dull side of Alastair’s machete. The boy doesn’t make a sound, but if he did, Alastair is sure it would be all burnt honey.
"How ungrateful humanity is, how spineless. The moment I led them to sin, the moment I gave them a reason to destroy something good and holy, they took it. Like sheep to the slaughter, they killed their only chance at redemption. And now they cry and beg for forgiveness, pray to their God to save them from the fires of Hell. But when they get here, when they experience just what they brought on themselves, they curse this God. ’Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ they scream, just like the Son of God did the day he died for them. Ironic, I should say.”
“But you don’t yell to Him, Dean. Not once have I heard you even say his name. So why do you refuse me? Why do you cling to that rotten humanity only to suffer for it? God has no power here. I do not cringe at His name, for I do not believe in it’s power. Why do you?”
10,959
Alastair hears other demons whisper amongst each other, of how an Angel is clawing his way down through the many layers of Hell. They are afraid of him. Although the angel’s light is surely fading from the darkness of the damned, they still fear his intentions.
Of course, Alastair knows just what those intentions are, but he doesn’t pay those lowly creatures mind enough to tell them that.
Besides, Dean Winchester said ‘Yes’ today. Alastair doesn’t think anything could lower his spirits, not even an Angel.
12,006
"That's it. Slow and steady."
There is a new demon in the ranks, his eyes a pale shade of gray. He is brutal, all quick knife work and severed limbs.
Alastair couldn't be prouder.
"Now the trick is to puncture the vein just enough that they bleed out, but slowly. They'll feel everything, but there will be none of that annoying thrashing about."
A young woman is their next lesson. She is all bloody hair and haunted eyes, telling scars resting like war wounds on her wrist. When Dean makes the first cut, she doesn't move. Those eyes just keep staring ahead, looking at nothing but more misery and more pain.
Alastair thinks maybe the eyes next. Yes. He hasn't shown Dean how wonderfully messy it is to extract an eyeball from its socket. The demon has always loved the optic nerve, with all it's cleverly placed receptors and nerve endings, there is no end to it's possibilities.
14,580
"Do you know why you're my favorite, Dean?"
The demon's words pour like sin into willing ears. "No. Should I?" Alastair wraps his arm around the boy's middle, pressing his back against the hollows of the demon's chest.
"Well, I should think so."
A kiss is placed in-between shoulder blades. He tastes copper and sweat, and smiles.
14,582
Alastair is alone.
After 40 years of having an endless challenge, a conquest, a companion, all it took was an Angel whispering a promise of false redemption into his charge’s ear and he was gone.
May God have mercy on the next soul that is put in front of him.
God. What a foul word.
And there, buried deep in the pit of Hell, one of it’s oldest demons mourns for a human.
Author: tricky_slip
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,190
Fandom/Pairing: SPN, Dean/Alastair, sligh Dean/Castiel
Summary: "Do you know why I am what I am, Dean?"
6
There is nothing quite like a fresh soul's screams. All that anger, pain, blind desperation: it's intoxicating. The flames of Hell burn especially bright to newborn eyes. The horror of understanding there is no other death down here, no matter how much blood is spilled, is maddening. It makes Alastair quake just thinking about it.
It takes Alastair 5 days to find Dean Winchester. He is all blood and burns, intestines spread out below his feet like a rug. The demon removing Dean's kidney with a rusty spoon looks up with ash gray eyes, clearly not expecting the grand Inquisitor of Hell to come and take away it’s brand new plaything. With a deadly sneer, Alastair makes it known that he is no good at sharing.
And Dean Winchester has always been on the top of the powerful demon's list.
157
"All you have to say, Dean, is one little word. Three little letters and you're off the rack."
There is no reply. But Alastair has a hunch this might have more to do with the fact that Dean's vocal chords are currently resting quite beautifully in the demon's hand and not so much from a lack of anything to say. Besides, the glare his plaything is sending his way is more than enough answer.
"No?"
Alastair picks up his favorite blade, all sharp edges and glowing steel, and starts making meticulous little cuts to the organ resting in his palm.
"Oh well. More time for me to play. I've always wondered what a Winchester would look like with his insides wrapped around his outsides. I imagine it would be rather festive. Like a Christmas Tree with all that fancy garland. What do you think?"
2,389
Alastair was jealous by nature.
If there was one thing he hated more than going topside, it was having to share. So when demons would come slithering over to his little corner of Hell, begging for just one day with Alastair's precious Dean, he would throw them right back on the rack where they belonged.
Ingrates. Worthless piles of dust. Alastair gave no mind to any of them. They had no skill in torture, no finesse with a blade. The lack of originality in all those useless newborns was infuriating. But Alastair cared not an ounce for showing them how it was really to be done. Where would all the fun be in pain if everyone knew how to filet skin from bone, layer by glorious layer? There would be no surprise. No grand finale. A demon of Alastair's stature wouldn't waste a second of his time on them.
No, none of those maggots would come anywhere near his boy. Only the best for Alastair's favorite.
6,392
"Do you remember the sky, Dean? How blue it would look right after a summer rainstorm, how spongy the ground felt beneath your feet. Like a cloud, mom would say. Do you remember our mother, Dean?"
"Stop it." Barely a whisper, Dean turned his face as best he could away from his current company, dressed up all pretty like Sammy. Oh, how Alastair loved to play pretend with the boy's brother. Made all the games more fun that way. "You're not him."
"I can remember how she smelled. All lavender and soap. I can't remember much other than that, beings as she burned up all pretty-like on my nursery ceiling. Like a bright, shining star right there everyone to see. She smelled like sulfur then though. Lavender, sulfur, and soap."
"Don't you dare talk about her. Not here." Strong words for a breaking boy. Nearly 18 years in, and still this soul holds on to his grotesque humanity, clinging to it's light like a boy to his mother. Disgusting.
"Well, what else do you want to talk about?" Sam/Alastair hisses out, running his fingers like knives down the boy's back, enjoying how it sends a shiver through his spine. The anticipation of pain is always more rewarding than the actual hurt. When Dean stops resisting his offer, Alastair plans on sharing this little piece of information with his predecessor. "You know, it stops hurting so much when you accept that the pain is inevitable. A constant. Just like my demon blood stopped causing me hurt the moment I understood it was a part of me, no matter what I did."
"No... you can't be-"
"Sammy? Yep, it's your one and only pain in the ass baby brother, in the flesh. And yeah, there's a few things you should probably know. That demon blood was no curse, Dean. It saved my life. And it could save yours too, if you just listen to me."
Rough hands grab Dean's chin, forcing blood shot eyes to look into yellow ones. "This world isn't so bad, really, it's not, if you just accept that there will always be evil in it. Say yes to the demon's offer, Dean. For me. For yourself. Say yes and be free from all this pain and torment. Say yes and be with me again."
When a thick, glob of spit landed squarely on Sam/Alastair's face, the demon was not surprised. More amused, really. With a deliriously gleeful smile, Sammy's yellow eyes changed into the cobalt black of the demon.
"Now, now, Dean. Nobody likes a sour puss."
"Go to Hell, you bastard."
And with that, Alastair made Dean perfectly aware why he should have taken his brother up on that offer.
9,621
The first time Alastair sees an Angel, the walls of Hell tremble.
At first, he doesn't notice the difference, the way the dark seems just a little bit thinner, how the screams grow into a deafening crescendo. There is no rulebook when it comes to something as uncommon as this. An Angel of the Lord does not walk through the world of the damned easily. The gates are locked for a reason.
But still, there he is, with his white wings tinged black.
Alastair can feel his home shift, just a little bit closer towards the earth, and his head spins.
"I have come for Dean Winchester." The words are like honey and silk, sandpaper coursing against the demon's mind.
"Well you can't have him." Alastair hisses out, his fingers in a vice grip around Dean's wrists. The boy has just been rejuvenated, turned whole after a bloody session with his favorite blade. "He's mine."
"It is not a request, demon." Silk and sawdust.
A soft cackle falls from Alastair's lips. "And neither was my reply, pigeon."
With that, the demon grabs his charge off the rack and flees to the deeper into the bowels of Hell, far from the Angel's reach.
9,862
"Do you know why I am what I am, Dean?”
Alastair runs his grimy hands down a ruined chest, a thin cut marks every rib, tissue and bone connected only by a precious few untouched pieces of flesh. A proud grin flickers across the demon's face.
“Demon’s are created. They are borne of fire and flame. Emerging from the womb of Hell covered in blood and sin, still stinking of their own humanity.” The demon pauses, remembering just how vile it was to smell the remains of his own ruined soul. “And no matter what they tell you, none were saved this horrid experience. Not even me.”
A pained scream rips through the air as Alastair makes use of the machete in his hand.
“Although, I have to say, my creation was a little different from all the rest, beings as I was one of only a handful of souls chained to the rack back then, nearly two millennium ago . Hell had just begun to take it’s occupants when I arrived.” Alastair hisses, “Lucifer tells me it is for the best, that I remember just how miserable it was to be human, to be trapped in that rotting meat suit and call it living.”
The cries had finally let up. After 27 years in Hell, it is all to clear that no amount of pleading, screaming, or begging would stop the pain. In fact, it would only make Alastair dig deeper with his blade, searching out all those lovely shades of red.
“Why are you telling me this?” A soft whisper falls from the lips of the bleeding boy, all sugar and sweet to the demon’s ears.
“Because you need to know that God does not care about you, Dean. God stopped caring about the world the moment I put his only son to death on that cross.”
Faded brown eyes look up in surprise at the demon, only to be cut out with the dull side of Alastair’s machete. The boy doesn’t make a sound, but if he did, Alastair is sure it would be all burnt honey.
"How ungrateful humanity is, how spineless. The moment I led them to sin, the moment I gave them a reason to destroy something good and holy, they took it. Like sheep to the slaughter, they killed their only chance at redemption. And now they cry and beg for forgiveness, pray to their God to save them from the fires of Hell. But when they get here, when they experience just what they brought on themselves, they curse this God. ’Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ they scream, just like the Son of God did the day he died for them. Ironic, I should say.”
“But you don’t yell to Him, Dean. Not once have I heard you even say his name. So why do you refuse me? Why do you cling to that rotten humanity only to suffer for it? God has no power here. I do not cringe at His name, for I do not believe in it’s power. Why do you?”
10,959
Alastair hears other demons whisper amongst each other, of how an Angel is clawing his way down through the many layers of Hell. They are afraid of him. Although the angel’s light is surely fading from the darkness of the damned, they still fear his intentions.
Of course, Alastair knows just what those intentions are, but he doesn’t pay those lowly creatures mind enough to tell them that.
Besides, Dean Winchester said ‘Yes’ today. Alastair doesn’t think anything could lower his spirits, not even an Angel.
12,006
"That's it. Slow and steady."
There is a new demon in the ranks, his eyes a pale shade of gray. He is brutal, all quick knife work and severed limbs.
Alastair couldn't be prouder.
"Now the trick is to puncture the vein just enough that they bleed out, but slowly. They'll feel everything, but there will be none of that annoying thrashing about."
A young woman is their next lesson. She is all bloody hair and haunted eyes, telling scars resting like war wounds on her wrist. When Dean makes the first cut, she doesn't move. Those eyes just keep staring ahead, looking at nothing but more misery and more pain.
Alastair thinks maybe the eyes next. Yes. He hasn't shown Dean how wonderfully messy it is to extract an eyeball from its socket. The demon has always loved the optic nerve, with all it's cleverly placed receptors and nerve endings, there is no end to it's possibilities.
14,580
"Do you know why you're my favorite, Dean?"
The demon's words pour like sin into willing ears. "No. Should I?" Alastair wraps his arm around the boy's middle, pressing his back against the hollows of the demon's chest.
"Well, I should think so."
A kiss is placed in-between shoulder blades. He tastes copper and sweat, and smiles.
14,582
Alastair is alone.
After 40 years of having an endless challenge, a conquest, a companion, all it took was an Angel whispering a promise of false redemption into his charge’s ear and he was gone.
May God have mercy on the next soul that is put in front of him.
God. What a foul word.
And there, buried deep in the pit of Hell, one of it’s oldest demons mourns for a human.