Bleed just to know you're alive
One
Shot
Summary: Papa Winchester. In Hell.
Disclaimer: I only wish
I owned Papa Winchester because, uhm, seriously...
Title stolen
shamelessly from Goo Goo Doll's "Iris"
Author's Note: I
cried for Sammy watching the first part of the s2 finale, and the
other half of the finale was wondering how Papa Winchester was still
"Papa Winchester" once he got out of Hell. This was
born.
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairings: John Winchester.
Wee!Dean and Wee!Sam and Mary make appearances as well.
Rating:
PG-13 cos it's violent and has two swear words.
Word Count: 1,197
John had been in Hell for three months, seven days, eight hours, twelve minutes and forty-one, forty-two seconds.
He fought his last twenty years chasing the damn thing that had killed his wife and ripped apart his whole life, his family, and his world views. It only figured that in his death, it would be chasing him.
His left leg dragged uselessly behind him, but he still went on, listening to the hounds howl after him, listened to the cackle of bored demons on his trail. He trailed blood, left it scraping on the dead elm trees and the moss on old gravestones. John clutched his arm, pulsing in pain, his blood pumping out of the stump of his right arm, but still he foraged on.
Mary. Sam. Dean.
He closed his eyes as he lurched behind a crumbling stone wall, saw Mary turn in his mind, soft blond locks flowing gracefully, her blue eyes lighting up with a smile. Gorgeous, his woman in white. "John," she whispered, but it sounded wrong, it wasn't her soft voice that would call him into their bed at night. He'd forgotten it.
"John," the demons cooed, and he grimaced, opening his eyes and turning his head left, right. "Come out, come out wherever you are." The grass, the dark, bloodied grass at his feet, turned to him, tried to stab at his tired and worn feet, tried to make him give himself away to be feasted on.
Sam. Dean. Mary.
He hurled himself forward, ignoring the cackles of the demons as they saw him, and dove over the stone bridge, free fell the twenty feet into the greasy river. He bobbed along, pushing at the rats that nipped at his clothing and the moccasins that stabbed at his legs. John closed his eyes when he dove down and pushed, saw Sammy, two years old, sitting in a dingy bathtub, a rubber duck clenched in one hand. Sammy smacked the duck into the water again and again, making the water arch up and splash him in the face, his childish peals of glee making John laugh as he crouched on the broken tiles beside him, letting him push his large calloused hands into the lukewarm water and cup it, spill it over Sammy's head, soaking the light brown locks. Sammy shook his head with a squeal and opened his eyes, looked up at his dad with his baby smile, so trusting, so loving.
John opened his eyes and pushed up to the surface, shaking the muck from his shoulders and hair, flinching as the tarantula fell off his head into the water before him, flinching as the demon's poisoned arrows tried to rain down on him.
John had been in Hell for five months, five days, two hours, eight minutes and sixteen, seventeen seconds.
His fingers had been worn down to the bone, tired muscle and ligaments still clinging on faithfully, flaking off, but he still gripped at the old stones as he heaved himself out of the water, smacking away the cobra that wound around his wrist. The demons' cries vibrated through the tunnel and the air all around him, sheer joy of the hunt ringing through his mind as they trounced closer and closer to their weary prey. He got to his feet and shook himself like the old dog he was, rubbed his stubbled chin with one hand, rejoicing in the pain he felt there. If it hurts, you're still alive, he thought to himself and grimaced, feeling a dart get his shoulder blade and embedded itself. He groaned and twisted around as he stumbled, snapped the arrow in half, left what was in too deep to stay with him.
'Run, John, keep running' he reminded, his mantra, as he slipped and cracked his knee on a stone, felt what was left of the skin on his knee skid off.
Dean. Mary. Sam.
He pushed himself up and treaded miles and miles, the demons shrieking ever closer, the hounds' breath always hot on his feet, the weapons always tearing at him. He remembered running from the entrance of Hell, went on East and didn't look back. Stupid fucking mistake.
His legs gave out under him as the demons found him, found him against the cliffs, hot and painful gusts of wind trying to drag him over. He fell to his knees and clutched his head in his hands, felt the blood and sweat of years and years (months?) of running travel down his fingers. John closed his eyes.
Dean stared at him, his eyes shining with pride as he showed John the gun he made. It was a sawed off shot gun, cut down mighty fine. The edges of the barrel were still sharp. John cocked and loaded it, admiring the quality. He nodded, his eyes crinkling up, and Dean swelled, stuck his chest out. His eyes were blazing. He was only ten years old.
John kept his eyes shut for a good long time, waited for the demons to descend, for the hounds to finally rip him apart, ready for the hunt to begin again.
John had been in hell for seven months, one day, twelve hours, three minutes and fifty eight, fifty nine seconds.
The demons gaped up at the endless dark sky, dropped everything in their hands and stared. The hounds sat on the haunches and howled, shook their heads and whimpered, confused. The demons started shrieking and ran to the cliffs, started climbing with everything they had.
John opened his eyes.
There was a red crack blazing far, far above him, and every single demon in Hell was swarming to it. Earth. The cliffs were endlessly tall and endlessly treacherous, and demons fell the more they tried to climb up. Spirits shrieked past him, going up and up and up.
He was tired, so very tired. His hands shook when he scrabbled in the solid dirt, tried to clench his tired bones around anything that could give him purchase.
Mary. Sam. Dean.
The pain was everywhere, the endless, endless pain. Blood soaked into the dirt below him, soaked through his clothes and stuck to him. He pulled himself together into a ball, and got to his knees.
Sam. Dean. Mary.
John gritted his teeth and dug his broken fingernails into the dirt and pulled, pulled until he couldn't anymore. To the cliffs, he ignored all the spirits screaming, all the demons shrieking.
Dean. Mary. Sam.
John had been in Hell for seven months, one day, twelve hours, six minutes and one, two seconds.
Mary.
Sam.
Dean.
John clutched at the broken and sharp boulders of the cliffs of Hell and looked up and up and up, until all he saw was the blood red passage, the black tumbling out of it. He thought he saw the moon. He thought he saw Bobby, and Ellen.
He thought he heard his Dean, his Sammy.
Sam.
Dean.
Mary.
John gritted his teeth again, and pulled himself up.
John had been in Hell for seven months, one day, twelve hours, seven minutes and thirty one, thirty two seconds. But he wasn't going to stay any longer.
He climbed.