Title: Hell Fire
Rating: M for heavy torture and minor organ play
Word Count: 2,959
Summary: Dean is in hell. He has been in hell for 30 years and suffers at the hand of a demon. He finally gives in to what it wants and comes down of the rack, and an innocent's blood will forever stain his hands.
Author's Note: Yeah…. Sorry guys. This is really fucked up. But I am extremely proud of it because I made a friend who likes to read stuff like this really squeamish. Yay me!
This honostly started out as a dream sequence for another story that I was going to write which focused more on Dean's guilt, but it just kind of got out of hand and turned into this monster. I was listening to Fallen by The Civil Wars for god's sake and then this thing happened. I'm glad it's done with now. This has been months in the making.
10 points to Gryffindor if you can guess who his first soul is.
White hot pain trails across his flesh, searing into his skin as it is torn apart. Hooks, smoking from the hell fire, are dug deep into his shoulder, the dull tip digging into his skin before finally piercing through. He screams, thrashing against the many hands that hold him down, tearing at him as he is rigged up to the walls, each new chain pulling in different directions, splitting him apart. Skin, burnt and sizzling, the smell of it cooking something utterly akin to that of cooked pork, a smell that he once loved but would never find appetizing again. That is if, if, he gets out of this place, this hell.
A shadowy figure steps over to him, the glint of a knife in the darkness his only warning before the blade slides into his stomach, slicing through his skin like it's nothing more than butter, carving upward and opening him up. Something high and whiney comes out of his mouth; it should have been a scream but sounded something like a wounded animal, the noise echoing in the desolate room, bouncing off the walls and reverberating back to him. He howls and howls, thrashing against the chains, the hooks digging further in and pulling the skin on his shoulder, his hip, his fucking back to ribbons, as the knife cuts deeper and deeper. Hot blood wells up, frothing slightly, and spills over, dripping on the floor, the soft pitter patter creating a tune to this whole messed up scene.
Accompanying his screams came a wild burst of laughter, the sound nasally and oh so fucking demented; it's a cackle of pleasure at seeing someone else's pain, at causing it. He gathers saliva in his mouth, wanting so badly to spit it in his torturer's face, only to choke on it as hands plunge into his gut, grabbing each flap of skin and folding them back, opening up his mid-section centimeter by agonizing centimeter. They pull up at the flaps of his skin, ripping them outward away from his midsection, pinning them back. He can hear the sound of his flesh tearing, like the sound of gift paper being ripped off a box by the eager hands of restless children.
He flings his head back in agony, his teeth tearing into his bottom lip as he tries desperately to keep back the howls of pain, the sobbing, the begging for mercy. A hand pushes deep inside him, rummaging through him like he is some sort of sack of goodies with some glorious prize inside, pushing aside tissue and organs, before pausing. A shudder wracks his frame as he feels it almost caress him, the feeling foreign since it was touching something on the inside, touching what he did not know. What is it doing?
He let his eyes close, trying to block out the sensation, chewing on his bottom lip to keep him from pleading for it to stop. In one moment, the hand was just pushing things aside, moving through his organs before it found what it wanted, fisting his lower intestine and tugging, ripping it from his open cavity. He thrashes about, biting hard on his lip until there is blood; it fills his mouth, adding to the sweet tang of bile. There is a horrible tearing feeling as he actually bites through his bottom lip, the skin rubbery in his mouth and sour with the taste of iron on his tongue.
Letting his head fall forward, he spits out what he ripped apart, adding it to the mix of blood and guts on the floor. He inhales sharply, the sound whistling and bubbling in his open abdominal cavity, the movement of his diaphragm, expand contract expand contract, with each panicked breathupsetting his insides and causing his intestines slip and spill out to the floor. They slither like snakes, pink splashed with red blood, emerging from the hidey hole they live in, slumping unceremoniously to the floor where they curl in a pile at his feet.
He screams then, watching as he literally falls apart, his arms twitching uselessly at the want to hold himself together, to just pull everything back in and keep it in place. But his arms are pinned, one is raised above his head, the other splayed outward from his body at a perpendicular angle. Chains, barbed with sharp needles, dig hard into his wrists as he frantically pulls against the restraints, blood oozing from his torn skin.
"Y'know, Dean, this can all stop," the voice begins, hovering someplace in front of him, bodiless and omnipresent. It is in his head, in his goddamn mind every minute of every goddamn day. It croons at him, saying sickly sweet things as its owner, that fucking demon, picks among the objects laid out on the table that he knows is set a few paces away, a sort of stone altar carved out of the fiery brimstone: tongs, a saw, various types of edged knives. All of these items have been used, implements of his torture.
His eyes track the monster's movements, hyper aware of how it seems to shift and blur at the edges of his vision in the darkness of the pit. Its eyes glow faintly in the ill light, murky white and filled with ill intent. He breaks the gaze, but can swear that he feels it still glued to his shuddering frame, can feel the way it slides over him like a caress as it thinks of what to do next.
The sound of metal scraping against stone fills the heavy atmosphere as something is shoved aside on the stone altar, possibly a tool being picked up, inspected, and then discarded for something better, something worse. He wants to scream, wants to plead for heaven and mercy, but knows better to stay quiet. Screaming makes it worse, gives the demon more pleasure.
But sometimes even silence doesn't help him. Not when things have progressed this far. The silence just bores his torturer. And when it's bored, it gets creative.
He jumps when he feels hot, rancid breath ghosting across the side of his cheek, still not used to the demon's ability to just flit through space and appear somewhere else in mere seconds. He takes in a deep breath, steeling himself to face the one who seeks to bring about his pain. For a moment, he stares defiantly at his torturer, ignoring the fact that his insides are escaping him and that he is soaked with his own blood. He wants the being to know that he is still fighting, that he can hold out, and that he won't agree to whatever it proposes. They have been down this road many times, but he can't seem to grasp at what it wants, what the ultimatum is. He can't let himself to even begin to understand the whispered words.
Deep down, inside the recesses of his frantic brain, the words it's spoken many times repeat, bouncing off each neuron and filling his clouded mind. Even still, he represses it with all his might, not wanting to acknowledge it, to give it a breath of light. Just shove it way down deep, into a figurative dark pit, and it won't bother you again, right? Wrong. It always comes to the forefront, always haunts him every day that his torture begins. He knows that if he's left to think about it, of the deal, he'll finally accept, whether he really wants to or not.
He's pulled from his thoughts by a hand, grip like iron, squeezing his chin, skeletal fingers digging hard into his cheeks. He knows he must look ridiculous, lips forced slightly open, like a horrible pantomime of a duck's bill, bottom lip missing a chunk of skin and oozing copious amounts of blood foaming with spittle, but he can't drop his glare, can't give in. A shudder passes through him as the being raises a gnarly looking blade, all jagged edges and sharp points, into his line of sight. His eyes close momentarily as he tries to gather himself, to keep himself from crying, as the blade glides down his cheek, cutting a thin line from temple to the pinnacle of his jaw bone, pointed tip digging in hard before being roughly jerked away. Only then did he cry out, unable to help himself as the blade snagged and shredded skin, his brain whiting out for a second.
When he finally came back to his senses, his tormentor is back a few paces, fingers running along the edge of the blade as it stares at him, contemplating its next move. He lowers his gaze, breathing in deep, the squelching sound of air escaping through a bloody hole, forcing his eyes to take in his state. He shudders hard, snapping his gaze back up to meet the demon's. He's taken aback at its sudden nearness, head inching back to try and get away, face tilted to the side to put in more distance.
"Dean, Dean-O" The voice starts again, causing him to jump, chest heaving in panic. Hot breath wafts against his face, caressing his skin with a rancid brush of rotten eggs, a smell so toxic and unclean that he can't help but jerk away, nose crinkled and eyes pinched shut. Skeletal fingers grip his chin again and force him to look front and center, but he won't dare to open his eyes. Not until fingertips with sharp nails work into his cut, digging under the flap of skin and ripping it from his cheek like peeling the skin off of an orange. His screams echo off the stone walls as the demon flays his cheek, pulling flesh from bone so that the right half of his upper jaw is visible, teeth washed red with blood. As one hand works at tearing his flesh, the other caresses the other side of his face, touch gentle at first before fingers press against his closed eyelid. He thrashes against the hands on either side of his head, trying to shake free of this iron cage of grasping fingers. A thumb presses against the flimsy barrier of skin, pushes past his fluttering lid as a sharp, dagger-like nail scrapes across his eye, fluid weeping from a small puncture. It works its fingers in around his eyes socket and pushes aside the muscles that keep everything in place, hooking a finger behind a green orb and rips out his eye, leaving it there to dangle by a thin strand of tissue, its juices wetting his cheek and smearing in with the crimson red of his blood, diluting it to a pinkish color.
"You can end it all," it murmurs, fingers curling around the sinew, winding the string of muscle around and around until it is taut, barely hanging on to the rim of his socket. He whimpers at the uncomfortable sensation of someone messing with his eye, plucking at the frayed nerve endings that still transmit pain, so much fucking pain, to his brain. With his good eye, he looks around frantically, trying to keep himself from staring in the face of the beast that brings about his torment, not wanting to give it the satisfaction of watching him break.
"Just say it. Agree to it," it hisses, hand tightening around the orb nestled in its palm, squishing his eye like a grape as the demon pulls and pulls, as he screams and writhes, until the muscle breaks with an audible snap. A broken sob escapes his lips, the noise choked as blood bubbles and froths over his lip, out his open stomach cavity and down his legs, coating the floor in a slippery mess of crimson red.
He wants to be sick, to empty his stomach of its contents. But how do you do that when there is nothing there to empty of, when everything is already on the floor at your feet? Instead, he dry heaves and spits blood to the ground when it finally subsides, his sobbing nothing but a hitch and quick release of air, no sound coming from his abused vocal cords.
"No?" it tsks as a hand, slick and wet with blood, grabs his chin again, bonelike fingers digging hard into his jaw, sharp nails dipping into the meat of his cheek. He tries to get free, moving his head backwards to put in some space between him and it, but the attempt is futile. His actions result in a rush of hissed curses in a language he understood but was too frazzled to focus on and then there's the grip tightening on his jaw, bones bending to the point of breaking under this iron grip.
"Say it, Dean! Just say 'yes'," it hissed, voice low and rough, shaking his head side to side for emphasis. He remains quiet, jaw locked in a weakening defiance. He's so close to breaking and it can sense it. It pushes back his head when it releases his jaw, face inches away from his so that milky white eyes swim and blur and aquiline features change from something almost human to a visage of wet the bed terror and ill intent.
Without warning, a hand plunges into his open stomach cavity and punches through his upper ribs, a scream tearing itself from his abused throat as fingers take hold of his still beating heart and squeeze. His heartbeat races as the muscle tries to counter balance the demon's hold, pulse speeding out of time so that he hears it in his head, feels it in his temples. Veins bulge out on his forehead, a cord thickening in his throat as he screams. He screams and screams until the pain stops, words tumbling from his lips in a torrent of agony.
"Yes, yes! Okay!" He shouts to the roof tops, head back and body arched in a bow, trying to get away from his tormentor. "I agree. I'll do it!" And then it all stops. The hand around his heart is gone. His body is back together, intestines sitting warm and cozy in their little nest that is his abdomen, like someone hit the reset button on a game console. The hooks are gone and he is standing on his own feet, no hint of them ever being embedded in his skin.
He takes a staggered step, hand automatically going up to caress his once ribboned cheek, skin now baby smooth. He looks around the pit. It's still the same, minus the chains that had been holding him up for weeks, years. He hears a noise behind him, whirling around to face it, but there's nothing there. He slowly turns again, nearly jumping out of his skin when he sees the demon there, razor blade held in his hand.
"I thought you said this was over, that it would be done if I said 'yes'," he says accusingly, eyeing the blade wearily, but nonetheless keeping his ground. His eyes narrow – yes, plural, eyes – when the demon laughs again. It closes the blade and flicks it over in his hand so that the handle is pointed towards him. "You've forgotten the other part of our deal, Dean," it says, lips stretched wide in a smile. He reaches forward and runs his fingers along the razor's wooden handle, fingers stopping just before the demon's. He eyes the demon questioningly before taking the offering, holding it tight in his hand.
There's a sound behind him, a soft whimpering that hadn't been there before. He turns again to find a woman suspended by new chains. She's hanging limp, her head bowed, brown hair hanging in her face. She's naked, body curvy and buxom, olive skin undamaged and clean. He feels the familiar stirring below the belt, a crooked smile pulling up the right corner of his mouth. Walking towards her, he eyes her form, looking for the best place to cut first, twirling the closed blade in between his fingers.
She looks up as he approaches, her striking green eyes wide when they meet his face. "Dean?" she asks, her voice rich with a thick English accent. Recognition pulls at the back of his mind, but he pushes it back, flicking the razor blade open. He runs the blade along her cheek, smiling at the whimper that escapes her. She pleads for him not to do it, to let her go, but he ignores her, dragging the blade gently down her jawline, stopping at the pinnacle of her chin and then gliding it down her neck. "Dean, this isn't you. Stop, please," she whispers, chest heaving with panic as he trails the tip in between her breasts, tiny droplets of blood welling underneath the blade. He digs in then, the red line that appears fascinating him, the feeling of finally getting some pay back amazing. He doesn't shrink away from her screams, but relishes in it, loves the way that her voice warbles.
Laughter. There's laughter mixing in with the sounds of her anguish. It's the combination of his revenge and his demon's glee, the sounds meshing together so that they are one. "Yes, young grasshopper. Enjoy your first soul," the demon says, its presence surrounding him and filling him up so that he feels its happiness and basks in its hate. It laughs again and he laughs, echoing his master as he carves into the woman, flaying her skin from her bones.
"Know this, Dean-o," the demon whispers in his ear, aiding him as he plunges a hand into her abdominal cavity and fists her intestines, "The blood of many stain your hands now, never to be washed away. It's always there to taint your skin and remind you: you gave in. You weren't strong enough."