Yay! I wrote fic! I hope it's good!
Title: Gonna Come Back and Take You Home
Summary: 238,000 days after his death, Dean Winchester, stopper of Apocalypses, friend to the angels, big brother to the founder of the only known academy for people like them, and demon hunter extraordinaire ran into a girl with eyes as dark of the pit she'd crawled out of.
Rating: R
Warnings: Talk of Hell and torture and Dean doing bad things. Possibly incorrect math (which is why I'm an English major).
A/N: You know what I want to see? Someone that Dean tortured coming back to haunt him. Title is from "Clocks" by Coldplay.
Disclaimer: I don't own the show or the characters. Which is probably a good thing, considering this story.
Gonna Come Back and Take You Home
For 10,949 days in a row Dean Winchester said "no." On day10,950 he said "yes." On day 12,775 he was given permission to ask the question. On day 14,599 someone responded with the affirmative.
On day 14,600 Dean woke up in a coffin.
-.-
238,000 days after his death, Dean Winchester, stopper of Apocalypses, friend to the angels, big brother to the founder of the only known academy for people like them, and demon hunter extraordinaire ran into a girl with eyes as dark of the pit she'd crawled out of.
The girl, a blonde who couldn't have been older than twenty, pulled a knife and grinned at him. "Hello, Dean."
He stood his ground, glaring at her, hand straying toward his own hidden knife. "Have we met?"
Her features twisted into something that looked like a sinister form of shock. "You mean you don't remember?" Silence. "It's me. Catherine." He narrowed his eyes. "Five foot five? Black hair? Blue eyes?"
"Sounds like someone I knew once," Dean drawled, thinking back to his early days out of Hell, of deep pools of blue and an unruly mop of hair that seemed to defy gravity. "Pretty sure he was a dude, though."
Catherine laughed. "That's good. Funny. I'd been told you had a sense of humor. I never saw it. Just that glint in your eye, the white flash of teeth against my blood. You loved it. Said it tasted so good as you licked across my intestines, chewed on my eyes, ripped off my ear and then spit it back in my face and laughed. Dean," she said, her voice soft, conspiratorial. "You asked, and I said yes."
Dean felt his eyes widen at the revelation, felt the memories of Hell pushing at the barriers that it had taken him ten years to create and fortify. Suddenly, he was back there, an innocent girl's blood in his mouth, on his hands, coating him, drowning him. It slid warm down his throat as she screamed, cried, begged for mercy, and he laughed. He laughed and he carved and he cut and he asked.
"You want mercy? Don't show it." He held out the knife, slid it along her arm, her hand, what was left of her pale, delicate skin. He knew she couldn't see it. He'd made sure of that, her eyes joining the blood in his mouth, the bile in his throat long ago. "You know you want to."
She sobbed. Nodded. "Yes."
The word that had finally, truly damned him now stained them both.
The hunter gasped, gaped. No.
She took a step closer, knife hanging lazily from lax fingers. "Never saw you after that, Dean. Like you were suddenly too good for me or something. Don't worry, though. Alistair took over. He trained me. Treated me like his daughter. His pet. You know what that's like, right?"
"What do you want?" His hands had dropped to his sides, his own weapon forgotten.
"To show you what I learned. What you helped to teach me. I learned by example. Yours more than Ali's. I'm a star pupil, and I want to thank you. I'm going to return the favor."
She was on him before he even had a chance to think about defending himself. The knife went through his eye, bringing a flash of dark red pain. Dean fell to his knees, Catherine following his movements, mirroring him, her knife slipping down and slicing his shirt in half.
"It's my turn," she hissed, carving a shallow line down his chest, over his stomach, cutting open his navel and smiling about it. She dug the fingers of her free hand into the incision, wiggling them around as he moaned in pain and writhed against her acidic touch.
Blood mixed with tears on his cheeks as her fingers moved in deeper and the knife cut a fresh line on his forehead. His remaining eye stung with salt and copper, his other eye weeping blood down onto his shirt, thrumming with pain. His body was alight with the torture, slowly coming to remember the unearthly feeling, shuddering with the need to make it stop, to escape, to inflict.
Catherine backed away and gained her feet, looking down at the bloody mess she'd made. She held out her knife. "You know you want to."
He forced himself to look up, to peek at her from underneath the haze of red.
Red. Everything red. The walls and the people and the street and his hands and the knife and the knife in his hands and the body of a tiny blonde lying beneath him as he cut and carved and created. A work of art painted with the blood of them both.
Blood in his mouth and on his shirt and on his hands. More her blood than his now. The girl inside doomed as soon as his hands had clutched the proffered blade, as soon as he'd set to work, his body on auto-pilot, mind relishing her moans and gasps and screams, the feel of her bucking beneath him, reminding him of those twisted orgies, the sex games he used to play with them, how they grew to love it. To love him. To see him as worthy of themselves, of their pain, of everything that they'd become.
Monsters, the whole lot of them.
Catherine went limp beneath him, a pile of exposed bone and organs surrounded by blood, the sweet smell of death washing over him as he basked in the victory, in his return to the place where he'd had potential. The place where people had longed for him.
He stood, shaky, damp, tacky, and stared at his work. She was beautiful. Had been before by his old standards. Was a masterpiece now, though. Something magnificent brought out by the work of his own hands. Something he'd finally done right.
And then her eyes opened. Black pits staring at him, whirling with malice as she gained her feet. He dropped the knife and backed away. She stooped and picked it up.
This was wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. They weren't supposed to get back up unless he told them to, weren't supposed to come after him. Alistair had promised. Had sworn. Had said he would always be safe and protected and loved if only he did what he was told. The same thing his father had always told him, with the first part added for extra effect. Extra incentive.
She pounced, and Dean fell. The knife coated with her blood sank deep into his stomach, slicing into him, spilling organs.
Suddenly, with the clarity one only gets when waking from a truly awful nightmare, he realized that he wasn't in Hell. That this was it. His death at the hands of a demon he'd tortured. A demon he'd created.
Because on Earth, you didn't magically get back up at the end of the day. You just lay in a pile of your own blood and guts, forever mangled and marred, tossed to the ground like garbage instead of rising to the occasion and giving as good as you'd got.
Dean realized that he was going back to Hell, back to where he'd belonged. He realized that he was dying, and then everything went black.
-.-
365 days after Dean had relapsed and shredded an innocent girl possessed by a creature that he had made, he went home. Sammy had offered to let him stay, give him a room, time to heal.
There was no healing. Nothing could save him now. He saw the way Sam looked at him, they way he averted his eyes, the disgust written plainly across his face.
Dean dropped his duffle bag on the bed in his new room. The doctors had said he was lucky to be alive. After all, the girl they'd found him lying next to in the alleyway had been dead. Someone had truly done a number on her. They were surprised she'd even been able to call for help, her cell phone found clasped in cold fingers.
But Dean knew. He knew the demon had left him alive on purpose, the worst possible torture. He knew she was the one that had called 911, not the girl. He knew she was still out there, somewhere, laughing at him and his misery.
He pulled off his jacket, deep scars stretching and straining. His shirt went next, both tossed onto the bed by the duffle. He walked to the mirror.
The face staring back at him from the glass was twisted and scarred, barely human. One bloodshot eyes gazed steadily at him, the other reduced to a sad and sunken hole, gaping in a face that used to be pretty.
He pursed his lips, the scars on either side of his mouth pulling taught, one sloping toward his eyes, the other toward his chin. A bi-polar parody of Heath Ledger's final role.
Pale lines snaked across his forehead and cheeks, deep cuts that damaged bone. One ran back to the place where his left ear had once been, now just an empty space, much like his right eye.
The scars extended from his neck to his chest. She'd left his tattoo intact while skinning him alive, taking large chunks of his chest, a nipple, even the handprint that he'd come to know and love. The only sign that he had ever been worth saving.
His body was dipped and uneven, twisted, wrong. There were slopes and valleys, chunks of flesh and muscle and bone carved away and left in some back alley. It was disgusting.
His face. His back. His chest and stomach. His neck. His legs. Hands and feet and arms and legs. He'd fallen unconscious and she'd had her way with him. She'd done things that he'd tried so hard to block out, to push from his mind. Things that had been done for decades, spans of time when he'd been unable to think or sleep. Only feel. Only hurt.
But this wasn't Hell. This wasn't a place where you stayed conscious and the pain only grew. This wasn't a place where magic happened and you became what you once were.
It was Earth. It was a place where people fell back into their minds when it hurt too much. A place where looks mattered and scars stayed. A place where people shunned those who were different and wrong.
Dean looked in the mirror and smiled. It was perfect. Fitting. As far as he was concerned, his insides finally matched his outsides.
He was a monster. And now he looked like one.
End. So, I want feedback on this one (unless it's about my math. I seriously slaved over that math and still have no idea if it's right or not. I confused myself with it. Memo: no math during Poly Sci). Thanks for reading!