A/N: This is really quite darker than most of the stuff I write. I'm seriously surprised that I managed to write something like this! But here it is. I'm not quite sure how long this will go or how things will develop, so it should be interesting.
Disclaimer: Owns nothing
Relinquo Totus Spes
Chapter 1: Death Of It All
He didn't tell Dean about the dreams. After all, what was the point? They weren't like his visions, prophecies of some horrid evil doom cloud about to descend upon a poor unsuspecting soul. No, these were something worse, because there was nothing he could do about it.
Down spiraling stone paths through darkness and hellfire he would walk, and unseen presence among the beings that dwelt there. They weren't always distinguishable- most of them kept to the shadows, allowing only faint glimpses to be seen. But his feet never paused for them; these were not the ones he had come to see. Always he was drawn deep into the bowls of the earth itself, past happenings too horrible to even think about.
He never knows how long or how far he treads that dusty path, but it always leads to the same place; fiery rain pours from the heights above while pits of lava and flames spatter the ground like rodent holes, casting their cruel light upon the scene. This place is different from the rest; this place is a prison. His heart clenches painfully to see the huddled forms of human souls, chained with links of burning black irons that raise welts even upon their incorporeal bodies. Constant, unrelenting agony without rest, without a chance for rescue or escape.
They would cry and moan, begging, pleading, offering anything in exchange for their release. Whether it is to him or just a plea in general, he doesn't know. In any case, he seems to be rooted to the spot in the midst of it all, unable to stir, powerless to offer any comfort or aid. Demons prowl along with other monstrosities, pausing every now and then upon a victim; being trapped in a place of never ending doom for all eternity doesn't seem to be enough of a punishment for the condemned souls. No, it goes beyond that. A demon raises a whip, and he hears the sharp stinging crack, followed by a shrieking wail that freezes the blood in his veins. If only it stopped there, but there was more. Iron pokers and brands burn spirit flesh as easily as butter, spikes driven through the tenderest areas of the body, racks stretching forms beyond endurance while others caused them to crush in on themselves. Thumbscrews crunched fingers and toes, iron balls hanging off of ankles as the unfortunate victims hung by their wrists from the ceiling, and it went on and on and on in detail far too gruesome for his mind to accept.
At first he couldn't believe the cries and shrieks were real, but then he realized that the pain was- the body might be gone, but the soul remembers pain. The poor souls trapped in this eternal torture healed only to have more punishment heaped upon them.
He would give anything to lift his hands to block out the screams of pain that go on and on, but his arms refuse to oblige him. Even worse are the thoughts that he cannot block; this was where his father must have been imprisoned. Where Dean will be when the hounds come for him.
What Ruby said was true; so many of the souls have suffered so much that there is barely any humanity left in them. He can see it in their feral, gleaming eyes that soon they will join the ranks of the demons, with no memory of their humanity, filled only with hate and evil. Only then will the chains that bind their spirit bodies fall limp, while the true chains emerge to bind them in a living nightmare.
