DISCLAIMER: Supernatural is not mine
A/N: Strange drabble/oneshot thingy about Gordon in hell that I just had to get out of my head. I just can't manage to write anything longer than this lately; I don't think I've updated my current chapter story for, oh, three months? guilty laugh. Um, sorry about that. Please review, even to tell me that this sucks.
Hell isn't a nice place. Just thinking about what's in it and what might happen to you if you end up there can churn the stomach of near anyone. It sucks even more when you have to experience how not nice it is first hand, and Gordon Walker has the dubious honour of doing this.
Bad enough that he was turned into a vampire when he was alive – he still has to be one in his death. It wasn't true that everyone was sent to their own personal hell, but apparently whoever decides these things thought that a good punishment for Gordon would be to leave him with the bloodlust and the amazing (too good) senses that vampires have even after his death.
He was a fucking fang – and he would be one for eternity.
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One thing that's true about hell is the 'burning for eternity' thing. Well, it must have been true once; now that so many of the demons, many of which used to organise the said punishment, have managed to get to earth through the gate, it's more like 'burning every so often.' Gordon has only gone through it once. He was pushed into a skyscraper sized kiln along with what must have been at least a billion others before the thing was turned on and they were baked like pottery (screaming, bleeding, writhing pottery) for what felt like at least a millennium. He isn't sure, doesn't want to remember.
Instead of being burned for eternity, Gordon spends his time wandering aimlessly around the part of hell he's in. It's a dilapidated city, very industrial, full of crumbling factories and barren spaces where it looks like bombs have been dropped. He knows that there's countless others wandering around the same city he's in, but he's only bumped into someone once it's so goddamn huge. He's never really been one for company and yet he still finds himself getting lonely. He wouldn't even mind bumping into that idiot Kubrick. How low – yearning for the company of a man who has a sticker that says 'How Would Jesus Drive?' on his caravan (and Christ, he has a caravan. Fucking hippy.)
The only person down here that he's ever talked to is a fat middle aged guy who was most probably a paedophile. He obviously hadn't had company in a long while (and had been deprived of his favourite type of company for plenty longer than that) and just couldn't shut the fuck up. Gordon would have drank his blood if he was able to, but that was all part of his punishment; bloodthirst that could never be quenched. Just another terrible ache that could never be soothed.
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A lot of his time he spends thinking about how much he hates Sam Winchester, how much he hates fangs, how much he hates himself. Most of all about how much he hates himself, and about how the only way he can find peace is through the murder of Sam Winchester. It's the only thing that keeps him going; the knowledge that one day, he'll crawl out of here.
One day, he'll get his revenge.