In hell you are alone for a seemingly infinite amount of time until you break. Once you are broken, you are expected to help break other people.
Cas decides he doesn't want to stick around.
Alternatively- Follow the tale of a demon who's new to the scene and catches the interest of an older, more powerful one. Will they show that even the most broken of souls can find love and hold each other together? Or will they be damned for all eternity.
OOC: This is the story of two demons and will be told through their POVs. It will be run mainly through the tumblr; askdemondestiel. Answered asks/submissions will not be posted here or on ao3. Only the entries made by the characters will be posted here.
Cas leaned against the nearest boulder, legs protesting with their usual ghost-ache after standing for oh-so-long on the not entirely soft surface that plagued Hell. He tapped the clipboard against his hand- a hand that was missing the majority of its outer layer of skin. It was one of the reasons that he was glad there weren't any mirrors in Hell. The only way to see your reflection was to grab a clean knife, and wasn't that a joke? There wasn't a single clean knife in all of Hell, Cas would bet money on it.
"Slacking off already are ya', beautiful?" A familiar voice drawled from behind him. Cas didn't even bother to crane his neck and look at what would surely be a widely recognizable face.
Well, maybe 'face' wasn't the best word to use.
Dean, Castiel's superior and perhaps the only demon Cas talked to, walked in front of him. His bony hands (literally, bony, Dean had less skin than Cas- a mark of how long he'd been in Hell without reprieve) resting on his hips. The same went for the rest of him, really. There was barely any mass to the man anymore. He wore the rags of souls departed which managed to hide most of the… damage.
But there was no mistaking the fact that Dean could hardly pass as human anymore.
Cas figured it didn't matter either way. It wasn't like anyone down here was human, and if they were they wouldn't be for long.
…Given he didn't 'slack off.'
"I am allowed breaks, Dean." Cas wasn't very good at defending himself. It was a mix of lack of effort from not entirely caring, and being tired of Dean's incessant teasing.
One would think after so many years in Hell, he'd be used to Dean's ever-shifting character. Perhaps that was one of the reasons Cas… put up with the man, he wasn't boring like the rest of Hell's ancient residents.
"Why do you need a break?" Dean asked, squeezing in to lean against the same boulder Cas was. Their shoulders brushed, Dean's bony and thin, Cas' burned and scaley with dried scabs. "You're job too mentally taxing?"
Cas didn't miss the smirk in his tone, even if Dean didn't have lips anymore, the guy sure knew how to show some attitude with only his voice. (Of course Cas knew they were spirits without vessels now, their corporeal forms more a representation of their fucked up souls rather than their true bodies.) Technically they didn't havevoices. Hell was a weird place.
"No," Cas spoke slowly. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and all he could taste was ash and grit. "That is definitely not the problem."
Dean's black gaze flashed, his eyes boring into Cas like he could read the shorter demon's mind. Cas hoped fervently that he couldn't. How would he know, though? He knew less about Hell than he had before being dragged down here. "Then what? You getting old, Cas? Sorry to tell you, but we demons don't get to retire."
Castiel let silence descend upon them. The constant screams of torture and the crackling sound of damnations' flames remained ever-present as always.
Technically speaking, demons did not get tired. They were… trained to work effortlessly to accomplish their tasks. Castiel knew that, had once had the words carved into his skin. Do not disobey. You are a slave to the King now.
But it had been a long while since that had happened, and recently his thoughts had been drifting elsewhere.
"Dean," Castiel spoke after a long while. There was a line of awaiting demons now. Each one tasked with working the racks; shaping new loyalists for their father. He should return to his place, start telling those waiting which rack they were assigned to- which human they were going to torment until they broke.
"Hmm?"
Cas sucked in a breath, the tang of pain and suffering held a permanent place in the air, making his following swallow thick and audible. "Do you ever want to leave this place?"
Dean considered him. Cas had learned to read his patchy expression throughout all of their time together, but right then he couldn't make out a single emotion. He knew his words were rebellious, that as a lower-ranking demon he had to shut up and get to work, but he could not stay quiet any longer.
For whatever reason… he thought Dean might understand him.
He was wrong.
"No," Dean answered flatly. "This place is great. We've got free heating, entertainment–" a pointed scream filled the air almost as though orchestrated. Castiel nearly rolled his eyes. "–And company. Lot's of it. What more could you want?"
At his friend's words Cas felt his shoulders slump. He put on a brave face though, kept his mouth in its usual, straight line.
Really, he shouldn't have been surprised. "Nothing." He was an idiot for thinking such stupid thoughts. Cas had died, he was dead. He was where he deserved to be, and he ought to be thankful for finally getting off rack-duty after all this time.
"Come on," Dean said, slapping him on the back. His blood stained, hole-torn trench-coat released a puff of black soot at the touch. "I'll keep you company as you rally the troops."
Things could be worse, Castiel supposed. He could've spent all his time down here without ever meeting Dean.
Wouldn't have that been true hell?