Author's Note: This particular one shot (perhaps more) takes place after Sam has been possessed and left Dean to his own devices (without the aid of Lisa) and has no relation to anything which comes after.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the "Supernatural" players in this story, nor do I own the setting in which they have been placed; however, I do claim ownership of the original character. Quote (title) taken from Aldous Huxley.
Part I: Maybe This World is Another Planet's Hell
Nothing. Everything. A colorless world. Water lapping at bruised feet, without temperature. No sound. A chorus of screams. Standing in the middle of nothingness. Water rising. Body too big for the skin. Taste of ash. Airless, lungs not filling. Breath goes in and out. Hands reaching for all of nothing. Hands trying for everything. Taste of blood. Red splash in colorless world. Standing in the middle of an ocean. No weight. Too heavy for legs to hold. Crimson water rising. Reaching hands slide through scarlet. Too much colour. Too much sound. No noise. Battered feet find nothing. Taste of death. World is red. Breathing no air. Drowning. Red fills body too big for skin. Eyes see nothing. Everything. Skin erupts. Hands reaching for nothing.
A colorless saturated world…
The man draws in a deep breath. His hazel eyes open wide, sucking in the feeble light of the streetlamps as his lungs sought the sticky, hot air. For a frightening second, all sound is mute, the only noise the rasping pull of his breathing. And then the subtle whumpwhumpcreakwhump of a tired, considerably sagging overhead fan reminded his ears how to hear. A weak shushing noise drifted in from the open, barred window, the sigh of old tires on wet roads giving life to this otherwise deserted time of night, when most civilized people are far into their dream worlds, too snug to be bothered.
Hands shaking, he untangled his long legs from the off-white sheets, mentally noting that his sweat now mingled with untold other's, adding to the feeling of filth he could never seem to skirt. The black shirt he wore stuck to his back and shoulders, clung to his chest, made a second skin from the perspiration and sheer amount of moisture in the suffocating air. Brightly colored boxer shorts stood out in glaring contrast to the monochrome fabric surrounding him, their stripes oddly mimicking the repeating vertical lines of dark and meager illumination cast onto the walls, though the shades of thin yellow brought out by the light were far to garish for him to consider wearing, even in his current state.
No bed-side lamp to turn on, no glass of water waiting for parched lips; a sawed-off pump-action and a long knife on the nightstand had nicked their places. Sitting up, and swinging his now-freed legs over the edge of the thin mattress, the man inhales heavily, catching the scent of wet animal, mildew, the next-door Chinese restaurant, car exhaust, rotting garbage, whatever was left from his Styrofoam-boxed dinner, cigarette smoke, alcohol, stale urine, and under it all the ever-present salt driven odor of the ocean.
What hung in his fuzzy attention was the cigarette smoke. It wasn't diluted from the damp air, and it carried with it the peculiar scent of honey, the combination of which he had never encountered. Wiping the sleep from his extraordinarily tired eyes, he made to stand in the hopes of stumbling to the table holding his left-overs and rescuing the flask of fifty-four proof his stomach so vehemently protested against.
As his feet touched the much-worn, stained pea-green carpet, his sluggish mind began to make rather quick leaps. Such as to why the smoke smelled so highly, and why his window was open, of all things, and why it was that his heart suddenly slammed against his inscribed ribs. Acting by instinct and pure muscle memory, he snapped up the shotgun and went to one knee beside the puny bed, matte-grey barrel looking over the mattress and into the darkest corner of his sad little room. He didn't dare breathe as his eyes adjusted to the shadow, catching the outline of a second-hand chair that had been demoted from 'over-stuffed' to simply 'stuffed', but finding only air inhabiting it. The window next to it was indeed open, iron bars doing nothing to prevent the only movement he could see, as the fetid faint breeze from the streets below passed straight through the unsightly rails to half-heartedly play at faded curtains.
Honey and second-hand smoke assaulted his sense of smell again, a not altogether unpleasant odor given that it didn't reek of cloves or cheap tobacco. Eyes narrowing, he lowers slightly the heavy, fully loaded shotgun, its barrel remaining trained on that sinister fuchsia chair as a prudent precaution. The room – cramped, dirty, complete with barely-working-toilet and scum-stained shower, over-priced but no questions asked – was beyond incapable of hiding anyone or anything, granted he would rather it be a who than a thing, regardless of his past experience's polite reminders that who could be exponentially more unfriendly than thing.
Utterly convinced now that he did not want to be awake, but equally convinced that sleep was hazardous, he unfolded his aching frame and stood, dropping the weapon to his thigh and raking a much steadied hand through the wet disaster he called hair. Shuffling the four or so steps required to reach the three-legged table, he winces as his toes discover something that went squish in the carpet, a most disagreeable feeling that mimicked the properties of unrefrigerated pudding. Face screwed up with sour distaste, he hefted the shotgun onto the table's scarred surface, near reverence in his actions, as the solid plastic stock and hardened steel made less sound than his last exhale. In the same motion, his other hand triumphantly wraps around the dull flask, feeling even through callused digits the ambient warmth of the metal, some secret part of him pleased that the liquid inside would be just above tepid.
With the quick twist of a seasoned professional, he unscrewed the cap and raised container of soon-to-be-liberated alcohol to his lips. The contents of his stomach were not so delighted at the idea, and as he tipped the amber liquid past his tongue, the aforementioned residents of his gastro-intestinal system rose up to meet it, blocking with all their might the offending fluid. Scrunching his eyes and nose, he taps his rebellious abdomen with a balled fist, rewarded for his efforts with a foul taste creeping up his throat as the alcohol, bolstered by his physical jostling, slides past the impromptu barrier and settles not so cordially in the bottom of his stomach.
Not satisfied with simply reliving the taste of the last twelve hours of fast-food meals, countless caffeinated beverages, out-of-date candy and one too many beers, he lifts the flask for another go, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable price he would pay in the morning. The robust odor of oak barrels and sharp alcohol hit his senses, however so did the sweet smell of honey, not from the container, but carried on the humid breeze. Along with the fragrance came a sound, a soft sound that could be mistaken for tires on pavement, the gentle ah sound so common in the world that it often goes unremarked upon, though here it was most out of place, given that he had not been the one to make it, and who else other than himself was in the room?
His hazel eyes blinked, and subsequently there was a shape in the stuffed fuchsia chair, exhaling smoke into the oppressive air, smiling wryly in his direction, lounging in his fucking stuffed, fuchsia chair. The figure had appeared, much the way an unrequested refill will materialize on a table when no one notices the waiter, so sudden and abrupt, without apology or explanation, leaving the recipient confused and contemplating - for a moment - as to if there was someone actually listening to his desires. A perfect row of white teeth flashed at him, their owner grinning at the reaction, or lack thereof, he had given, though he was not so certain what was funny about it. Not the first time, perhaps not the last, he shared the same space as a creature unknown, and this one, it didn't feel like anything that walked, crawled, flew, burrowed, or swam that he had previously stumbled upon.
Time continued to move as he stood motionless, mind dithering about as it attempted to catch up to what he saw, floundering from the convenient fact that his brain had simply checked out for the night and had no intent on returning. A decade passed before thought became coherent, though by the all-knowing cracked-faced clock on the wall, only a measly second had snuck by prior to his brain shouting MOVE to his hand, and DROP to his fingers, and REACH to his arms. The flask fell haphazardly from a loosened grip, all but forgotten now, striking the table surface with a dull clatter and coming to a wobbling rest, its contents belching forth in a rippling stream, flowing over the edge to be sopped up greedily by the visually questionable carpet.
In the same herk-jerk motion, the pump-action was in his hands, steady aimed at the face of his visitor, and racked once for appearances, in hopes the sound would mean to this thing what it meant to any other Earth-bound creature with the requisite instinct of self-preservation. Annoyed confusion replaced faint optimism when the figure took a long drag of his cigarette, utterly nonplussed by the obvious threat presented by the lackluster metal-and-plastic weapon, irking its wielder as he watched the figure exhale, pluming pale grey into the dank room, a cocky, all-knowing smile shifting over silhouette features. Anger, a familiar and companionable emotion he had long held dear, rushed up to the space left by his absent mind, gaily filling in the role by gleefully usurping the power to his tongue.
"This is a non-smoking room."
Anger rolled with laughter at its own antics, pushing even more buttons, larking about with no other intent than to cause as much irreparable damage to the situation as possible, a feat that perhaps it would have succeeded in had the figure not interrupted its play-time.
"Perhaps that's the reason I wasn't the one who rented it, yeh?"
If only he could have seen his Anger as it tripped mightily, face-planting into his thoughts and laying dazed as Perplexity and Cynicism hurriedly rushed by, standing smartly in Anger's former stomping ground and nudging the man into action, the culmination being his face screwing up in the expression of confusion whilst his voice hefted a heavy tone of sarcasm.
"Technically, neither did I."
Bold eyes glittered brightly from the dark, a thousand thoughts flicking through their depths, staring at the man with the gun, gauging him, testing him, weighing him, studying with simple amusement the utter lack of confidence the man now had. "Well, then. Since you're in the midst of committing no small number of misdemeanors…", cocksure globes of white and black swept over the steady ballistic weapon directed so resolutely at them, "… and more than a couple felonies, I'd say it's safe to count my little indiscretion as the least of your worries."
Cool voice, sweet rhythm cadence, laid back without care, its sound an annoyance to unwilling ears. A smoldering point of orange, the happily burning paper-and-tobacco of a lit cigarette, a hallmark of presumptuous womanizers and addictive personalities, drifts upward in a lazy arc, brought to unseen lips, flaring brightly from the sudden intake of nicotine laced oxygen. The obnoxious odor of unfiltered smoke and honey assailed his ever so sensitive nose, sent languidly about the fetid room from a practiced exhale. It irked him even more, the smell, the taste of it, grinding Perplexity back to its place, retrieving Anger from its position on the floor and installing it back to former glory. Pleased to be atop once again, Anger matched Cynicism for wordplay, shoving questions through his mouth, into the dark, humid space.
"What are you? And why the hell're you in my non-smoking, illegally purchased room?"
Perfectly legitimate questions, spoken with conviction. Too often, the what's of the earth were unpleasant, rude, impolite creatures without proper manners, treading in places they ought not, muddying, sullying, distorting the material world without apology one. Seemed to him, such a creature was before him, occupying the unfortunate fuchsia chair, prompting his response, giving him cause to justly treat this being as yet another thing.
A small smile, a flash of white. It was so confident, so sure. The manner in which it sat silent, sat uncaring, sat smoking, redoubled the ire already burning hot in the man, fanned his hatred to well past the flash-point. Red light flaring, more honey in the air, filling the lonesome empty space between a man boxer clad and his fuchsia chair rival with sweet grey fumes that stepped in politely as though to prove 'There is nothing here to say, continue on, we have all night', but of course, such a thoughtful gesture can oft be misread. Through this, Silence continued, stretched, pulled, thick in a promise that was fast coming to fruition. This thing had ruined his nightmares, it had take residence in a chair that, while he had no use for it, had been illegally paid for, and didn't that make it his? As Anger brought venom to the man's arid lips, it was rudely interrupted by Silence, as it was broken in a most peculiar manner.
"You may call me Raziel."
Such an absurdity, to announce oneself as a feathered, winged pain in the ass. The thing absconding with his poor fucsia chair was nothing of the sort. What's didn't have prestigious names, they have claws and teeth and fangs and horns and come-hither smiles. They didn't have the name of a…
"And I'm the what that's going to beat a little faith into you, Dean."