Summary: S3 fic. Dean freaking out about his deal, basically. Spoilers for S2, and S3.
Disclaimer: I neither own the song or Supernatural.
AN: Another fic inspired by another song, and a script one- Rusty Halo. Oops. Oh well. So it's like a S3 fic. Dean freaking about the deal. Using like the third verse of the song for inspiration. No pairings, no slash.
Warnings: swearing, mentions of hell, peril, torture, death, deals, etc.
/
Now I'm looking up the bible tryna find a Loophole
Yeah I'm living for revival, dying for a new soul
Now there's no light to guide me on my way home
Now there's no time to shine my rusty halo
/
Dean spun around the room, looking at all of the books spread out across the bed, the table, and a good percentage of the motel floor surrounding the bed. He had all sorts; the bible, other religious scriptures, poetry, Doctor Faustus, other stupid literature, occult books, articles, psychologist interpretations, library books, and stuff printed off the internet, anything you could imagine. A lot of the stuff was from libraries, or book shops, or stuff Bobby or other hunters had sent over. Sam was out, at a library. It was pretty much a given that he'd return with more books, articles, etc. And they'd all lead to the same thing- just like everything they'd come across- nothing. Everything they found so far led to the road to…nowhere.
They'd read, theorised, translated, got any hunting buddies on it- Bobby, Rufus, Ellen, they'd even been to churches and asked priests, even Ruby. Even tortured demons, but nothing resulted in anything coherent or conclusive. It wasn't too surprising, if he was being honest. It wasn't surprising that not much was documented about people getting out of deals, getting out of hell. A lot of people either didn't think all this crap was real, or weren't stupid enough to make deals, or just didn't get outta them and got yanked downstairs anyway. Like he was probably going to. That was probably going to be his fate. He silently picked up a book, and sat down on the other bed, eyes skimming the open pages rapidly.
He didn't regret his actions, of course he didn't. In fact, given the same opportunity, he'd probably do the exact same thing. At the end of the day- he'd saved Sam, brought him back to life. Naturally he'd do it again. However…A year went very fast when you were counting down to your final day. Particularly when you couldn't seem to find a way out. That was the reality. They'd searched, they'd attempted to barter, and they'd tortured demons, nothing. They knew Lilith held the contract, but they couldn't find her. He slammed the book shut and chucked it down on the floor. It was freaking useless. Like everything they'd stumbled across. He stood up and paced briefly, glancing over the texts that littered the table.
He was gonna get dragged down, he knew he was. He could just feel it in his bones. There was a reason why making a deal was so bad- 'cause you couldn't get out of them. The outcome was always the same. A one way ticket down to hell. The infernal regions. Lake of fire. Fire and brimstone. Eternal torment and suffering. Land of the doomed, and all that jazz. People always incorrectly amused that hell was for the corrupt and wicked, but that wasn't true. You could be a good person, and still go to hell. Or you could commit one act, admittedly a terrible one, and go to hell. Or you could make a deal, seal your soul.
He knew all that. Another he knew? The hellhounds, they were the ones who came for you. Ripped you down. You could ward them off, but only for so long and attempting was pretty pointless. They'd get you when your time was up, it was their job. You couldn't even see them until it was time. They ripped people apart…Ripping their life, their soul, right out of them. Yesterday was eighteen days 'til the end, 'til his time was up. Today was seventeen, and tomorrow would be sixteen, the next day fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten and all the way down 'til zero. Then they'd get him somehow.
Hearing dogs bark or howl practically made him a nervous wreck inside now. He was barely sleeping, looking for ways out until he was exhausted. And even when he did try to sleep, it really wouldn't be successful. He'd wake up, after having terrible nightmares about being ripped down by the hellhounds. Sometimes, he'd awaken, still semi clutched in the throes of panic. He'd be able to feel hungry eyes watching him from the darkness, hear the patter of padded, clawed feet edging closer, until he'd final feel a wave of hot, acrid, foul breath on his face. A wave of nausea would hit him, and he'd find himself desperately fighting the urge to vomit. It was strange the tricks that the mind could play on a person, how it could be their worst enemy. Ordinarily, he'd claim such things were irrational, but they weren't. It would most likely be his reality one day. Only thing was, if they were gonna get him, they were gonna get him running, fighting. He wasn't just gonna stand there whilst they ripped him to shreds. In all honesty though, he was just another hapless soul, in denial.
He was trying to hold it together and keep focused, but it was simply so hard to remain optimistic, when he was most likely just deluding himself. He was afraid, more so than he'd ever been in his life. He'd honestly never known such a strong sensation of fear. Hunting, at the best of times, was a constant reminder of morality, but in no situation had that fact ever been more factual for him. He was no fool, he knew the chances of their success were beyond slim, and that filled him with crippling fear. It was universally acknowledged fact that hell wasn't pleasant and that it changed people, souls. Hell was where people became warped, twisted, and in extreme cases, demons. If he went down there, he could one day become something that he would once have hunted- a grossly misshapen being that his brother may one day face. Even he couldn't wrap his head around how truly desolate and horrific the infernal regions would be.