Author Stuff ~ Don't worry people, I'm still working on Together We Stand, Divided We Fall. I've just... Well, i've hit a brick wall in meh writing. My muse is still with that story, but I'm terrible with diaolog and that's pretty much all the next five chapters are. XD So, no fears. It's slowly but surely coming together and will be updated eventually. ;)
Warnings ~ Not for the weak stomached. 'Tis a Hell fic, after all.
Do Onto Others
Dean remembers from the Before his own personal thoughts on Hell. They'd pretty much been the mainstream idea's everyone shared: a pit of fire, Demon's torturing people left and right and so on. But now he knew the truth, knew those thoughts were fairytales, the kinds of things you found yourself wishing for when you were really in Hell; experiencing the realities of eternal suffering first hand.
The truth of it all? Well, for one not many souls down in Hell had multiple Demon's working on them. No, Demon's were a slave to the Cardinal Sin's just as Humans, and as such were greedy sons of bitches. They didn't like to share their playthings. Dean was lucky enough to have caught Alistair's attention, or so the Demon told him. Alistair was one of the oldest and was known among Hell for his talents with a knife and his creativity.
Another thing to know about Hell is that you still perceive your soul as your body. Alistair had been oh-so kind to explain one day while carving his eyes out that, because Man was so vain and closed minded, they couldn't properly comprehend the soul, and thus saw what they knew: their mortal body.
Honestly Dean hadn't really had time to question why he was still flesh and blood. The moment he was dragged to Hell, pain was the only thing he could feel. Thick, rusty hooks and chains stretched his body out like an offering for any Demon that happened to pass by, blood gushing from the wounds. For a moment Dean had been foolish enough to think that he could handle it, could take his due price for the Deal he'd made at the crossroads just a year ago.
He'd been dead wrong.
Dean wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been in Hell since then, but he knew it had been years. He remembers a conversation he had with someone during the Before–top side when his time was still running out, not over. They had told him what they thought Hell was like, had said something along the lines of reliving your worst memories over and over again, like a broken record. He couldn't remember the voice or the face of who'd exactly told him that, but they were idiots whoever they were.
Dean wasn't stuck in a rerun of whatever would be considered his worst memory top side, but as he was dangled there on the seemingly never ending chains, sulfur assaulting his senses, Hell fire heating his body from the distance and blood and sweat and a number of other bodily fluids he didn't want to think about dripped down his body, he couldn't help but think that it couldn't possibly compare to what Alistair did to him with his Balisong when he got bored.
"I don't usually use this knife, Pet. But I like to keep in practice and stay familiar with all my blades."
Dean felt particularly daring last time, and had in fact answered.
"M'thinking maybe you two should spend some quality time alone then. I'm plenty familiar…"
Alistair spent the next however-the-fuck-long after that carving up his tongue, saying he wanted to see how many ribbons he could slice it into before he drowned in his own blood.
Another fun fact about the realities of Hell? It didn't matter how many times your body was cut away into nothing, it'd just sew itself right back into existence–your body once more whole–like nothing had happened. Only, it was just as painful to become whole again as it was to be made nothing.
The Demon's covered all their bases; the only time Dean ever got any relief was at the end of each session, when his body would finish the agonizing task of reforming tissue and muscle and unbreaking bones and mending veins together once more. Alistair would come to him; would ask him the same question every time. Offering freedom and, if not a completely painless existence, then at least one with an outlet for his frustrations and anger and perhaps a minuscule amount of control.
"Step down from the Rack, Pet. Take the knife and join me in my fun and games."
His answer has always been 'no', or some variation of the word. In the beginning, when his quick wit and venomous tongue hadn't been literately cut out of him, he'd throw in some cocky remark, a curse or two and wrap it all up nicely with a go fuck yourself. But not now, not anymore. He'd learned his lesson long ago, and he kept his mouth firmly shut when he wasn't screaming in pain, thank you very much.
"Suit yourself," would be his reply. He'd smile back kindly and pet through Dean's hair gently, smearing whatever blood may be there away from his eyes almost casually. Then he'd take his knife–whichever one he happened to fancy that day–and slam it through Dean's throat.
Sometimes he'd just let it be for a while, said listening to his gasps turn to strained gurgles was calming to him. Other times he'd pluck the knife from Dean's neck, then start the slow task of skinning him from head to toe. Or toe to head.
One time, Dean remembers being made to eat his skin after it was all said and done. Or, really, more like had it shoved down his esophagus until his gag reflex just quit, and let it happen. Alistair hadn't done it since though, said he wanted to hear him screams when he got to work on him, and obviously he couldn't do the very well with a mouthful of himself.
"Look alive Pet, I brought some company with me today," Alistair sounds particularly cheerful. Dean's come to associate this with starting from the torso up, which is good considering once he's unable to scream anymore Alistair will leave sooner; let Dean be to burn and sizzle in Hell fire instead of being under his skillful hands for hours on end.
"Hello Dean-o," Alistair's brought Meg again, fan-fucking-tastic. He'd been doing that more insistently lately, which can only mean Meg isn't meeting the older Demon's expectations; she not a very good apprentice. "Thought I might tag along and watch you squirm for a bit. Hell can get a little boring sometimes, but you'll keep me occupied, right?" Judging by her cocky attitude, she hasn't caught on to his displeasure yet; doesn't know more torture sessions than the norm means she's not learning fast enough; not producing the results or screams Alistair's looking for.
She's not at all like older Demon, and she starts at Dean's head instead of where Alistair would have normally begun. Dean wonders if Meg has been listening to Alistair at all, because just three hours into her cutting out his eyes, scalping him and skinning his face, there's too much blood down his throat for him to make a proper scream, which is–as Alistair has told him on numerous occasions–his favorite part.
Dean's down to gurgling moans by the time Meg decides to start working on the neck and shoulders. As she slashes at tendons, ripping muscles one by one, Dean can't help but think that he could do better.
Dean breaks the tenth session in a row Alistair brings Meg. He can't help himself, just can't. The bitch can't cut to save her life, and Dean's found himself with a lot of time to think during his torture sessions with her, whereas with Alistair there was only room for pain in his head.
When she cuts a straight line down one of his biceps, he can't help but imagine the way he'd cut down with a curve, and when she tries to be creative (As Alistair encourages) she picks out second rate tactic's Dean's read about so many times when researching accent Colt's and witches and Demon's that just the thought of any of those strategies being used on him makes him want to puke.
She starts at his head; he bites his tongue in an effort not to scold her; tell her to start somewhere lower. She cuts off one of his fingers clean, he can't help but remember the way Alistair always told him to make the cut sloppy, take your time so the pain is stretched out twice as long as it would have been if done quickly; neatly.
"You want down, Pet?" Dean remembers Alistair's eyes lighting up at that, a wide smile splitting his face. "Whatever could have changed your mind?"
The question's rhetorical, even if that fact is lost to Meg, who for a moment thinks she's the reason her Master's favorite playthings' finally gone and broke. Which, technically it is, but definitely not for the reasons she's thinking.
Alistair knows damn well why Dean's so eager to get off the Rack. He wants to show Meg how it's really done, how to really make a soul 'squirm'. He wants to make her watch him as he does what Alistair's been training her to do for years–centuries even. Or better yet, he wants to practice on her. Have his first victim be Alistair's failed apprentice; wants to fill that empty spot and be all that Alistair wanted, maybe even more than what he'd expected.
Later Dean would suspect that Alistair knew Meg's shitty torturing skills would ultimately be the thing to pry him off the Rack. Dean broke on the exact day to make his stay in Hell thirty years, which couldn't be coincidental. He'd ask Alistair about it too, while both Student and Teacher hacked away at a pair of twins.
"Yes, Pet. It was the thirtieth anniversary of your soul being damned; I thought Meg would be an appropriate gift for the occasion…"
Turning his attentions back fully to the screaming Soul he'd been working on for the past twelve hours, Dean couldn't help but agree entirely.
Random? Yes. Well written? No. Do I like it? Very much so, yes. I've always wanted to write a torture/Hell fic. I'll settle for this. ;D