Shorter than the first two chapters... but you don't mind, right? =D
Sometimes Dean misses being able to see the sun and the sky. Some stars would be nice once in a while, too. And, not that he has any experience with stuff involving anything resembling a plant, but the trees aren't looking too healthy either. If you ask him, hell-on-earth doesn't exactly suit Earth.
Dark billows constantly swarm the skies – fresh-outta-hell demons looking for a human body to invade – and block out any light they might be able to get from the sun otherwise. The air has turned crisp and hot; any humidity has long been roasted away by the sudden change in climate. It's a little warmer than Dean is used to, but at least it isn't a constant blizzard. It kind of makes him wonder if hell is affected by the changes up top as well. Doubt it.
Nearly everyone Dean's met is black-eyed and has a permanent smirk latched onto their face. It somehow manages to look arrogant and reverent at the same time, and Dean wishes he'd mastered that technique earlier, when he'd had the chance to use it on unsuspecting sheriffs. They all know him by name, call him 'sir', and quite frankly, it freaks him out. They walk around looking all submissive and demure (probably laughing inwardly), never quite meeting his eyes (fakers), respectful and fearful (not), as if he's the one with the psychic powers capable of sending 'em straight back down into the pit. Dean supposes it's just his new status – him being the brother of the Boy King and all (untouchable). Does that make him some sort of prince? One of those prissy girlies wearing tights and capes? Nah, he'll pass.
His relations to their king and ruler would make him royalty, at least. It would explain all the non-hissing and overall niceness, no matter how phony he suspects it to be, directed towards his person. This is coming from demons, mind you; it's disconcerting to say the least. He'd really rather go back to being just Dean Winchester, hunter-extraordinaire and awesome big brother. But since no monster would be stupid enough to dare act up now, his hunting career is in the slumps, leaving him with the brother thing. And that is where Dean hits a roadblock.
Sam and Dean haven't been brothers since Dean had died for good (should have been for good, at least). Sam finally learned to live on his own (by 'on his own' really means 'screwing with a demon bitch'), and then Dean came back like those four missing months had never happened. But the world and its order had changed, leaving Dean behind with only memories of what was and no way to fit himself back into his brother's life.
Then… this.
As if his entire life hasn't been hell enough, let's add real hell into the mix and see what we come up with.
It scares him, it does, worse than his impending doom tick tocking away from between his tired fingers – his destiny as a martyr looming over his head, weighing him down. (even if getting pulled out by an angel kind of cancels all that out) If you'd told him a year ago that Sam was fated to go darkside no matter what he did, past-Dean would probably have shot you point blank, thinking you were some kind of freaky psychic demon. This is something that can't be predicted, screw all-powerful demons and their arrogance and prophecies. Sometimes Dean wishes that he'll just wake up one day with his world restored and the fragments of his brotherhood somehow pieced back together. Maybe this is all just one messed-up dream. But he can't just disregard the present, however strongly his mind yet rejects it. In his line of work, ignorance can lead to things worth than death.
Just the other day, Dean watched his brother rip a man limb from limb for stepping out of line. It'd been a harmless comment; he can't even remember what it'd been about.
(liar: 'hey boy king, you bringing your pet along with you, too?')
Dean had learned long ago not to let others' words rattle him. He realizes now that Sam hadn't perfected the art as well as his brother or father, making the mistake of taking everything to heart. Sometimes, though, some of these people (things) have just got it coming (but no one deserves to be torn into pieces like that).
In a flash, blood exploded onto the walls like a gory imitation of modern abstract art and the demon oozed feebly from the shredded remains of its host. With a contemptuous flick and an enraged sneer, the sluggish black smoke instantly combusted and Dean could have sworn he heard screaming. Even after silence had fallen upon the small group of shocked witnesses, human (the one) and demon alike, he stood stock still, almost afraid to move lest the king should turn on him as well. He didn't even stop to realize that he'd thought of his brother as the king.
Sam twisted to stare beseechingly at him, eyes shining, asking for forgiveness. But he couldn't return it with the answering reassurance, whether his instinct demanded of it or not. All Dean saw – all his was capable of seeing – was the blood and gore and chunky entrails glistening and dripping off his little brother like sick, swampy water. He knew he'd been splattered with demon guts as well, he felt dirty and marked, but he hadn't been the one who split a man open like a ripe melon with nothing more than the slightest twitch of a finger. It had been like watching Sam kill Jake all over again, plus a whole lot of extra carnage and rage and a pinch of demonic psychic interference. The murderous glint in his obsidian-yellow gaze is something Dean has and always will have nightmares over.
There are days when he dreads the morning for fear of whose eyes he'll be looking into when he says good morning to his brother.
- - -
It was a miracle Dean didn't get pulled over on his way to coming his brother's rescue. He didn't know how many traffic laws he broke along the way, but it took him three-and-a-half hours to cross at least 400 miles worth of highway. A new record for him.
There was a bright flash of orange neon declaring a vacancy at Motel Eclipse and he screeched into the limited space of the parking lot with a sharp twist of the steering wheel. He hurriedly shoved the gear into 'park' and yanked the keys out with more force than was strictly necessary. He scrambled out of the car without bothering to shut the door or gather together any weapons and sprinted for the motel. Room numbers blasted past him, the colors blending together until he could barely discern them.
353. 353. 353. 353. Where the hell is the damn room! 353. 353. 353.
He shot past the orange, puke-colored door the first time around and instantly doubled back. He paused for a moment to brace himself then threw his entire body weight into the fragile wood, nearly kicking a hole through it in his effort to get through. As far as Dean was concerned, the door was nothing more than a frail wooden wall blocking him from his little brother. If he'd calmed down enough to think straight, he would have realized that the door hadn't been locked in the first place. The wood gave way with a loud splintering crack and the door burst forward.
"Sammy!"
It rocked back, rebounding against the opposite wall with the force of his shove, but Dean had eyes only for the scene beyond the threshold.
His throat seized and ice crawled up and down his stiff spine.
Blood. So much blood.
It caked the walls in rusting waterfalls, as if something in the center of the room had exploded, forcing the red liquid splashing outward. The lime green carpeting morphed into a crimson pond, and mysterious lumps lay scattered across the glossy lake. He could barely make out the shape of the furniture, all filthy with the stench of death and fear. The room had been repainted a new shade of human viscera. Even in the dim lighting, the single square beam from the doorway exposed enough of the butchery to get the full horrific image.
Dean choked back the bout of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. The drowning sensation was back full force. Homesickness and the horrible need for Dad grabbed him by the lapels of his leather jacket and rattled him until the world wobbled and his gut clenched. It was like a sucker punch straight to the gut, and it was all he could do to stay standing instead of folding in half with a horrified wheeze. His breath was reduced to a rasping gasp.
"God," was all he could muster. "God,"
His heart plummeted, crashed through the earth into its burning core, where it caught raging fire. Stomach in ropes, Dean grit his teeth and clenched his fists until he felt his skin break as dawning realization lit up harshly in his mind. The phone call had been a hoax. A cruel, cruel, hoax. Something he'd have expected from a demon, not from an angel. But warriors could be cruel when the greater good was involved (is that what you call this!?)
"God…"
His mind refused to wrap around it. It wasn't true. None of this was real.
"Sammy…"
Review please? I promise the next chapter will be longer... maybe... probably... well I've already written it so, the length is already set and done. And it is longer, just in case you're wondering. If not, then... well just know that I'm a huge dork about these things. XD