Hello darling readers! I'm back with another installment :) I hope you enjoy. I spend quite a bit of time on writing these things, so I think the bestest thing you could ever do is write me a review. I'd really appreciate it. It would probably make my life. And I lead a pretty exciting life.
Hell, for the first couple of weeks, isn't all that wonderful. Sam dies in countless, terrible, painful ways, and then he wakes up, and he's in his cell, healed right back up. He woke up, originally, tied spread eagle to a round, wooden board. For two days, demons had come and gone, throwing more sharp objects at him than Sam knew existed. They had terrible aim. In one particularly memorable death, Sam had been subjected to a cannibalistic young woman who'd worked her way up to a mid-level Torturer. She had terrible, frizzy hair. There was no excuse, as hell was surprisingly temperate. He didn't like her very much.
It was weird though. Sam had expected something a little more, well, just more. He'd thought for sure that there were demons with something against him down here, just waiting for his arrival. For all the weeks of torture, he hadn't been recognized once. He wasn't even on a very strict T-schedule. He got tortured once a day, maybe twice, and in between he was just slung in a moderately unattractive cell. It left some time for thinking. Mostly about Dean.
Hell was, at times, incredibly dull. Sam had spent days counting the ceiling tiles, because, yes, his cell looked somewhat like an empty office space. The number of tiles changed every day, Sam noted, if he wasn't going crazy. The worst part about hell wasn't really the torture, it was the constant waiting. Sam had anxiousness, and a constant, gnawing hunger making his body achy and nervous and he'd start drifting off into thoughts, and right back to Dean.
Dean who he was deeply, deeply concerned about but tried not to focus on. Dean-thoughts hurt deep and fresh. He knew how his brother was reacting. He was pissed, and hurt, and crazy because by now he'd figured out he couldn't do anything. But he hadn't given up.
Sam was selfish, he wouldn't deny it. He thought of Dean and he missed him so fucking much, and he thought of Dean's face and his laugh. He'd imagine Dean's voice, deep and rough, speaking to him for hours, and he'd smile and whisper "Yeah, Dean, I know." So, Sam was basically kind of lame, and crazy, but he still thought it was worth it, because at least Dean was alive.
Sam's cycle of crazy-torture-counting ceiling-crazy-talktoDean-torture-crazy was broken on the fourth week by Karen. She unlocked the door to his cell with a bowl of Caesar salad and cheesecake. He peeked up from his spot laying on the floor and gave a tiny wave. "So, what, it's poisoned? Weak." She immediately liked him.
As it turned out, the food was a bit of a piece offering from Lucifer.
"He feels just awful about you getting so horribly misplaced. It's a big system, you know. It's easy to lose one very important soul."
"No worries. This definitely makes up for all the meaningless, senseless torture." Sam said, chomping on a piece of lettuce. "But since he's so interested, I would like to talk with him."
Karen smiled indulgently, "Oh, Sam, you silly boy. Lucifer doesn't see anyone these days. He just doesn't have the time. Consider me your personal messenger."
Sam scoffed, "Right. I'm going to trust you to deliver my exact words to Lucifer, without screwing me over whatsoever."
"If I had something against you, I wouldn't be chosen to deliver the apology-lunch."
She had a point, Sam figured.
"Who says you wouldn't do it just for fun?" He asked, raising one eyebrow in a very intimidating (he thought) stare.
"Oh, puh-lease. Do you think I'm fucking retarded?"
"Using the word retarded is offensive." Sam said automatically. Karen snorted.
"Stripping the skin off a fifteen men isn't super great either, but that's what I did this morning."
Sam was brought back instantly to exactly who he was talking to. He glared. "I want to deliver a message to Lucifer. I'd like a pen, and paper, and an envelope, or else he isn't getting anything from me."
"Who says he wants something from you?"
"You really should watch your employees a little more carefully." Sam said, Karen's eyes narrowed.
"Listen up, Sam Winchester. The devil brought you down here as a little bit of amusement. He doesn't need anything from you. I suggest cooperating, so the guy doesn't change his mind. He's known for that. The mood swings. And I can swear to you, the first thing he'll do when he snaps, is send half of hell after that brother of yours." And that, Karen thought in retrospect, was probably not a good move.
In half a second Sam had Karen flying across the cell, pinned to the wall, his expression sharp and dangerous. Like, she could probably touch his face and get her finger fucking sliced off. Seriously. He stalked forward, the pressure holding Karen increasing with every step. She felt her ribs cracking. Which, in hell, is not a petty as it may be on Earth.
"I've figured a couple tricks out while Lucifer left me rotting in this cell. Turns out, my powers work just fine down here. Now. I'm going to ask you again. Pen. Paper. Motherfucking envelope."
Karen nodded hurriedly. Maybe this wouldn't be as hard as she thought.
