Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hasperkynipples) wrote2009-01-13 04:16 pm
hasperkynipples) wrote2009-01-13 04:16 pm
Entry tags:
[MWR] Friday Night Lights quote
[Ruby = ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ilove_atallman. Set in the new Sam/99 verse, and takes place somewhere in the middle of THIS. Have to read that first (for which I apologize because it’s epically long) or else this’ll be kinda confusing.]
“We will all at some time in our lives, fall. Life is so very fragile, we are all vulnerable, and we will all at some point in our lives, fall, we will all fall. We must carry this in our hearts, that what we have is special, that it can be taken from us, and that when it is taken from us, we will be tested. We will be tested to our very souls. We will all be tested.”
He hadn’t meant to doze off in the car, but he did. He was just so tired. They never rested, they were just always running, always trying to stay two steps ahead of the demons that were trying to kill him, trying to reclaim him, send him back where he belonged. Ruby wasn’t going to let that happen, for some strange reason Dean couldn’t explain, and it was fear that kept him from doing things himself. Fear of going back there, fear of what he was becoming, fear of everything around him.
He didn’t deserve this newfound life. He knew he didn’t, and that was what made it scary. He felt it all, the weight of every day of those two hundred forty years, and he wasn’t strong enough to take it. Every time he closed his eyes, the feel of Hell in all it’s power and oppression, closing in around him. He couldn’t think or breathe, as the weight sat down on his chest, crushing him, every day. Even when he wasn’t sleeping he felt the weight of it. When he closed his eyes, though, he could hear them scream, remember the sensations of the hook digging into the flesh, remember the pleasure he got from it. All of Hell was pain and suffering, twisting and torture, but when he had a soul in front of him, when he got off the rack and was the one taking control and digging in and hearing them scream. The screams were like music, a twisted chorus that echoed off the walls and now rattled him to the core, pushing him onto himself even more.
Most of the time, his nightmares had no faces, just another soul on the other end, a shapeless body that he couldn’t put a name to. He could see everything about them, all their hopes and memories, dreams and fears. As he got better at what he did, he started to use them, twisting them to his own ends, using them to make them scream louder, to make them feel the pain of what he was doing to them.
What they’d earned.
But today, they had a face. Today he was assaulted with all the senses of the memory, the smell, putrid and raw, as well as the feel of the hook in his hands, the sound of the tearing of the soul as she fell apart, and the way she screamed. He’d thought, so many times over, about the way she screamed before he died, but he’d never thought it would be something like this.
Sometimes in twisted fantasies he would think about her. She was the one who’d brought up angry sex, after all, and he would think about it, having the satisfaction of leaving her completely at his mercy, the way she would whimper, moan, scream as he would screw her in his own special way, before eventually making off with what she would have screwed him with. He’d wanted to hear her scream, but it was pleasure, not terror he’d been after. Down there, though, terror, pure terror, was like an aria, gorgeous and pure, and when it came down to it, she had been the lead soprano. She’d tried to escape him, tried to plead with him, but tears fell on deaf ears.
He hadn’t even remembered her, it wasn’t until now that he was putting the face with the name, the person in line with the soul. She remembered him, though, which made it all the harder, and he saw everything. He saw her hopes and fears, memories and dreams. He saw her big secret, the reason why she had done the things she done, and he latched onto it, using her fear of her father to manipulate her, to get the sound her wanted the begging he took more as encouragement than a sign to stop. Her father even came to visit at one point, and that in and of itself, was the beginning of the end of Bela Talbot.
He had been so proud, then. She had been given to him, specifically, to do with as he pleased and Alastair had trusted him to make sure the job was done. She was his magnum opus, his great work. He spent months tearing her to pieces and putting her back together again, but he wasn’t as magnanimous as Alastair was. He never offered her a chance to get off the rack. He just dug into her until there was nothing left of her, nothing but the shell of the woman to hold the rage that being a demon maintained. He’d ruined her, pushed her beyond the point she deserved, and while he hadn’t cared at the time—his mind then had no remorse, no guilt—but now that he was human again, and could feel the weight of what he had done to her, he couldn’t believe that he was the person the angels decided to pull from Hell.
He snapped awake in the seat, bile climbing his throat and the sound of her screams still fresh in his ears. “Pull over,” he gasped, the only words he could manage, and the car had barely come to a stop before he was stumbling out of the passenger’s side of the car, onto the side of the highway and leaning over the guard rail, losing whatever Ruby had managed to get him to eat that day. His stomach continued to twist in disgust with himself and what he’d done to someone he knew, to someone he’d saved, and it wasn’t until Ruby came over to check on him, make sure he was okay, that he snapped.
He felt her hand on his back and he looked up at her with wide eyes. “I have to go back.”
“Go back?” Ruby frowned, and his eyes fell from her face to the knife sitting on her hip and he reached for it quickly, grabbing the hilt and moving away from her, trying to put enough distance between them that he could do this before she could stop him. He braced himself, starting to raise the knife over his head to aim for his stomach, but she was faster than he anticipated, and her hands were on his. He fought her, fought her so hard that he wound up pinned against the side of the car. She punched him soundly across the face, loosening his grip on the knife, and it didn’t snap him out of it, but the knife did drop to the ground. “What the fuck, Dean?”
“I have to go back,” he repeated. “I’m supposed to be a demon. I deserve Hell.”
Her face softened slightly, and she looked over at him. “No, you don’t. No one deserves Hell, Dean.”
“Yes, I do!” Dean said, glaring back at her. “The things I did—I hurt people. A lot of people. And I didn’t care—” His voice broke and he started to slip down the side of the car, his head in his hands, just heaving, trying to suck in air, but for some reason it wasn’t working.
“What happened down there—it doesn’t matter,” Ruby said slowly. “Things are different down there—”
“No, it’s not,” Dean said, glaring back at her from behind his arms. “It was me. I did them. Me. My hand. My body. My—” He whimpered slightly, tears slipping down his cheeks as he collapsing back against the car. The words weren’t working anymore. He couldn’t say that he remembered every single one of them, how they screamed and how they twisted. He couldn’t say that he remembered how enjoyed it. His brain couldn’t make the connection, couldn’t bring the words together anymore. All he could think of was the look on Bela’s face as she pleaded for him to help her, to save her, to stop.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbled, his voice breaking into sobs as he stared to rock slightly, his arms coming around his knees and curling up onto himself, like a little boy who’d just done something terribly wrong, and was looking to escape his father’s hand. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
He felt Ruby’s arms coming around him, trying to comfort him as he cried, but there was nothing that she could say that would make this better. Dean Winchester was now just as broken as the woman he destroyed—and as far as he was concerned, that was what he deserved to be.
1420 words
ilove_atallman. Set in the new Sam/99 verse, and takes place somewhere in the middle of THIS. Have to read that first (for which I apologize because it’s epically long) or else this’ll be kinda confusing.]“We will all at some time in our lives, fall. Life is so very fragile, we are all vulnerable, and we will all at some point in our lives, fall, we will all fall. We must carry this in our hearts, that what we have is special, that it can be taken from us, and that when it is taken from us, we will be tested. We will be tested to our very souls. We will all be tested.”
He hadn’t meant to doze off in the car, but he did. He was just so tired. They never rested, they were just always running, always trying to stay two steps ahead of the demons that were trying to kill him, trying to reclaim him, send him back where he belonged. Ruby wasn’t going to let that happen, for some strange reason Dean couldn’t explain, and it was fear that kept him from doing things himself. Fear of going back there, fear of what he was becoming, fear of everything around him.
He didn’t deserve this newfound life. He knew he didn’t, and that was what made it scary. He felt it all, the weight of every day of those two hundred forty years, and he wasn’t strong enough to take it. Every time he closed his eyes, the feel of Hell in all it’s power and oppression, closing in around him. He couldn’t think or breathe, as the weight sat down on his chest, crushing him, every day. Even when he wasn’t sleeping he felt the weight of it. When he closed his eyes, though, he could hear them scream, remember the sensations of the hook digging into the flesh, remember the pleasure he got from it. All of Hell was pain and suffering, twisting and torture, but when he had a soul in front of him, when he got off the rack and was the one taking control and digging in and hearing them scream. The screams were like music, a twisted chorus that echoed off the walls and now rattled him to the core, pushing him onto himself even more.
Most of the time, his nightmares had no faces, just another soul on the other end, a shapeless body that he couldn’t put a name to. He could see everything about them, all their hopes and memories, dreams and fears. As he got better at what he did, he started to use them, twisting them to his own ends, using them to make them scream louder, to make them feel the pain of what he was doing to them.
What they’d earned.
But today, they had a face. Today he was assaulted with all the senses of the memory, the smell, putrid and raw, as well as the feel of the hook in his hands, the sound of the tearing of the soul as she fell apart, and the way she screamed. He’d thought, so many times over, about the way she screamed before he died, but he’d never thought it would be something like this.
Sometimes in twisted fantasies he would think about her. She was the one who’d brought up angry sex, after all, and he would think about it, having the satisfaction of leaving her completely at his mercy, the way she would whimper, moan, scream as he would screw her in his own special way, before eventually making off with what she would have screwed him with. He’d wanted to hear her scream, but it was pleasure, not terror he’d been after. Down there, though, terror, pure terror, was like an aria, gorgeous and pure, and when it came down to it, she had been the lead soprano. She’d tried to escape him, tried to plead with him, but tears fell on deaf ears.
He hadn’t even remembered her, it wasn’t until now that he was putting the face with the name, the person in line with the soul. She remembered him, though, which made it all the harder, and he saw everything. He saw her hopes and fears, memories and dreams. He saw her big secret, the reason why she had done the things she done, and he latched onto it, using her fear of her father to manipulate her, to get the sound her wanted the begging he took more as encouragement than a sign to stop. Her father even came to visit at one point, and that in and of itself, was the beginning of the end of Bela Talbot.
He had been so proud, then. She had been given to him, specifically, to do with as he pleased and Alastair had trusted him to make sure the job was done. She was his magnum opus, his great work. He spent months tearing her to pieces and putting her back together again, but he wasn’t as magnanimous as Alastair was. He never offered her a chance to get off the rack. He just dug into her until there was nothing left of her, nothing but the shell of the woman to hold the rage that being a demon maintained. He’d ruined her, pushed her beyond the point she deserved, and while he hadn’t cared at the time—his mind then had no remorse, no guilt—but now that he was human again, and could feel the weight of what he had done to her, he couldn’t believe that he was the person the angels decided to pull from Hell.
He snapped awake in the seat, bile climbing his throat and the sound of her screams still fresh in his ears. “Pull over,” he gasped, the only words he could manage, and the car had barely come to a stop before he was stumbling out of the passenger’s side of the car, onto the side of the highway and leaning over the guard rail, losing whatever Ruby had managed to get him to eat that day. His stomach continued to twist in disgust with himself and what he’d done to someone he knew, to someone he’d saved, and it wasn’t until Ruby came over to check on him, make sure he was okay, that he snapped.
He felt her hand on his back and he looked up at her with wide eyes. “I have to go back.”
“Go back?” Ruby frowned, and his eyes fell from her face to the knife sitting on her hip and he reached for it quickly, grabbing the hilt and moving away from her, trying to put enough distance between them that he could do this before she could stop him. He braced himself, starting to raise the knife over his head to aim for his stomach, but she was faster than he anticipated, and her hands were on his. He fought her, fought her so hard that he wound up pinned against the side of the car. She punched him soundly across the face, loosening his grip on the knife, and it didn’t snap him out of it, but the knife did drop to the ground. “What the fuck, Dean?”
“I have to go back,” he repeated. “I’m supposed to be a demon. I deserve Hell.”
Her face softened slightly, and she looked over at him. “No, you don’t. No one deserves Hell, Dean.”
“Yes, I do!” Dean said, glaring back at her. “The things I did—I hurt people. A lot of people. And I didn’t care—” His voice broke and he started to slip down the side of the car, his head in his hands, just heaving, trying to suck in air, but for some reason it wasn’t working.
“What happened down there—it doesn’t matter,” Ruby said slowly. “Things are different down there—”
“No, it’s not,” Dean said, glaring back at her from behind his arms. “It was me. I did them. Me. My hand. My body. My—” He whimpered slightly, tears slipping down his cheeks as he collapsing back against the car. The words weren’t working anymore. He couldn’t say that he remembered every single one of them, how they screamed and how they twisted. He couldn’t say that he remembered how enjoyed it. His brain couldn’t make the connection, couldn’t bring the words together anymore. All he could think of was the look on Bela’s face as she pleaded for him to help her, to save her, to stop.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbled, his voice breaking into sobs as he stared to rock slightly, his arms coming around his knees and curling up onto himself, like a little boy who’d just done something terribly wrong, and was looking to escape his father’s hand. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
He felt Ruby’s arms coming around him, trying to comfort him as he cried, but there was nothing that she could say that would make this better. Dean Winchester was now just as broken as the woman he destroyed—and as far as he was concerned, that was what he deserved to be.
1420 words
ooc
Re: ooc
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