Author Topic: Perdition  (Read 792 times)


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Offline Firefly23

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« on: March 05, 2016, 11:29:14 PM »
Beads of sweat slid down Dean’s blood-splattered skin, strong arms crossed over his bare chest. It soaked into the waistband of his dark jeans to mold the fabric to his hips. Dead green eyes that once sparked with defiance stared at his handwork that was strung from the ceiling in rusted chains. A pathetic shell of a man, from…Mississippi? Louisiana? Whatever. It didn’t matter. He had appeared in Dean’s notorious torture chamber, and Hell’s new protégé had gone to work.

Time had no meaning in this concrete box. The walls, floor, and ceiling were identical; the only way to tell up from down was based on where the table was, and even that wasn’t always consistent. In this moment, at least, it was. A long, narrow table covered with an excessive array of tools, implements, and unidentifiable items, was tucked up against the wall directly in front of the victim. It took up much of the floor space of the room not more than eight feet by eight feet. Deep channels were carved into the concrete in intricate, demonic patterns to funnel the blood out to…wherever. That also didn’t matter.

The project, as Dean thought of them, dangled naked from manacles around wrists ripped to the bone, arms stretched high above his head at strange angles. It looked like both shoulders were dislocated, the joint unable to support his full weight for that long. Blood poured down his face and torso, and his features were distorted by swelling and broken bones. Screams had long since worn his voice away, leaving nothing but a whistling whimper behind with each exhalation. One eye was swollen shut, the other twitching nervously as it tried to follow Dean’s shadow.

Dean walked a slow circle around the room, heavy boots thumping ominously on the floor. He wiped his hands on a blood stained rag before tossing it into a corner. “Take this one back,” he said to an invisible viewer. Standing behind his project, he placed a rough hand between the destroyed shoulder blades, about the only space not covered in blood. The man jerked in the chains, a pathetic whimper lost in the clanking sound of metal on metal. “We’ll continue this later,” he whispered into a ripped ear, his full lips split in a rictus grin.

Suddenly Dean was alone. The spatters of blood on the floor moved of their own volition, heading for grooves in what was currently the floor, and disappeared down the drain. He dragged his fingers through short cropped hair, his hand coming away bloody. His laugh was hard as he leaned against the table to wait for his next project.

That was the only thing that did matter. Because it made his own pain stop.

After a while, someone else appeared. Dean looked up from close study of his short fingernails. Dark eyes searched the naked young woman, probably in her twenties. She hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy tugging frantically on the chains that held her arms above her head. The tips of her toes barely touched the floor, forcing her to balance to keep her weight off of her shoulders. “When you’re done wasting your time,” Dean said in a bored drawl, “we can get started.” She flinched hard, the manacles cutting into the soft flesh of her hand. A trickle of brilliant red blood slid down the inside of her arm.

“Oh shit,” she whispered when her eyes finally locked with his. “You’re…”

Her eyes were an interesting shade of green, a little dark, a little earthy, with a sparkle of blue. They were strangely familiar; but in the wrong face. They belonged in a man’s face, with shaggy brown hair, a broader jaw, a goofy grin…

Dean shook off the memory with a curse. He straightened from the table, a rusted and well-used knife spinning in his fingers. “I’m Dean,” he said with a wicked grin. “You’re in my house now.”

He approached slowly, his eyes drawn to the jewel-bright blood. Her body was starting to tremble, eyes wide as they tracked his steps. “I’ve heard whispers about you,” she managed. Her voice sounded thick, like her throat was dry. A little early for that, sweetheart, Dean thought coldly.

“And what do they say about me?” he asked. Now he was close enough, his bare arm brushed against her side. A thrill of terror raced up her spine, and he watched goosebumps ripple across her skin. The base nature in Dean was aroused by her; she was beautiful, with a trim figure and tight skin. Long brown hair, full lips. Just his type. He stood behind her and dragged the tip of his blade up her spine with a butterfly-light touch. “All good things, I’m sure.”

She was stunned speechless by the contact, the muscles in her legs tightening as she struggled to stay on her toes. “They…I…it…” she struggled.

He let her flounder for a moment before leaning in to shush softly in her ear. “How about we start with something easy,” he whispered. “What’s your name?” He turned his head into her arm, dragging his tongue along her salty skin. The trickle of blood turned into a smear, and she could feel him purr against her skin.

She flinched away from him, watching him fearfully. “What… They don’t give you my intake file?” she snapped.

“Ooh, there’s the fight I knew you had,” Dean said with a grin. He stepped back a little and came around to face her, wiping her blood from the corner of his mouth and licking it from the tip of his finger. “No. They don’t. You show up here, I do my thing. When I’m done with you, they take you away, and I get another one.” He tucked the blade into the back pocket of his jeans and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “And I’m very, very good at my thing.”

Something evil moved behind his eyes and settled there, watching her through them. He advanced on her aggressively, invading her space. “Tell me your name,” he commanded, his voice a rough snarl. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel waves of heat rolling off of him.

“Sarah! Sarah, my name is Sarah!” she yelped.

“Sarah,” he purred, now his voice as soft as a lover. “A nice, easy name. A name that feels good between the sheets.” Dark eyes studied her face carefully. At this range, his pupils were huge with only the thinnest sliver of green around the edge. Having him this close, it was extremely unsettling. Her heart pounded in her chest, visibly vibrating against her skin. A glimmer of lust flared in her eyes.

Dean’s gaze slid down her face to the center of her chest, where he, too, could see her racing pulse. “Sarah…” he continued with a sly grin, “that isn’t just fear I see in your eyes, is it?” He looked back up at her through long lashes, a surprisingly genuine heat burning in his stare.

She swallowed hard and tried to look away, but couldn’t tear her eyes from his face. “Y-yes, it is,” she said weakly.

“Now Sarah,” he tsked, “you know that lying is a sin, don’t you?” One calloused hand fluttered up her side. She flinched, and then instinctively leaned in to his touch. Dean breathed a laugh, his hand stopping just below her bare breast. His thumb brushed against the underside of her sensitive skin. Her back arched a little and, though she fought it, a soft moan escaped her lips. “I know your pain,” he whispered into her ear, his breath hot.

“How can you know what this is like?” she hissed, regaining control of her senses enough to try to fight back. She pushed back as best she could with her toes, gaining a little ground.

But it wasn’t enough. His hard grip tightened on her ribs and held her fast. Already too close, Dean pressed himself against her. Rough denim scraped over her hips as he ground his hips against her. Something firm rubbed against her, and she gasped. “I’ve been here for forty years, sweetheart,” he hissed, voice thick with what might have been need. “Desire turns to lust, lust into need, and need burns into unspeakable agony. Until you’re nothing but ash.” The hand on her ribs slid around to her back to pin her against his chest. Firm muscle ignited the desire she had long fought to bank. His other hand dropped onto her hip, sliding around to grip her butt tightly. “I understand better than you think.” Sharp teeth nipped her ear.

Sarah struggled to breathe, much less form words. Her hands pulled hard against the chains, trying to reciprocate his burning touch. Instead, she gripped the links in both hands and lifted her legs to wrap them tightly around Dean’s hips. His grip on her tightened, his hot kiss moving to her neck. She could feel him groan against her skin, and a chill raced up her spine as his fingers crept back, closer, so close…

Suddenly Sarah found herself pinned against the ceiling, both hands trapped above her head in his grip. She looked frantically around, unsure of how the world had changed so suddenly. The table was still on the floor as before, but they were not, and yet it didn’t seem to affect either of them. Dean was still kissing her, grinding against her.

And then he was gone. She was alone against the cold concrete wall, now upside down and strapped down with stiff leather. Dean stood across the room from her, arms folded, eyes flat and dark. “How did you get here?” he asked.

“Wh-what?!” she demanded, lifting her head to glare hatefully at him. “But you-“

“YOU,” he snapped, “were stupid enough to trust me.” A bereft shudder ran through her, and Dean sneered. “Stupid bitch.” He stepped up to her again, squatting down to put his face close to hers. “How. Did. You. Get. Here.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she hissed petulantly and turned again.

Strong fingers gripped her face and turned it back to stare at him. “Yes you do. You don’t get a parking spot in Hell by being Employee of the Year. What did you do to land yourself down here?” Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see something glinting in his hand, but couldn’t make out what it was.

“What does it matter to you?” she asked.

“It doesn’t,” he said as he rose, shoving her face so her head cracked against the wall. “It just keeps things interesting for me.” Dean stopped suddenly and stared at the wall behind the table. He thought he’d heard something outside, but that was absurd. He’d never heard anything before.

Shaking his head, he tossed the knife Sarah could now see casually up into the air, then caught it between his knuckles. He watched it, up and down, up and down, for several long moments. Sarah squirmed uncomfortably, her head starting to spin from the vertigo. Suddenly he threw the knife, and it sliced through her hand, pinning it down. Sarah screamed, and Dean grinned. “Why are you here?” he asked when the screaming subsided.

“I made a deal,” Sarah said between sobs, turning away from her injured hand. Blood ran down one of the rivulets in the wall, collecting in a pool beneath her head.

Dean froze. “You what,” he hissed dangerously.

“I…it was-“

“Don’t gimme any excuses!” Dean snapped. Sarah was upright again, the straps gone. Now the only thing holding her against the wall was Dean’s hand around her throat, his forearm pressed to her chest, holding her off the floor. Her hands flew to his arm, clawing at him. Rage burned in his eyes, brighter than the lust she’d seen before. And this, this was true. A vision of who he used to be, forty years ago. “So you made a deal with a crossroads demon for some petty bullshit, and now you’re mine. Stupid choice, wasn’t it? WASN’T IT?!” He lifted her higher, the carvings in the wall scraping the flesh from her back. In his free hand he held another knife, poised to strike.

With a cacophonous crash, one of the walls ripped off the side of the room. Concrete flew into the void and left a gaping hole; Dean dropped Sarah and spun around, holding her behind him with one outstretched arm. Winds like a hurricane spiraled chaotically around them, rattling the chains on the ceiling, and sending the table flying. Brilliant light filled the space, and a figure could be seen standing in the center. Outside, it looked like some kind of battle raging, bodies and feathers – feathers? – flying around.

Shielding his eyes with the back of his armed hand, a feral snarl grumbling in his chest, Dean took an aggressive step forward. “You can’t have her!” he shouted over the noise. “She’s mine!”

There was no response from the shadow in the doorway. The light around it was too bright for Dean to make out any features other than luminescent blue eyes that stared coldly at him. Black wings stretched out behind it, filling the space and blocking out all but a few rays that shot through. The figure advanced on them in a rush, grabbing Dean by the wrist and flinging him away from Sarah, who was completely disregarded for all of her terrified screams.

Regaining his balance, Dean turned on the figure he fought, lunging at it with this knife. Every slash was parried, but no blows were returned. Now with his back to the open wall, Dean could hear the chaos outside. Screams, hissing, and suddenly a loud voice in a language that nearly deafened him. He slammed both hands over his ears to try and block it out, and could feel blood trickling between his fingers.

The shadow in the room was suddenly behind him, one strong arm wrapped around his shoulders. Dean struggled, but was easily overpowered. A hand gripped his bicep, heat searing into his flesh with an agonizing fire he hadn’t felt before. With an upward surge, they shot through the ceiling, destroying the cement cube Dean had called home, black wings beating frantically in their escape. He tried to hold on to consciousness, but it slipped away, and oblivion took him.

Dean woke buried in a shallow grave. The weight of the earth pressed down on him, and he struggled against it. But there wasn’t so much that he couldn’t move it. His head pivoted side to side, buying himself just enough of an air pocket to breathe. He inhaled greedily, coughing as dirt shot down his throat. Resisting the urge to open his eyes, he rolled his shoulders, shifting the soft soil around him. Slowly, too slowly, he started to claw his way up, or so he hoped.

His hand burst through the loose ground, feeling the cold bite of fresh, real air. He pulled himself out into the frigid night, gulping air so fast it froze his lungs. Dean didn’t care. It was real. It was cold. He shook his head hard to dislodge the dirt that was crusted there from… he had no idea how long. Looking down at himself, he saw that his clothes had been changed. They weren’t covered in blood.

His necklace was gone.

Pressing his hand to the empty spot on his chest, Dean let out a strangled sob. Tears poured down his cheeks, leaving streaks in the dirt. He laid down across the disrupted soil, curled into a ball, and wept.


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