I sought you out. For some reason those words caught John’s attention, out of the conflicting thoughts and emotions that were running through his head. He still wasn’t completely buying it, that he was up here, that the torture was over, that he hadn’t broken. Many times he’d stood with a knife in his hand, Alastair at his elbow whispering into his ear (and even now a shudder took him at the thought, disgust and desire) as innocent flesh was spread before him. John had been pure, if slightly dogeared, his knife had never drawn blood, though sometimes Alastair’s teeth at his shoulder had down so. Again, that tell-tale shudder through him. John shook himself mentally, got to his feet gracefully, and he was able to look Alastair in the eye. Sort of. How often had that slight height difference rubbed him raw, like a burr under the saddle. Alastair would always be able to look down at him.
John thought of Dean, of Sam; knew that if hell was spitting out demons, his boys would need all the help they could get. He was tired, though, and for once felt weak, spiteful. Where was his rest, where was… where was fucking heaven? “Why am I here… and not… not somewhere else? And just what… what are you seeking me for, demon?”
“I don’t control that,” Al started, shrugging as his lips twisted into a smirk as John stood, meeting his gaze. “You very well could have stayed down there, you very well could have been shot into purgatory. Who knows? Maybe we’re there now, and we just don’t know it.” he raised his hands, a good natured gesture. He knew it was Earth, they both did know, he knew John would believe him, it was just a matter of the man dropping his guard. Not that Alastair had expected him to, not on Earth. If anything, he expected John to jump up on the defensive and blow him away. Only time would tell; of course, Alastair didn’t want it to happen, he’d been so attached to him.
A short sound sounded from Alastair’s chest, nodding as John began questioning him; he wondered if the nature of this interrogation had been passed down through him; living vicariously, so to speak. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I just looked for you because I didn’t have anyone else to look for,” he chuckled, sighing softly. “Couldn’t very well bear the thought of being on Earth for who knows how long all by myself.”
Untitled: damnedshotgun: 100 Yearsbuildchaos: damnedshotgun: A familiar voice,…
A familiar voice, always quiet, always still, even when John’s ribs were cracked and his still beating heart was in Alastair’s hand. He hadn’t heard it for a while, and it was only now, on some squalid bed in the middle of…
“That I’m out.” John didn’t have the strength of it, right at the moment, go marshal forces and stride out onto the earth, ready to kick ass and establish himself as the alpha male once again. He hadn’t broke in hell. But maybe he would break on his own, once he had to walk that same road that had been most of his life. And what of his family? Dean… Sam… Maybe they were better off without him. John just wanted rest. Alastair happened to be the nearest familiar thing in John’s life, and the demon hadn’t made demands of him, hadn’t done anything other than talk. With a start, John suddenly recognized the strange note in Alastair’s voice that he only cued in on now; the demon was tired. Worn down. ”This isn’t hell. One of your tricks. This is really… Earth?” Head tipped back to look up in to Alastair’s face.
That look that John gave him - it was not of disbelief, but of hope. Part of Alastair didn’t want it to be true, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t lie to John. There would always be a part of him that wanted to keep him in Hell, keep him his - but he couldn’t do that - he would to any other disgusting thing God could possibly produce and throw in Alastair’s direction, but not the righteous man, not the hero. The demon hadn’t slept, he’d been isolated for such a terrible length of time, and Lucifer hadn’t wired him to handle abandonment - not that John had abandoned him; not that he knew, not with the way he was acting.
Alastair shook his head, “Real McCoy,” he smirked, looking down at him; God, that look - there must be something bad coming Alastair’s way, if he’s being granted this privilege - he wonders if it’s a joke from Daddy downstairs - he sighed; he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. “No games, no tricks, Hell’s been opened up and it chucked you out with it. Figured if they wanted to shove me up here, might as well make it worth while, so I sought you out.”
A familiar voice, always quiet, always still, even when John’s ribs were cracked and his still beating heart was in Alastair’s hand. He hadn’t heard it for a while, and it was only now, on some squalid bed in the middle of nowhere, that he realized how much he had missed it. His demon, so many hours between them, so many days. So many years. John almost smiled. But he couldn’t grasp what the demon was saying, and he breathed against the sudden bloom of dread and curiosity that rose in his chest. Emotions were dangerous. Emotions could be used. After a moment of stilling his heart, he spoke. ”What do you mean… up here?”
He moved again, quietly, cautiously, waiting for chains, waiting for pain. Eyes intent in the darkness, sifting through the shadows at the foot of the bed. There was a faint sound in the distance. If John focused on it, he could name it — the sound of freeway, passing cars and trucks. The bloom of hope grew.
“Earth, you know. Here is up, compared to downstairs.” he chuckled, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Earth was very cold, compared to Hell - Alastair hated it, but seeing that he hadn’t much of a choice in the matter, he could find a way to accommodate to come up and find John. It wasn’t as if he were to find anyone else - wanted to find anyone else. Alastair was well and truly alone, there were no others for him. Just Lucifer and Hell and John - he’d lost two of them, he didn’t intend to lose a third. Not again, in any case.
“I was slipped up and chucked out like a bad habit.” he sighed. Alastair didn’t have any intentions of causing a fuss, he didn’t have any intentions of torturing John - not on Earth. “Must be a reason why you’re lying in a hotel bed all on your lonesome, can’t sleep, in the dark, middle of bumfuck nowhere.”
From one breath to the next John had been still, contained; then he was on his feet and crossing the room, catlike and silent. The darkness around him was suddenly was less the darkness of the damned and more the grey of an early morning, and hope was a terrible, wild thing in John’s chest. There was the dusty, grimy feel of old curtains under his fingers, and then they were opening, letting in the grey sky of an early morning. John was frozen, but he didn’t trust it, still didn’t trust it, and he backed away slowly. There was no memory of leaving, of anything. Somehow, it was the prelude to a different type of torture.
John turned, padded back to Alastair. He cocked his chin, looking up into the taller man’s eyes, before his eyes became downcast, shadowed by the velvet of his eyelashes. He dropped to his knees, and greatly daring, leaned forward until his forehead touched Alastair’s knee. ”Is it true?”
It was funny, Alastair had wondered if John would have decided to push the demon away, after finding his way back up to Earth. Earth was freedom from downstairs for the living such as him, so why would he ever harbor Alastair with his attention. Even after this long, he was still here - he must have been dreaming, he had to be. Despite the fact that Alastair had destroyed John, he was all that he had left. No wife, no kids, of family, just a lonely demon holding him down in Hell. He would think John would want to escape, to find a way out, for all of the things that Alastair had put him through - he’d have to chalk it up to Stockholm.
“Is what true?” he murmured, the rasp of his voice sounding out as he felt John start to crumble beneath his hands. The demon’s thin hand extended out to brush through John’s hair, along his skull - on Earth, it might have been mere months since John had left, since the doors had been opened - but it was still decades in Hell; another forty years, slipped away from him. “That I was kicked out?”
100 Years
A familiar voice, always quiet, always still, even when John’s ribs were cracked and his still beating heart was in Alastair’s hand. He hadn’t heard it for a while, and it was only now, on some squalid bed in the middle of nowhere, that he realized how much he had missed it. His demon, so many hours between them, so many days. So many years. John almost smiled. But he couldn’t grasp what the demon was saying, and he breathed against the sudden bloom of dread and curiosity that rose in his chest. Emotions were dangerous. Emotions could be used. After a moment of stilling his heart, he spoke. ”What do you mean… up here?”
He moved again, quietly, cautiously, waiting for chains, waiting for pain. Eyes intent in the darkness, sifting through the shadows at the foot of the bed. There was a faint sound in the distance. If John focused on it, he could name it — the sound of freeway, passing cars and trucks. The bloom of hope grew.
“Earth, you know. Here is up, compared to downstairs.” he chuckled, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Earth was very cold, compared to Hell - Alastair hated it, but seeing that he hadn’t much of a choice in the matter, he could find a way to accommodate to come up and find John. It wasn’t as if he were to find anyone else - wanted to find anyone else. Alastair was well and truly alone, there were no others for him. Just Lucifer and Hell and John - he’d lost two of them, he didn’t intend to lose a third. Not again, in any case.
“I was slipped up and chucked out like a bad habit.” he sighed. Alastair didn’t have any intentions of causing a fuss, he didn’t have any intentions of torturing John - not on Earth. “Must be a reason why you’re lying in a hotel bed all on your lonesome, can’t sleep, in the dark, middle of bumfuck nowhere.”
John woke in darkness.
That was nothing new, most of his adult life had been learning to deal with the darkness that greeted him every morning, even when he’d been free. Even in Nam, when killing was rewarded, and after Mary, when life was marked only by making it to the…
The texture of the darkness had changed, John was sure. He depended on his senses the same way a wolf or lion did, never wavering in his confidence, his ability to know. He’d been hunting so long that it hadn’t been hard to adapt those skills into the instincts of the hunted. He blinked, raised his head to taste the air, and slowly sat up. He figured he was dressed in simple clothing, twill pants, a cotton shirt, both blood stained and ripped, though in his years here they had never completely rotted away. A trick of his own mind, he guessed, the same way the rooms around him always became gutted and decayed motels.
“I know you’re there,” he said quietly, his voice a rusty rumble in his chest. He cautiously stretched his legs out, bare toes cold in the air. He’d always hated the fact that he was barefoot here, longed for the protection of boots and thick woolen socks. Socks, God he missed socks. And oatmeal. ”What brings you by this time, Alastair?”
That was the funny thing, he could always tell. Then again, seeing that after a hundred years, they could always call eachother’s tells. It wasn’t that Alastair had been kicked out of Hell, or anything - not that he knew, but, stranger things have happened - he’d been sent to Earth, told to go there and wait, and so he would. So obedient, he was, so well behaved. Making sure daddy was pleased, making sure he did what he was told. It was all just a matter of time until he would be pulled back, or got his calling card, told what to do, what to change, what to fix.
Hearing the low rasp of John’s voice, ah, it was so familiar, he’d never forgotten it. He always had a sort of defensive tone when he spoke to Alastair. Then again, he’d carved him open and ripped him apart countless, countless times - there hadn’t been a single thing that wasn’t intimate between them, and Alastair would always know him better than anyone. Better than Sam, better than Dean, and better than Mary. Somehow, Alastair thinks that John knows that.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he smiled, “Old friends, sitting on benches like bookends? That whole bit?” He didn’t make motion to move, in all respects he didn’t know why he was here. Why he was pestering John; the righteous man left him there, down in Hell, but then again, Alastair didn’t blame him. “Sitting here all by your lonesome. Seem a little lost up here.”
100 Years
John woke in darkness.
That was nothing new, most of his adult life had been learning to deal with the darkness that greeted him every morning, even when he’d been free. Even in Nam, when killing was rewarded, and after Mary, when life was marked only by making it to the next second. Even the darkness of hell had started to get old. A hundred years will do that to you.
What was new was the tiny thrill of anticipation that ran through him as his eyes opened to nothing.
Most days he woke up, he kept his eyes closed and ran through a series of vivid images like a rosary. Worry beads. He kept doing this even after those same images were used to torment him, torture him, a long, brutal push to break him. A set of ten images, in a certain order, a patina to them from being held — visualized — so much.
His first glimpse of Mary. Mary the day they were married. Mary hunched over the toilet, morning sick, Dean a bean in her uterus. Dean grinning at him when he was four and had just ridden a two-wheeler. Sam presenting a picture he had drawn in preschool, serious and hoping for approval. Dean laughing at him. Sam laughing at Dean. The Impala, the day she came to life after he had replaced her worn out engine. A beer he had drunk with Sam on an autumn morning. Dean aiming a rifle at a target.
These had been his life line for ages, for decades, even when they had been turned inside out and upside down for the benefit of his torturers. Torture had become common place, at one point, something John had been able to withstand. Until one morning, glancing up to catch sight of the back of a demon’s neck, vulnerable and pale, and the lines of it had put him in mind of Mary. Then the demon had turned, and it had been Alastair, leaving John unsettled, cast loose.
So he waited, curled on his side in some dark room, not unlike any number of motels he’d stayed in, senses tuned for sound of a footfall. Not any footfall. His footfall.
Hell was different for everyone - it was always different, and yet one thing always remained the same, it was always, always dark. There was no light here, Alastair would tell them; dark souls, the damned ones, John, Dean - all of them. But Alastair had grown used to using that to his advantage - he was the second demon, and yet the first to be abandoned by his father. Lucifer, of course, was a spiteful creature, and it devoured him.
He had been human, once, perhaps that was what held this weakness within him - or perhaps it was how he had been programmed - just like the angels created by god, demons created by Lucifer had been flawed just as terribly - we all emulate our fathers, don’t we? In Hell, there was always something missing - there was always too much of something - or there was something that was withheld by its inhabitants that they could never retrieve. Perhaps that’s what drew Alastair to John; the righteous man. He wanted his family, he wanted freedom, he wanted absolutely nothing at all anymore as long as he was held in existence, just as long as his children and his family were safe. It was cute. Alastair always thought so, it was so easy to use against him, John had made himself a liability - he made it so terribly easy.
And yet, he would not break, as much as Alastair could twist and bend and break his bones his will was infinite - the human soul could be broken by no one, not even Death. After one hundred years, John was still whole, and yet Alastair had slipped and wrapped his arms around him and held him in his grasp and had no intention of letting go - he adored the righteous man - and seeing that John had no one else, and seeing that there was nothing left for him but Hell and its darkness, he would adapt to survive. One hundred years, he had never known anyone longer than he knew Alastair; and somehow, despite that they shared, he was still able to slip himself away.
But no - No, there was always, always something that Alastair would have of John’s. There would always be a piece of him left in Hell that belonged to him. And so Alastair would find him, he sought John out, and he would continue to do so - one hundred years in Hell may not mean much to some - but to someone who had nothing, such as Alastair, he didn’t intend to let that slip from his hands.
The room was very dark, ramshackled hotel rooms, John had it down to an art, it was a form of conditioning, clearly. Alastair was too tall, he would always have trouble making an entrance. He’d be quiet, as best to his ability, standing at the foot of the bed. It had been an age since he had seen John - and yet it felt like almost a simple moment.
