SPN fic -- What Fresh Hell
Dec. 17th, 2006 07:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vanillafluffyTitle: What Fresh Hell
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vanillafluffy
Pairing: Mary/demon!John, Dean/Sam non-con, OFC/John
Rating/Work-safeness: R for torture and angst and a smidgin of language. Dark.
Approximate word count: 750
Disclaimer: If I owned John Winchester, I'd be too busy elsewhere to write fan-fic. Any recognizable characters belong to Kripke & Co. Nancy McGill is all mine.
Summary: This was prompted by a comment fromstarhawk2005 about how stubborn John was, and certain suggestive dialogue about John's fate in "Crossroad Blues". Spoilers only if you don't know what happened in "In My Time of Dying". Five agonies John endures.
What Fresh Hell
John Winchester's soul exists in a realm of inventive punishment. The scope of torture he's subject to is vast, and his hosts are ceaseless in their application of torment. Agony is his omnipresent companion; he's either writhing in physical pain or cringing in mental anguish. They know all there is to know about him, have a lifetime of his guilts, nightmares and regrets to play with and use against him. Everything that's ever caused him pain or disgust or sorrow takes its turn at trying to reduce his spirit to nothingness. There's no escape from any of it.
That dog he hit with his dad's car---a long-forgotten misdeed from his seventeenth spring---its sharp teeth rend John's semblence of flesh, gnaw at his bones. His entrails spill out, tugged from his motionless-but-aware body by the black and tan mongrel, its jagged ribs showing white through the fur where the Pontiac slammed into it. He smells his own blood and shit as the cur tears him apart, consuming him for an eternity, nuzzling beneath his ribcage to devour his heart---all this stemming from a few seconds distraction while he tried to tune in a better signal on the AM radio....
Because he always worked hard to be strong, to keep going, the soul that was John Winchester has that to fight as well. He can't just let go, to allow himself to be swept into the oblivion that awaits the damned. Surrender is not in his nature. Survival is. He made it through the hell that was Vietnam---old trauma returns anew in horrific detail: the sound of the Huey that was meant to get him out receding into the distance is a death sentence. Its defection leaves him in a jungle alive with unseen enemies closing in with their sharp knives and sharper smiles. This time, there's no bittersweet homecoming; his bones will rot on foreign soil.
In the heart of the flames, Mary laughs. Her sweet loving is given to another; she sighs with pleasure as the other man's hands caress her body, offers herself to him willingly. The man who wore his face seduces his wife, penetrates her, implants his own seed. John is a helpless spectator as the two of them rut in his marriage bed, Mary ecstatic. It's a wise man who knows his own child, says the demon smugly in his ear. Don't you think so, John? Perhaps you've been nuturing a cuckoo's chick all these years. Wouldn't that be funny?
There's a cheap rental apartment, one of many transient homes he dragged his boys through during their elusive childhoods. John's a fly on the wall again, an involuntary observer as Dean tells his brother that while dad's away hunting monsters, he's in charge. How old are they here? Dean's just had his first growth spurt, Sammy still has baby-fat. Four years is a big difference at that age. Their father is aghast to see his eldest son shove his brother to the floor, the better to rape his mouth. Did such perversion ever happen while they were unsupervised, or is this yet another demonic jape?
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; John lies spread-eagled in Nancy's bed, the room so real around him that he hears the floorboards creak as she strolls over, sharpening the old Bowie knife he gave her. His screams echo in his ears, but in the yellow rose bedroom he's mute; the only sound is Nancy's matter-of-fact drawl as she deftly skins him alive. He should've taken their relationship more seriously, his sometime-lover says without heat, wiping a bloodied palm on her crisp apron. She was always been willing to accomodate him, even when he was a selfish pig obsessed with his quest for vengence. If he'd settled down with her when he had the chance, he wouldn't be here now.
Has this fiendish cruelty lasted for a hundred years or a single afternoon? There's no way of measuring time here. The only sure thing is, it will continue happening, this and more, so much more---and John can't summon up the Name of anyone to pray to for strength. If he's ever had faith in a higher power, it's corroded in the poisonous atmosphere of despair. He has himself alone to fall back on, and the only words he utters when he can find breath to gasp them out are profanities. At least, they would be profane in another world, one where cursed things aren't embraced as endearing. Here, the only four-letter word is hope.
Author:
vanillafluffyPairing: Mary/demon!John, Dean/Sam non-con, OFC/John
Rating/Work-safeness: R for torture and angst and a smidgin of language. Dark.
Approximate word count: 750
Disclaimer: If I owned John Winchester, I'd be too busy elsewhere to write fan-fic. Any recognizable characters belong to Kripke & Co. Nancy McGill is all mine.
Summary: This was prompted by a comment from
starhawk2005 about how stubborn John was, and certain suggestive dialogue about John's fate in "Crossroad Blues". Spoilers only if you don't know what happened in "In My Time of Dying". Five agonies John endures. John Winchester's soul exists in a realm of inventive punishment. The scope of torture he's subject to is vast, and his hosts are ceaseless in their application of torment. Agony is his omnipresent companion; he's either writhing in physical pain or cringing in mental anguish. They know all there is to know about him, have a lifetime of his guilts, nightmares and regrets to play with and use against him. Everything that's ever caused him pain or disgust or sorrow takes its turn at trying to reduce his spirit to nothingness. There's no escape from any of it.
That dog he hit with his dad's car---a long-forgotten misdeed from his seventeenth spring---its sharp teeth rend John's semblence of flesh, gnaw at his bones. His entrails spill out, tugged from his motionless-but-aware body by the black and tan mongrel, its jagged ribs showing white through the fur where the Pontiac slammed into it. He smells his own blood and shit as the cur tears him apart, consuming him for an eternity, nuzzling beneath his ribcage to devour his heart---all this stemming from a few seconds distraction while he tried to tune in a better signal on the AM radio....
Because he always worked hard to be strong, to keep going, the soul that was John Winchester has that to fight as well. He can't just let go, to allow himself to be swept into the oblivion that awaits the damned. Surrender is not in his nature. Survival is. He made it through the hell that was Vietnam---old trauma returns anew in horrific detail: the sound of the Huey that was meant to get him out receding into the distance is a death sentence. Its defection leaves him in a jungle alive with unseen enemies closing in with their sharp knives and sharper smiles. This time, there's no bittersweet homecoming; his bones will rot on foreign soil.
In the heart of the flames, Mary laughs. Her sweet loving is given to another; she sighs with pleasure as the other man's hands caress her body, offers herself to him willingly. The man who wore his face seduces his wife, penetrates her, implants his own seed. John is a helpless spectator as the two of them rut in his marriage bed, Mary ecstatic. It's a wise man who knows his own child, says the demon smugly in his ear. Don't you think so, John? Perhaps you've been nuturing a cuckoo's chick all these years. Wouldn't that be funny?
There's a cheap rental apartment, one of many transient homes he dragged his boys through during their elusive childhoods. John's a fly on the wall again, an involuntary observer as Dean tells his brother that while dad's away hunting monsters, he's in charge. How old are they here? Dean's just had his first growth spurt, Sammy still has baby-fat. Four years is a big difference at that age. Their father is aghast to see his eldest son shove his brother to the floor, the better to rape his mouth. Did such perversion ever happen while they were unsupervised, or is this yet another demonic jape?
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; John lies spread-eagled in Nancy's bed, the room so real around him that he hears the floorboards creak as she strolls over, sharpening the old Bowie knife he gave her. His screams echo in his ears, but in the yellow rose bedroom he's mute; the only sound is Nancy's matter-of-fact drawl as she deftly skins him alive. He should've taken their relationship more seriously, his sometime-lover says without heat, wiping a bloodied palm on her crisp apron. She was always been willing to accomodate him, even when he was a selfish pig obsessed with his quest for vengence. If he'd settled down with her when he had the chance, he wouldn't be here now.
Has this fiendish cruelty lasted for a hundred years or a single afternoon? There's no way of measuring time here. The only sure thing is, it will continue happening, this and more, so much more---and John can't summon up the Name of anyone to pray to for strength. If he's ever had faith in a higher power, it's corroded in the poisonous atmosphere of despair. He has himself alone to fall back on, and the only words he utters when he can find breath to gasp them out are profanities. At least, they would be profane in another world, one where cursed things aren't embraced as endearing. Here, the only four-letter word is hope.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 01:18 am (UTC)oh my. *stares at fic* oh my.
Cruel doesn't begin to describe it. Oh poor John!
It definitely stems from what the Deal Demon said in Crossroads, I can totally see that, and starhawk knows our John well ;) stubborn he certainly is.
Tough read. And I mean that as a compliment :)
thank you.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 01:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 12:15 pm (UTC)*lol* This wasn't what I had in mind at all, heheh. But I like it. Dark and angsty and evil, and EXACTLY the kind of Hell the Demon would reserve for John, if it could. Great stuff!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 12:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 02:29 pm (UTC)but I kept trying to get my brain around the scene, and that's what came out, somehow.
Yeah, my Muses are like that, too. Every time I think I know where my/their limits are, they go and surprise me. I've never EVER in my life wanted to write RP fics, let alone RPS, for example, but an RPS idea bopped my Muses over the head yesterday, and now they're clamouring at me to write it NOW!
I'm going straight to Hell for sure. *eyerolls*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 02:38 pm (UTC)I'm looking forward to your chapter 5. The idea of John as submissive boggles my mind---I really want to see who/what the dom is!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-18 02:45 pm (UTC)ITA. When it comes to my Muses, that's EXACTLY how it works.
I've got, like, three different SPN projects in the works, and a parody that I'm not even going to start until I've knocked off at least two of the other ones....
*snort* I know the feeling. So many ideas, so many WIPs, so little time. Although my vacation will start as soon as I finish grading my last stack of 40 papers *groans* so that'll help. I hope.
The idea of John as submissive boggles my mind---I really want to see who/what the dom is!
*grins mysteriously* I have a few ideas. A canon character, for sure...I've just got to work it through in my mind.
But first, I've got to write ch.4. I don't want to say too much and spoil the surprise...but let's just say it involves John (Duh! ;) ) and some role-playing. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-31 04:42 pm (UTC)Myself, i don't really think that's what's going on with John, but that's a nasty twist on the possibilities.
The dog in particular - ...nuzzling beneath his ribcage to devour his heart....
Yeah.
*shudder*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-31 08:56 pm (UTC)Well, there's Kripke's version of what's going on, and there's my version, and I think the two are going to be diverging pretty sharply quite soon.
I know, the dog was a bit much. *evil grin* Chalk it up to too much Stephen King at an impressionable age.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-31 09:05 pm (UTC)I *loved* the dog. Perfect.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-03 08:39 pm (UTC)Beautiful (though angsty) work.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-04 05:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-20 09:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-21 03:59 pm (UTC)And thanks---everytime someone tells me something should be canon, I get all warm and happy inside!