[The Devil wears Sam's face, and the Devil laughs. At him. Dean growls, both hands curled into fists by his side, but he finds that he can't actually do anything more than dig his own nails into his own skin, both of his arms suddenly weighing him down like a pair of lead pipes attached to his person, a makeshift ragdoll of scrap metal and leftover spare parts.
Dean closes his eyes, tries to grasp for that brief moment of peace that now seems like an eternity away as sulfur and rotting everything fills up his nose, practically chokes him.
He can feel the echoes of every memory from every year he spent down in the Pit. Every carve he made, every slice he stole. And every single act of torture that was done to him, too. He feels like a raw fish, like the first time Alistair flayed him down to his very essence before piecing him back together, just to do it all over again.
This is all you're good for, the darkest parts of himself whisper. The weapon, the blunt instrument, forged now literally in fire. Violence and death and destruction, this is what you've wrought.
He hates the burning sensation of tears filling up the corners of his eyes. He hates that those tears force his eyes open, into the cold, cruel gaze of a monster wearing a familiar face.]
Fuck you.
[His voice cracks, and the words come out like the broken protests of a desolate child, abandoned and forgotten on the playground.]
cw: low self-esteem, anxiety/depression, poor mental health, violence, torture, etc.
Dean closes his eyes, tries to grasp for that brief moment of peace that now seems like an eternity away as sulfur and rotting everything fills up his nose, practically chokes him.
He can feel the echoes of every memory from every year he spent down in the Pit. Every carve he made, every slice he stole. And every single act of torture that was done to him, too. He feels like a raw fish, like the first time Alistair flayed him down to his very essence before piecing him back together, just to do it all over again.
This is all you're good for, the darkest parts of himself whisper. The weapon, the blunt instrument, forged now literally in fire. Violence and death and destruction, this is what you've wrought.
He hates the burning sensation of tears filling up the corners of his eyes. He hates that those tears force his eyes open, into the cold, cruel gaze of a monster wearing a familiar face.]
Fuck you.
[His voice cracks, and the words come out like the broken protests of a desolate child, abandoned and forgotten on the playground.]