Who: Sam Winchester. CLOSED. What: AU!Dean Winchester lives; Azazel tortures Sam; Sam and AU!Dean. When: Time unknown. Where: AU!LANDZ. Rating: HIGH.
"Damnit." Leaning forward in the stiff chair that he had been sitting in, Frank eyed the small radio sitting in front of him, the corners of his mouth turning downward as static erupted from the small device. Raising a fist, he slammed it down onto the top corner of the box and, for a short moment, the signal seemed to adjust itself. Then, of course, just as Frank went back to settle in his chair again, the words straying from the radio came out in small bursts, never quite finishing the chorus of the song that Frank had been tuning into. "Piece of..." He grabbed the antenna and adjusted it, sat rigidly, and then slumped back into his chair once more, nodding with satisfaction as the radio continued to spew out the song that he'd been so intent on listening to prior to the static ridden interruption.
"I'm gonna win in Sin City. Where the lights are bright! Do the town tonight! I'm goin' in to Sin City!" Tapping his foot to the beat, Frank twisted his gaze away from the radio and off toward the empty hall that stretched out in front of him. Barred rooms were lined out in front of him, each and every single cell containing at least one or, hell, even two prisoners inside. The hall was dark. Quiet. All except for the AC/DC tune that was streaming out from the corner in which Frank currently happened to be sitting.
At least until someone began to cry out from the last cell, someplace off to the right. Rather than complaining about the music, however, this person appeared to be singing right along with them. Frank wasn't quite used to that. He'd worked another cell block for ages, cranking up the volume every now and again just to drown out the furious shrieks from the people that he watched over. This, however, was a bit different. He'd never exactly received a positive reaction toward his choice of entertainment for his shift. And that? Well. It kinda bothered him a little. That was halfway the point of blasting the music, after all. To torture the souls of those who were doomed to spend the rest of their lives in here. In addition to keeping himself from going nuts during the night shift.
Slowly rising from his chair, Frank reached down to the right and picked up a small handgun. They weren't exactly necessary, as he could wipe out a person with no trouble if he wanted to, but it was easier to just shoot the prisoners than waste his energy in throwing them back and torturing them a bit. He wasn't exactly the strongest of demons out there. Couldn't quite break a persons neck with the snap of his fingers, nor could he dig into their flesh with the will of his mind. He had to work at it, just like all of the other lower class monsters out there. It annoyed him a little, to think that he had to stoop down to the very same methods that the humans themselves resorted to, but he figured that, like everyone else, his abilities would develop in time. He had been in hell for only fifty years, after all. It usually took a lot longer than that to create a full-fledged demon. Which was why he was here in the first place. He wasn't quite up to par yet. Frank wasn't allowed to party with the big boys. Who, at the moment, he hated with every ounce of his being for looking down on him. But they would soon respect him...right?
Walking through the dark toward the last cell, Frank moved slowly, his ears picking up a single voice that refused to silence itself, even as he announced his approach with a, "Hey, you down there! Shut your hole!"
To which, he instantly received a, "Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief! Ain't got a hope in hell, that's my belief!" Quite the response.
Stopping just short of the bars that lined the cell containing the culprit, Frank squinted into the black, his eyes only just making out the faint figure of a male, sitting against the wall with his head tipped up toward the ceiling. He howled out more of the lyrics and Frank placed a hand onto one of the bars, pulling himself closer to the cell door so that his face was pressed against the steel. "Did you hear me in there? You're ruining the song." The male kept right on singing, his voice only growing louder in response. "Hey! I said shut the fuck up, you --"
Crunch.
Frank's head lurched backward, tilting oddly into a small ray of light that filtered in from one of the overlaying windows. His eyes were wide and blood streamed in a quick path down the side of his head, trickling down and away from the pointed object that had been lodged into his skull. A bone. Sharpened to a point.
If Frank hadn't been only a quarter of a full demon, then the attack never would have even hit home. And if it had, it certainly wouldn't have killed him. But Frank still had purity left inside of him. And that? It created some problems on his immortality front. His life had vanished. All because of the prisoner, clutching onto the other half of the bone that protruded from Frank's head. The body began to slump downward, but two hands quickly slipped out from inside of the cell and grabbed onto his shoulder and arm, holding him upright. Then one of the hands slid downward until it reached his pocket. Fishing out a pair of keys, the prisoner let the body topple onto the ground and slid his arms back into the cell. The keys appeared half a second later at the empty space behind the lock and multiple were shoved into the keyhole that loomed there until, finally, one seemed to take it's place. A lock clicked and the door swung open, dully bumping into Frank's body, leaving a small portion of space available for the opening.
It was more than enough. The prisoner slid through and stepped out into the hall. Then he stooped down and reached for the gun that Frank was still grasping onto. As he rose back up to his full height, the same ray of light that had centered itself onto Frank previously dropped down onto the prisoner's face. His horribly disfigured face. Gun twisting around in his hand, he walked down the hall, ignoring the cries of the people that were waking from within their own cells, and stepped over to the radio. Then he cranked up the volume and tilted his head back and, even as the people around him began to scream for him to release them from his cages, Dean Winchester overpowered them all with his own voice as he howled, "I'm goin' in! To Sin City!"
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Throughout the entire apocalypse, there were times that Azazel himself had his doubts about keeping their King in line. At first, he wasn't concerned. Even when Sam was entirely opposed to both Azazel and everything that he stood for because, even then, he knew that the boy could be swayed. He tried to do as much at first. He talked to him, he tried to play nice...but Sam was stubborn. He didn't want to take part into the war that he was practically born for. He merely wanted to go back and find his brother and father. And, of course, to bring his girlfriend with him, so that he could return to the life in which he believed that he belonged. Azazel kept Jessica alive, thinking that he could use her as leverage. But even with the threats and promises to kill her off, Sam refused to bend to his will. So Azazel killed her. Right in front of him. Then he began to torture Sam, enforcing the wrath that he had patiently hidden on the inside. The strong willed were hard to break. It literally took years before Sam finally turned into who Azazel desired for him to be. However, there were moments where the world would catch a quick glimpse of the person that Sam had once been. His conscience. His morality. Everything that had once made him human. Whenever that guilt ridden part of him came out to play, Azazel was quick to rush in and take care of the clean up. Even now.
Azazel had discovered that, thus far, this was by far the worst episode that the King had endured yet. He kept swearing up and down that he wasn't with him, that he'd never become allies with a monster like Azazel, and that he would kill him with his bare hands if he was given the chance. That amused him, more than it probably should have. At first. But now? The Yellow-Eyed Demon was starting to lose patience. There were demons out there, wondering where their leader was. Why was he so scarce lately? Why was he acting so oddly? They needed him. Otherwise they would fall apart and begin to attack one another. Azazel really didn't want that.
Nudging at Sam with his foot, the boy rolled over, revealing the various gashes that Azazel himself had carved into his chest. Blood trickled freely all over his bare torso, dripping all over and, even leaving a small puddle in the very spot in which Sam had been lying facedown before Azazel had pushed him over. Chest heaving, Sam stared up at Azazel with a defiant look on his face. He obviously needed more work.
"We can't keep playing this game, Sammy," Azazel told him, kneeling down. "It's just not healthy."
Sam grunted in response. He brought a weak arm up toward his chest, fingers grazing over a gaping wound that had been slashed into his body. All by the simple willing of Azazel's mind. His eyes slowly moved off toward the knife stowed away in the corner -- the very same one that he had carried with him from his own universe -- and, in his mind, envisioned himself suddenly leaping up and craftily grabbing hold of it before he plunged it deep into Azazel's chest. Instead though, he just kept to the ground, staring off at the knife with a feeling of desperation plaguing him, intertwining with the hate and pain and misery that had clouded him over for the past few days. He couldn't even believe that he had been here that long. When was the last time that he had seen his brother? A smiling person? The sun? He would have loved to see the sun right now. Something that wasn't surrounded by the dark.
"I'm...not..."
"Not what? The Sam that I know? The King that I've raised?" Azazel titled his head to the side and gave him a sympathetic look. "You know, we're really gonna have to find you a doctor. Someone who knows a little about the stuff that goes on in that noggin of yours." He tapped a finger to the side of his head, then shrugged. "But in the meantime?" He pressed his finger into Sam's chest and three gashes instantly spread out onto his flesh. Azazel moved his hand toward one and dug all four fingers into the wound, burrowing their way through the skin and down into his stomach. Sam howled out in agony, but Azazel didn't seem to notice. Instead he pulled the skin up, peeling back a huge portion of his flesh, and savored the moment as Sam continued to cry out.
"You're weak, Sam," Azazel hissed. "Bring me back my son." More gashes appeared. Sam suddenly swung an arm up, using every last ounce of his strength, and Azazel caught it with his hand and grabbed Sam by the wrist. He examined his fingers closely before he took hold of his index finger and began to twist it backward. Something snapped and a sickening sort of crack filled the air. Sam bit down on his tongue, eyes watering as the pain shot through him. He didn't have time to react though, as the demon was already digging back into his flesh again. Soon enough, blood was streaming it's way from his mouth. Sam had bitten down onto his tongue so badly that he had dug straight into it, unintentionally causing himself even more damage.
Azazel seemed to have noticed. "Why are you fighting this, Sam? Why are you trying to take control now? What is there left for you here?" Sam's head slumped back and his eyes fell to a rest on the ceiling. His entire body ached with pain, but he still refused to give the demon the satisfaction of knowing that he was indeed winning. He didn't know what Azazel was talking about half the time. He thought that he was his Sam, yet he tortured him for shits and giggles all the same? Was that how it worked around here? Azazel slid his fingers out of Sam's stomach and Sam slowly turned his head to look at him. He was licking the blood from his fingers.
"You're sick," Sam spat, blood splattering onto the ground as he spoke.
"Hey," he held up a defensive hand, "it's my blood. Remember? You're my blood. I made you one of us."
"But...I'm not --" He started.
Azazel shushed him. "Hang on just a sec, Champ."
The faint sound of footsteps suddenly rang out from the hall, then someone began to knock on the door from the outside. Azazel rose and walked toward the door. He opened it partially. Quiet words were exchanged, but Sam was able to make out 'escaped' and 'urgent' easily. Azazel turned back toward Sam. He didn't look very amused. "I've gotta talk to someone. It doesn't look like you're gonna make it far." There were sentries posted around the building and, besides that, Sam was way too injured to get far on his own. "So you just sit right here and think about what it is that you've done. Or what you should be doing. Consider it a...time out, eh?" He winked off at Sam, then vanished through the doorway, slamming it shut behind him.
Sam instantly tried to sit up. His body wouldn't have it. Gasping in pain, he fell back, head roughly hitting the floor behind him as he slumped back. He screwed his eyes shut and cursed, fingers balling up into an angry fist at his side. He wanted out. He wanted to go back in time or wherever it was. He wanted everything to be different. What had he gotten himself into? What was he going to do now? Sit here and let THE demon have his way with him? No. He was a Winchester. He was stronger than this. He had to get the hell out of here. Sam had to make everything right.
Jaw tightening, Sam slowly opened his eyes and, with every bit of strength that he had, he rolled onto his stomach and began to crawl toward the window. His movement was slow and painful. Every time he pulled himself forward, his peeled skin and gashes would rub against the floor, causing fresh waves of pain to shoot up into his body. At one point, Sam could have sworn that he blacked out. But when he shook away the pain, he found that he was still moving. But only for but so far. His body gave out on him just when he was a few inches away from the window and his arms suddenly caved. Chin slamming into the the floor, Sam spat up more blood and let his head roll to the side.
He couldn't do it. There was no way out. He was trapped.
"Well, well, well. Look at you, Sammy," a voice suddenly erupted from ahead of him, just where the window was. It was darker than he remembered, but even then, Sam knew it well. He turned his head so quickly that another flash of pain hit him. But this time? He managed to ignore it. Especially when he took in the sight of the tall figure towering over him. Half of his face was burnt off, charred and black, and unbelievably disturbing. The other half?
It belonged to his brother. But only just. There was a haunted sort of look in his eyes, one mixed in with the challenging gaze that he forced out toward his younger brother.
"I'm guessing the high life didn't go as planned." The sound of a gun clicking filled his ears, and soon a barrel was being angled toward him.