So there was a contest put on by Supernatural.TV earlier this spring looking for essays about Supernatural. I'm not so much an essay writer. I entered, but didn't final. That's cool. I had fun writing this piece (before season 4 started). Thought I'd post it. Warning: It's long.
DEAN WINCHESTER DOES HELL (BUT GOOD)
Hello, Sam Winchester? This is Hell calling.
No, no, don’t hang up. I know, you probably don’t want to hear from us after we collected on your brother’s deal with the Crossroads demon. But, dude, you have to listen to me. This is a matter of extreme urgency. It’s getting icy down here. And that is not supposed to happen.
Here’s what I need from you. Ah, er…could you stop by and pick up your brother Dean like yesterday?
Allow me to explain. Here in Hell we pride ourselves on image. It’s all about the brimstone and eternal flames. We take great pains—and give pain, too—to manifest all that is dark, demented, torturous, and despicable. A sinner, are you? Everlasting torment is our promise to you. It’s what we do, and we do it well.
I’m sure you’re aware we’ve been waiting for your brother with tongues lolling and eyes bugging. Copious amounts of demon drool have pooled in anticipation of the hunter’s arrival. Limbs have been torn off, and brains gouged out in the battle over which demon will be first to get their talons on his heart.
We initially expected Dean Winchester to be a typical guest: freaked out of his mind, penitent, and begging for mercy. We get off on that kind of stuff. Too late to beg for redemption. One man’s tear-filled plea for forgiveness is just another day at the office here in Hell.
Dean Winchester is messing with The Way Things Are Supposed To Be.
Upon arrival, he was given the standard torture session. All guests receive it. It’s complimentary; our way of introducing the guest to the macabre wonders in store for their eternity. It’s also our way of weeding out the milksops. If you don’t survive the welcome session, well then, you should have been a good boy back in the real world, eh?
The welcome session involves medieval torture devices fashioned of wood stained through the centuries from blood and rusting metal spikes. And there’s the ever-popular fingernail removal and waterboarding. Standard stuff.
Can I tell you something? I’ve never seen a torturer more frustrated following your brother’s welcome session. It’s the little things, really. But everything Dean Winchester says, does, or touches is a little thing.
Let me expound.
Incident, The First:
After routine confiscation of weapons, salt, holy water, and mini cheeseburgers, the chucklehead tried to check in under a false name. Theodore Nugent is the name he scrawled in blood across the Register of the Damned. Uhuh. We know the real Motor City Madman—and look forward to his eventual arrival. When called out on his trickery, Dean scribbled out the name and wrote James Hetfield. We’ve got that dude’s number, too. We’re not sure if the group therapy is going to alter the headbanger’s status, but here in Hell we never write off a soul until it’s seen The Light.
Now, Dean’s first words after he’d crossed the fiery threshold? “You call this hell? You’re gonna have to do better than this. Where’s the mini-vans?”
You see how insolent that maggot is? Who does he think he is? Or isn’t? Not yet striding the fiery halls, and already he’s a wise guy. That impudent display got him a thousand lashes from a razor-strung whip.
The hunter was still cracking jokes after the bonus lashes. Which leads me to…
Incident, The Second:
What is with Dean Winchester’s sarcastic mouth? This is Hell, people. You don’t get here on good looks. (Okay, some do. But only when they use said appearance—or so-called star power—for evil gain or to lessen their jail sentence. Paris Hilton, we’ve got your number.) If you can’t put up and shut up when you’re down here, then we’ll never get anywhere.
That brother of yours, Sam. It’s like the guy thinks he belongs, or something. Like he fits in. Dean cops the casual, ‘Hey, I’m just one of the regulars’ attitude. He may have fit in with all of Hell’s pre-approved candidates when he served time at Folsom Prison, but you don’t get rich selling ciggies here!
Seriously, no one fits in here. This. Is. Hell.
I tried to explain this to Mr. Winchester. Even after a frenetic attack of flies that permeated his eye sockets and squirmed beneath his flesh, the guy merely brushed them off and spat them from his mouth. He then had the audacity to declare, “He just full-on Beelzebubbed me!”
What does that mean? I am not Beelzebub. Certainly, one of the higher ranked minions, but nowhere near dark lord status. I know my place, and it’s suddenly become much tighter down here next to…the Dean.
Incident, The Third:
We are an equal-opportunity afterlife here in Hell. We do not discriminate. We receive all souls, and that includes serial killers, molesters, gamblers, mobsters, white-collar criminals, porn kings, fashion-magazine editors, reality TV-show judges, and yes, clowns.
Clowns require a safe atmosphere to act out against their demons just as much as young men forced to hunt demons because their father got them involved in the ‘family’ business. But your brother, well, he just won’t let up on the clowns.
“Oops, got your squeaky nose,” is his favorite taunt. No clown can scare the bejeezus out of a kid without the big red nose. It’s a requirement for the job. So are the floppy shoes. Dean steps on the toes of their shoes and uses their faces as punching bags. Claims it’s for all the torment some Ronald McDonald dude caused you, Sam.
Listen, I’m all for marking out your own turf and protecting it with your life, but the hunter will not cut those pitiful walking polka-dots a break.
Your brother isn’t afraid of much, I’ll give him that. Though, he does walk a wide circle around skinwalkers. Go figure.
Incident, The Fourth:
What is with Dean Winchester and food? You’d think the guy has never eaten a day in his life. Sure, I know you boys lived on the road, spending your hard-earned stolen cash on cheesy motel rooms and gas station microwavable entrees, but come on.
We do serve a lovely buffet here in Hell. From cat’s intestines and unicorn brains, to charbroiled goblin guts and maggot-laced decomposing corpse. (I personally enjoy anything with a healthy serving of maggots crawling over the top. You just can’t go wrong with maggots.)
The first day at buffet, Dean charged ahead in the line and began shoving food in his cakehole, all while jabbering about how he had not a home-cooked meal since he was five. Like that is any excuse to budge the line?
Actually, we do promote budging around here. It develops a sense of competition and sparks murderous impulses, which is always conducive to keeping the growing population from getting out of hand. (Besides, it’s our image, remember?) Yet no one wants to get close to your brother with maggots spewing this way and that and intestines hanging out the corner of his mouth. It’s plain uncouth, I tell you.
And we don’t do cheeseburgers with extra onions. But if the Dean complains about the lacking entrée one more time—
All right, just give me a minute. Whew! I’m calm. Relax. Okay. I’m fine now.
But can I ask? What is a Purple Nurple? I really don’t think adding whatever it is to the menu is going to promote peace, harmony and candy, as your brother has tried to convince me. But it certainly has interested the triplets, Peace, Harmony and Candy. They’ve become your brothers own little freak show fan club. (Idolatry is also encouraged here, but the dark sunglasses and your brother’s brilliant smile are pushing it.)
Incident, The Fifth:
Gluttons for punishment always do well here in the program we’ve designed to put guests on a Fast Track to Insanity. Our program administrators train extensively and are certified by The Old Lad Himself. Gluttons crave that extra lash of the cat o’nine tails, or experiencing the agony of having yet another rib bone crushed. They are Pavlov’s mongrels. They push the button. Over and over. (Talk about Magic Fingers. Our most popular administrator can do vicious things with his fingers. You want gore? We aim to deliver.)
Dean Winchester isn’t the usual glutton. He doesn’t scream for more because he desires the pleasant relief of horrifying pain. Oh no, Dean begs to be killed over and over again because this hero stuff is great. “Oh yeah, rip out my heart again,” he’s been heard to shout frequently. And, “This one’s for you, Sammy!” As if he were suffering in his brother’s stead?
Please. The hero thing holds no merit here in Hell.
We don’t keep score. All sacrifices for the greater good made while living go unrecognized. Even self-torture is overlooked. I thought it was all righteous self-sacrifice, you know? Give it up on the routine death scenes! So he’s died time and time again for his brother. Dean continues to find ways to suffer because his father sacrificed his life for his sons. We’re not counting here. It’s all the same, whether you’ve killed or been killed.
And what about Dean’s diatribe about being the ‘unworthy’ one? Man, the dude has daddy issues, doesn’t he? I won’t even start on the mommy issues.
Just take the punishment with a scream, will you?
Incident, The Sixth:
On the same note, when Dean’s not begging to be killed in yet another painful or whacky manner (office desk dropping from above?), he’s touting the misery of being Dean Winchester. Yes, seriously.
There’s so much self-pity oozing from the guy I fear for our other guests.
Peace, Harmony and Candy have been seen coddling and offering him sympathy. That’s not the way it works here, people!
Incident, The Seventh:
Witness Dean Winchester leaving a torture session, bent over and clutching the slippery sausage links of guts spilling from his belly. He curses the torture administrator (as we would expect), but then gets a whiff of female in the proximity.
The Dean snaps upright and slaps on that freckled smile that mortal women once swooned for. And, apparently, Those Stuck In Hell fall for that sappy smarm as well. (Candy can’t keep away from the dude.) He thinks he’s such a stud, with his guts dripping over his hand. The women here eat it up. (You want a visual on that? Just think about it.) And it’s not as though they’re intent in having an extra-marital adulterous affair or engaging in bondage or the wicked sinful stuff, you know? Oh, no, they just want a wink from Dean, and they’re saved.
It’s like he’s some kind of idol. Something to be worshipped and adored. We don’t do adoration here in Hell, not unless it is false idols—er, okay, so maybe that one does qualify. But it’s still not right, because witness Dean standing amidst a mass of adoring sycophants. What does the dude say? “Don’t objectify me.”
We’ve had to instigate a no-fraternization policy between the women and your brother specifically. It’s difficult to run a decent Hell when half the population won’t even bow to their unholy master, and instead have started the Dean Winchester fan club. T-shirts are selling like maggots. They’re completely sold out of size medium-with-dorsal-spines. I think I should have bought a bigger—er, I digress.
Incident, The Eighth:
What is it with Dean Winchester’s accidental optimism? I’ve watched him. Like a hawk studying carrion. The hunter isn’t aware of his ease when transferring from a dire near-death situation, to a sudden lighthearted ‘today is a new day’ attitude.
Last week’s Torture Bonanza MMMCXIII saw your brother clutching his left shoulder (the shoulder we here in Hell know has seen plenty of shrapnel) just to keep it from falling off. And yet, as soon as he saw the buffet line, a smile lit up his bleeding eyes, and he hobbled onward, eager to get to the creamed kidneys before they ran out.
And who shouts at the torturer, “Hurry up! I’ve got a date later.” Or, “Dude, I’m missing Scooby Doo!” (What the heck is a Scooby Doo?) Or his favorite, “I gotta rock. Got me a yellow-eyed demon to hunt.” But fore in the chucklehead’s brain is his intense focus on food; his favorite mid-torture line being, “Would it kill you to serve snacks?”
I tell you, I rack my brains over this one daily. (Normally I only rack them monthly. Don’t want them to get too dried out.) How can a man with nothing left to live for be cheery? It’s not as though he’s aware that he’ll ever see you, Sam, again. His entire family has been systematically removed from his life in the most painful and dire means. And yet, he still gets a goofy grin on his face when the strains of “Don’t Fear The Reaper” play over the intercom system.
It’s almost enough to make Hell shudder. From the cold. Did I mention the temperature drop since your brother arrived?
Incident, The Ninth:
Speaking of music, we here in Hell try to provide our guests with all the amenities. The Blue Oyster Cult song mentioned previously is our favorite, along with: “Highway To Hell”, Sabbath’s “Selling My Soul”, and the ever popular, “Crossroad Blues”. We’ve also our own house band, Bone Danse, which plays during annual torture bonanzas. Or guests have been known to poke out their eardrums while the Bones play. They rock.
Dean Winchester has somehow infiltrated this band and buddied up to the lead singer. Everyone knows the singer picks the songs; the rest of the band follows along. So what’s this “Dust In The Wind” and “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” garbage? It’s enough to give a demon a migraine.
Actually, it’s enough to make me pine for the arrival of Barry Manilow.
Incident, The Tenth:
You’d think the last straw would be when we discovered your brother was—despite the ban on Latin holy words—teaching the lesser demons incantations to invoke and bind demons. Shouldn’t the results be obvious? Demon invokes itself, binds itself—oh shit. Dean gets endless joy watching the results. When threatened with retaliatory possession, Dean exposes the tattooed sigil on his chest. We’ve tried to burn that thing off. No luck.
I have to admit, if the lesser demons are so stupid as to participate in the first place, then the result is deserving.
Incident, I’ve Lost Count:
When a guest arrives in Hell there are five stages to acceptance. Fear. Grief. Bargaining. Suicidal Attempts. Insanity (re: Acceptance). After the final stage has been accomplished, all hope is lost.
Dean Winchester refuses to even begin the first stage. The dude should be out of his head with fear, constantly looking over his shoulder, attempting to suck up to the greater demons to earn protection. But no. He keeps muttering about hope, there’s always hope. He’s disturbing the masses, I tell you. Giving them ideas, like maybe there is something beyond Hell. There’s nothing beyond Hell. Nothing!
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
I’ve realized what it is that gives the idiot his hope. It’s you, Sam. Even here in Hell, Dean feels responsible for your well-being. How is that possible? He’s gone beyond the ability to help you. Why won’t he simply let go? What do the two of you have, beyond the bonds of blood?
It’s not as though you were ever close as kids. And through his children’s adolescence, Big Daddy Winchester played the both of you against one another like a song. Dean has always been jealous that you, Sam, got to play the college boy while he had to take up arms and hunt the big bads. And you had the real girlfriend, the one you were ready to marry. Dean’s never had that. Dean will never have that.
And yet, hope oozes from him like a bad day at the nuclear treatment plant.
We’ve tried to torture it out of him. The man deftly avoids the excruciating truth. Sarcasm is his weapon of choice. Thinking to draw on his addiction to you, his little brother, when prompted what he misses most about being alive and in the real world the guy merely answers, “My car. Damn, I miss the Metallicar.”
Uhuh. I originally thought Dean Winchester was breakable. But maybe he’s beyond broken. Maybe Dean Winchester’s truths have blackened his soul so completely there is something beyond Hell for him. And he’s already there, leaving our legions parasongs behind.
This is difficult to admit, but I think we’ve been infiltrated by the ultimate enemy. I’m not going to name it, but His choice of warrior is a kick in the ‘nads. Who’d a thought? Dean Winchester?
I’m not going to think it. Because you, Sam, are on your way to pick up your brother. Pronto.
Please? Pretty please with maggots on top?
What? A trap? You think it’s always been about you? That Hell would do anything to get their hands on Sam Winchester, even endure the Dean to do so?
Uh. Heh.
You’re nuts, Sammy boy.
Oh, hey, what’s going on? Dean Winchester is at it again? He’s got Azazel by the eyeballs again? Why won’t that yellow-eyed demon just—all right, I’ll be right there.
Sam, dude, are you listening?
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