Hello, and welcome! Thanks for stopping by! I haven't written much in the way of fanfic lately, but it looks like I'm coming out of my slump and I hope you enjoy what you're about to read. Before we begin, I'd like to give fair warning on a thing or two. First, this may get a little on the graphic side in the violence department. The main character is a demon, after all. Thing two is, while this is a work in progress and I can't say for certain yet, the ending will likely not be warm and fuzzy. I don't want to say it's a death fic, but it might be, so don't get mad if that's " the direction it takes. Thirdly, this is a John Winchester fic, and while I don't paint him in a particularly heroic way, I'm not bashing him either, so if you absolutely hate John Winchester and think he's just the worst, you may not want to read this.

I think that's it. Enjoy! (And don't forget to review! Something as simple as "I like this" is enough to make my day and keep me writing!)

The second time I fell was different than the first. The first time, Azazel dragged me down so fast that I couldn't see anything but the furious light surrounding us in a dizzying vortex of blazing yellow and choleric red. The tyrant with marbled yellow eyes presented me Alistair himself and left me to suffer at the hands of the torture master for a century.

The second time — just after I'd helped my boys finish what old Yellow Eyes had started all those years before — I was unescorted. There was no powerful demon overlord whisking me through the underworld, no guide leading me to damnation. The second time, I just… fell.

Literally.

I descended backwards at a sluggish pace, slipping through a hot abyss of murky green clouds so thick it felt like I was sinking into a dismal sea. A powerful stench of sulfur closed its fingers around my throat and choked me until I could barely breathe. Piercing screams and hopeless wails bellowed up from below, thousands of voices crying out in the bitter darkness. When the filthy smog gradually began to thin, faint figures and shapes took form amidst the green veil; silhouettes of suspended cages crammed full of writhing souls, chains flaunting bloody bodies fashioned to meathooks, jutting spears and pointed lances impaling living carcasses that convulsed and howled and begged for a death that would never come.

The thick, sulfuric fog began to dissipate the further down I fell, and once I'd cleared the sooty clouds, gravity readjusted itself. I swiftly dropped the rest of the way, and landed with a sickening crunch into a crater of naked, anguished souls that stretched on as far as I could see. They clawed at me with bony fingers and sharp nails. They grabbed at my limbs, and tore at my clothing, trying to drag me down into the depths of the fleshy sea. For a minute, I almost let them. I was, after all, damned; what other choice did I have?

And then I remembered; I am John fucking Winchester. And I wasn't going to let Hell hold me.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with, Supernatural, the CW, or anyone who works on or with the show or network. I'm mildly affiliated with Canada, and once Richard Speight (Jr) retweeted one of my tweets. That's as close to the show as I've ever gotten. There's an OC that is my brainchild, but I'm not entirely sure I want to claim responsibility for her.