Fic: Carve until you are free
Title: Carve until you are free
Author: tawg
Word count: ~1,800
Rating: R (depictions of gore)
Pairings/characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Notes:Written for round six of blindfold-spn, posted here
Prompt: AU. The Winchesters, along with Castiel, are infamous serial killers, but when it comes to Dean and Cas, they don't just like to hurt their victims.
Warnings: Graphic gore, sexual violation of a victim.
Dean wakes up in a standing position, disoriented. Drugs, he figures, and feels abstractly angry that someone managed to slip something to him. A whimper forces him to focus his eyes. He’s in a small shed, a basic concrete floor and sheet metal walls. A lawnmower is tucked neatly in one corner, and a workbench has hammers and drills hung neatly above it. There’s a table in the middle of the floor space and a young person stretched out over it. It takes Dean a while to figure out if they’re male or female - the skin of their chest has been pulled back to expose the tissues beneath, and those have been cut away to show the whiteness of ribs. There’s a lot of blood on the floor, and hair. The scalp has been completely shaved.
There’s a man moving over the body. He’s wearing neat black slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and has a tie flung over his shoulder and out of the way. From what Dean can make out there is no blood on his clothes, though his hands are covered with it. Dean watches as he makes an incision above the knee - an arrow, with the start of a shaft leading down the shin - and then presses his fingertips into the wound, getting a grip on the pale skin and yanking with strong, controlled movements. The skin peels back, revealing blood and tendons and the beginnings and ends of muscles. The man wipes the blood away, admiring the clean round shape of a knee cap, before digging his fingers into the joint, trying to pull the patella away from the surrounding structures. The body on the table whimpers again. Dean wonders how this man has managed to keep his victim alive.
He wonders how long he’s been unconscious.
He watches as the man studies the small bone from a number of angles, raising it to his mouth and licking it before looking at the bone again. Licking, looking. It repeats until the patella is clean except for the small smudges of bloody fingerprints. Dean wonders what he’s looking for, with those large, dark eyes. Then he presses the body’s legs apart and, yes, Dean can see now that it’s a woman. There’s hair there, though nowhere else on her, and Dean watches with morbid fascination as the man presses the patella inside her, filling her up and stretching her with that white piece of bone, shoving his fingerprints and her own blood deep inside. She makes no response and Dean wonders if she’s dead, drugged, or just past caring. The man then gently folds the skin he has torn away from her leg back into place, patting it down carefully. Dean isn’t sure if her chest is still rising and falling with slow, halting breaths. It would be strange for her to be dead; after so long with Sam, Dean has gotten used to death being loud and fast. He thinks he might like this new way.
And then the man turns his attention to Dean.
Bright blue eyes, a full mouth that turns down at the corners, a neat line of a nose. Dean is good with people, good at reading them. But this man stands and stares at Dean for a long moment, and Dean has no idea what he’s thinking. Dean isn’t sure of his own thoughts. His hands are tied in front of him, he’s affixed to the wall by his belt and the back of his shirt. If he were at his usual best, he’d be down by now. Down and what? Running? Helping? Admiring? The man tilts his head, and Dean has the oddest sensation of perception, as if someone is seeing past his usual masks of friendly lust and familiar congeniality. And then the man reaches out and takes Dean’s left hand.
The knife is small, but sharp. Sam favours a large, curved blade that looks plain gaudy in comparison. Dean had tried scalpels (a classic, right?) but found the small precision instruments too hard to wield. It takes time to learn how to use a small blade, and he and Sam are all about fast efficiency. Small massacres and blood everywhere and out the door before the nine-one-one call even connects. Dean has done a few hookers, had some time playing and having fun. Nothing wrong with working on your technique with someone who knows their own body, but Sam has never had the patience for that, has always had different goals.
But this man, he exhibits a clam, intense curiosity as he cuts into Dean’s left hand. Slicing the sensitive skin between fingers - and the knife is so sharp that Dean only feels the pain of the cut when the blade is about half an inch into his flesh - pressing down and down until he approaches the small bones of Dean’s wrist. Then he stops, carefully pulls the blade down and out of Dean’s palm, and moves to the next dip between fingers. He cuts down, cautious and curious between all of the metacarpals. It hurts. It hurts like a bitch and Dean can see more blood than he’s comfortable with leaking out of his body. Then the man holds the handle of his knife between his teeth (the bottom ones are slightly crooked, but Dean isn’t in a position to judge the set of a bite), and places both of his hands on the ruin of Dean’s left. He wiggles Dean’s fingers, holding them by the knuckle and moving the fingers in ways they had never been able to move before, ways in which fingers simply aren’t designed to move. Then he looks up at Dean with those blue, blue eyes. There’s a question in his gaze, and Dean can almost imagine him asking “And how does this feel, Mister Winchester?”
It feels like something is opening up inside him. Dean hopes that he doesn’t die here, in this little shed with the girl on the table. Dean hopes he gets a chance to explore this thing inside.
The man raises Dean’s hands to his face, squints slightly as he compares his handiwork to the original. Then he wraps his lips around Dean’s first finger, his tongue pressing heavily against the fingerprint and his eyes are on Dean’s as he slides his mouth down, right down to the knuckle and then keeps going. The shape of his cheekbones and jaw force Dean’s fingers apart, lets more blood flow freely and paints dirty sexy stripes of red across the man’s cheeks. Dean can feel a tongue pressing at the separated flesh and it feels amazing, feels like nothing he could imagine because who would ever imagine this? The man pulls away, licks his lips with a tongue that is covered in Dean’s blood, painting his mouth rather than cleaning it. Dean lets out a shuddering breath, and feels a hot coil in his stomach. He’s hard. Perplexingly, achingly hard.
The man pulls his tie down from over his shoulder, carefully wipes away the ceremonial camouflage of Dean’s blood. Despite his careful efforts, some blood has caught on his stubble, leaving the almost-orange brightness of thin life on his face. He loops the blue tie around Dean’s neck. A token, perhaps, though Dean doesn’t understand the meaning. Then the man walks across the small space to the door, pulls a jacket down from one peg and slides it on, pulls a tan overcoat down from the peg beside it and slides it on over the top. He opens the door with still-tacky fingers, and strolls casually outside, his hands sitting causally in the pockets of his overcoat. Dean thinks that it’s a shame this odd creature is so careless - there are fingerprints all over this room, little teasing kisses of red. He’d be so easy to catch.
And then Dean realises that, no, he wouldn’t. This man had moved with the careful patience of someone who is impossible to catch.
Sam storms in minutes later, ten minutes at most, that ridiculous knife of his in hand and violent concern written clear across his big, open face. He has Dean down in seconds, has him half-carried out of that little shed in moments without even pausing to look at the girl on display. Typical Sam. They’re in the suburbs. It’s near dawn. There’s a car in the driveway and all the signs of people living in the house. Ballsy bastard. No cabin in the woods bullshit.
Dean tells the doctors at the hospital that he had his drink spiked and then apparently tried a knife trick with less than stellar results. He smiles, and looks sheepish, and Sam hovers over him with that disapproving look on his face. Of course they believe him. His hand will probably heal fine, some nerve damage, some fingers that might be numb or filled with pins and needles for the rest of his life, but he’ll still have the use of it. Dean stares at his bandaged hand, tracing the hot lines of pain that are decorated with stiches under the thick, white gauze. How many people can take something apart so neatly that it can still be put back together?
“Who was that guy?” Dean asks, still amazed, still feeling odd arousal coiling through his system. His body appreciating the adrenaline, his mind appreciating the memories.
“Fucking Castiel,” Sam replies, his voice hard and bitter.
“Who?”
Dean can feel Sam’s eye roll even if he can’t see it. “He only kills on a Thursday. Sometimes he leaves his name.” Sam makes a right turn, shifts his jaw. “He’s good. No real connection between victims, so the police don’t know his motivation. Moves around a lot. National, though I heard from Ash that he might have done a few overseas.” Another stretch of silence, and Dean can hear the click of Sam swallowing. “Pretty sure you’re the first person he’s left alive.”
Dean turns that over in his mind. Turns over this new information, can vaguely remember some drunken conversations full of derision and boasting around a campfire a few months ago. Can remember some articles in the broadsheets. “We need to find him.”
“Yeah,” Sam replies, angry and eager agreement. “I’ll teach him to freaking mess with us.”
“No, Sammy,” Dean says, relaxing back into the passenger seat. “I’m pretty sure he’ll be teaching us.”
He drifts off as Sam drives, dreaming of red and blues and the whites of bones. He wakes up half-hard, but oddly content. Castiel will find him again. And Castiel will show Dean so many beautiful things.
Author: tawg
Word count: ~1,800
Rating: R (depictions of gore)
Pairings/characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Notes:Written for round six of blindfold-spn, posted here
Prompt: AU. The Winchesters, along with Castiel, are infamous serial killers, but when it comes to Dean and Cas, they don't just like to hurt their victims.
Warnings: Graphic gore, sexual violation of a victim.
Dean wakes up in a standing position, disoriented. Drugs, he figures, and feels abstractly angry that someone managed to slip something to him. A whimper forces him to focus his eyes. He’s in a small shed, a basic concrete floor and sheet metal walls. A lawnmower is tucked neatly in one corner, and a workbench has hammers and drills hung neatly above it. There’s a table in the middle of the floor space and a young person stretched out over it. It takes Dean a while to figure out if they’re male or female - the skin of their chest has been pulled back to expose the tissues beneath, and those have been cut away to show the whiteness of ribs. There’s a lot of blood on the floor, and hair. The scalp has been completely shaved.
There’s a man moving over the body. He’s wearing neat black slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and has a tie flung over his shoulder and out of the way. From what Dean can make out there is no blood on his clothes, though his hands are covered with it. Dean watches as he makes an incision above the knee - an arrow, with the start of a shaft leading down the shin - and then presses his fingertips into the wound, getting a grip on the pale skin and yanking with strong, controlled movements. The skin peels back, revealing blood and tendons and the beginnings and ends of muscles. The man wipes the blood away, admiring the clean round shape of a knee cap, before digging his fingers into the joint, trying to pull the patella away from the surrounding structures. The body on the table whimpers again. Dean wonders how this man has managed to keep his victim alive.
He wonders how long he’s been unconscious.
He watches as the man studies the small bone from a number of angles, raising it to his mouth and licking it before looking at the bone again. Licking, looking. It repeats until the patella is clean except for the small smudges of bloody fingerprints. Dean wonders what he’s looking for, with those large, dark eyes. Then he presses the body’s legs apart and, yes, Dean can see now that it’s a woman. There’s hair there, though nowhere else on her, and Dean watches with morbid fascination as the man presses the patella inside her, filling her up and stretching her with that white piece of bone, shoving his fingerprints and her own blood deep inside. She makes no response and Dean wonders if she’s dead, drugged, or just past caring. The man then gently folds the skin he has torn away from her leg back into place, patting it down carefully. Dean isn’t sure if her chest is still rising and falling with slow, halting breaths. It would be strange for her to be dead; after so long with Sam, Dean has gotten used to death being loud and fast. He thinks he might like this new way.
And then the man turns his attention to Dean.
Bright blue eyes, a full mouth that turns down at the corners, a neat line of a nose. Dean is good with people, good at reading them. But this man stands and stares at Dean for a long moment, and Dean has no idea what he’s thinking. Dean isn’t sure of his own thoughts. His hands are tied in front of him, he’s affixed to the wall by his belt and the back of his shirt. If he were at his usual best, he’d be down by now. Down and what? Running? Helping? Admiring? The man tilts his head, and Dean has the oddest sensation of perception, as if someone is seeing past his usual masks of friendly lust and familiar congeniality. And then the man reaches out and takes Dean’s left hand.
The knife is small, but sharp. Sam favours a large, curved blade that looks plain gaudy in comparison. Dean had tried scalpels (a classic, right?) but found the small precision instruments too hard to wield. It takes time to learn how to use a small blade, and he and Sam are all about fast efficiency. Small massacres and blood everywhere and out the door before the nine-one-one call even connects. Dean has done a few hookers, had some time playing and having fun. Nothing wrong with working on your technique with someone who knows their own body, but Sam has never had the patience for that, has always had different goals.
But this man, he exhibits a clam, intense curiosity as he cuts into Dean’s left hand. Slicing the sensitive skin between fingers - and the knife is so sharp that Dean only feels the pain of the cut when the blade is about half an inch into his flesh - pressing down and down until he approaches the small bones of Dean’s wrist. Then he stops, carefully pulls the blade down and out of Dean’s palm, and moves to the next dip between fingers. He cuts down, cautious and curious between all of the metacarpals. It hurts. It hurts like a bitch and Dean can see more blood than he’s comfortable with leaking out of his body. Then the man holds the handle of his knife between his teeth (the bottom ones are slightly crooked, but Dean isn’t in a position to judge the set of a bite), and places both of his hands on the ruin of Dean’s left. He wiggles Dean’s fingers, holding them by the knuckle and moving the fingers in ways they had never been able to move before, ways in which fingers simply aren’t designed to move. Then he looks up at Dean with those blue, blue eyes. There’s a question in his gaze, and Dean can almost imagine him asking “And how does this feel, Mister Winchester?”
It feels like something is opening up inside him. Dean hopes that he doesn’t die here, in this little shed with the girl on the table. Dean hopes he gets a chance to explore this thing inside.
The man raises Dean’s hands to his face, squints slightly as he compares his handiwork to the original. Then he wraps his lips around Dean’s first finger, his tongue pressing heavily against the fingerprint and his eyes are on Dean’s as he slides his mouth down, right down to the knuckle and then keeps going. The shape of his cheekbones and jaw force Dean’s fingers apart, lets more blood flow freely and paints dirty sexy stripes of red across the man’s cheeks. Dean can feel a tongue pressing at the separated flesh and it feels amazing, feels like nothing he could imagine because who would ever imagine this? The man pulls away, licks his lips with a tongue that is covered in Dean’s blood, painting his mouth rather than cleaning it. Dean lets out a shuddering breath, and feels a hot coil in his stomach. He’s hard. Perplexingly, achingly hard.
The man pulls his tie down from over his shoulder, carefully wipes away the ceremonial camouflage of Dean’s blood. Despite his careful efforts, some blood has caught on his stubble, leaving the almost-orange brightness of thin life on his face. He loops the blue tie around Dean’s neck. A token, perhaps, though Dean doesn’t understand the meaning. Then the man walks across the small space to the door, pulls a jacket down from one peg and slides it on, pulls a tan overcoat down from the peg beside it and slides it on over the top. He opens the door with still-tacky fingers, and strolls casually outside, his hands sitting causally in the pockets of his overcoat. Dean thinks that it’s a shame this odd creature is so careless - there are fingerprints all over this room, little teasing kisses of red. He’d be so easy to catch.
And then Dean realises that, no, he wouldn’t. This man had moved with the careful patience of someone who is impossible to catch.
Sam storms in minutes later, ten minutes at most, that ridiculous knife of his in hand and violent concern written clear across his big, open face. He has Dean down in seconds, has him half-carried out of that little shed in moments without even pausing to look at the girl on display. Typical Sam. They’re in the suburbs. It’s near dawn. There’s a car in the driveway and all the signs of people living in the house. Ballsy bastard. No cabin in the woods bullshit.
Dean tells the doctors at the hospital that he had his drink spiked and then apparently tried a knife trick with less than stellar results. He smiles, and looks sheepish, and Sam hovers over him with that disapproving look on his face. Of course they believe him. His hand will probably heal fine, some nerve damage, some fingers that might be numb or filled with pins and needles for the rest of his life, but he’ll still have the use of it. Dean stares at his bandaged hand, tracing the hot lines of pain that are decorated with stiches under the thick, white gauze. How many people can take something apart so neatly that it can still be put back together?
“Who was that guy?” Dean asks, still amazed, still feeling odd arousal coiling through his system. His body appreciating the adrenaline, his mind appreciating the memories.
“Fucking Castiel,” Sam replies, his voice hard and bitter.
“Who?”
Dean can feel Sam’s eye roll even if he can’t see it. “He only kills on a Thursday. Sometimes he leaves his name.” Sam makes a right turn, shifts his jaw. “He’s good. No real connection between victims, so the police don’t know his motivation. Moves around a lot. National, though I heard from Ash that he might have done a few overseas.” Another stretch of silence, and Dean can hear the click of Sam swallowing. “Pretty sure you’re the first person he’s left alive.”
Dean turns that over in his mind. Turns over this new information, can vaguely remember some drunken conversations full of derision and boasting around a campfire a few months ago. Can remember some articles in the broadsheets. “We need to find him.”
“Yeah,” Sam replies, angry and eager agreement. “I’ll teach him to freaking mess with us.”
“No, Sammy,” Dean says, relaxing back into the passenger seat. “I’m pretty sure he’ll be teaching us.”
He drifts off as Sam drives, dreaming of red and blues and the whites of bones. He wakes up half-hard, but oddly content. Castiel will find him again. And Castiel will show Dean so many beautiful things.