Dark Fest fic: Supernatural, 'Penance'
Title: Penance
Author: CalUK
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean W.
Rating: R
Warnings: Torture and gore. Dean is... disturbed. Really disturbed.
Prompt: Supernatural, Dean, After Dean gets out of hell, Dean uses what Alistair taught him to make sure that anyone who ever hurt someone he loved is punished. (possibly include: the hunters from the bar in 5.03 and the ones that kill them in ‘dark side of the moon’)
Going to hell changes a guy. That's normal, right? Expected. But coming back from hell, resurrected, kicking and screaming into the light, that changes you too.
And that wasn't what he expected, not at all.
He thinks even Alistair would be appalled by him, flushes with pride at the thought, cheeks pink beneath their coating of blood and he smiles. The body before him whimpers at the sight, and he shushes her, tip of the blade laid flat across her lips.
“Took a long time to find you,” he tells her. “I want to enjoy this.”
It did take a long time, one of the longest hunts he's been on since he came back, and he's had to dodge calls from his brother and Bobby, firing back texts in answer to the increasingly irate messages they're leaving him.
“Look, man, whatever's going on, we can figure it out. You just have to let us help you, Dean. That's all we want to do. If you don't want to come in, that's fine. Name a place, and I'll be there, I promise. Please, Dean.”
“Someone set fire to a bar down in Garber, Oklahoma yesterday. Trapped two men inside, blocked up the doors and burned the place to the ground around them. No positive IDs yet, but a couple hunters I know hang out there. Tim Wallis and Reggie Dubensk. I'm sure you didn't have anythin' to do with it, but maybe you could call your brother back.”
“I don't know what you are, but you're not my brother. We're taking you down, I swear to god.”
He laughed at that one, sent back; SRY KIDDO WRONG AGAIN - NO 1 HERE BUT US CHICKENS + YOU GOT2 CATCH ME FIRST
They've finally figured out something's wrong, that he came back wrong, but it's too late now. He's got his list, route marked out on his map (red pen, seemed appropriate) and once he's done here, he's heading East.
“You don't remember me, do you?” he asks. She shakes her head, tears streaking through the gore splattering her face. “Guess not. It's been a while. Really, you have no idea. Besides, I must've been like, twelve, last time we met.”
The woman - what's left of her, anyway - shivers and moans and he angles the blade until it slices into her lips.
“Quiet, or I'll cut them off.”
She stills, visibly struggling to bite back the sobs as he shifts on top of her, all his weight on the shattered jigsaw the sledgehammer made of her pelvis. Deliberately, he tightens his knees against the sides of her abdomen, ankles against her hips until she cries out. He smiles, slides the blade along, blood slipping hot and sticky over his fingers.
“You know, you weren't the first teacher to go poking around in our lives, thinking you knew everything,” he murmurs, cutting the first long strip free and holding it up for her to see. “You weren't even the last. But the things you said to Sammy, about Dad...” he tuts, shaking his head. “That was just mean. Open up.”
She trembles, but she opens her mouth and he drops the meat in, works her jaw up and down for her when she can't manage it and covers her mouth and nose with his hand until she swallows, and he smiles at the bloody handprint he leaves on her face.
“I've got one just like it,” he tells her. Then he goes back to carving, whistling tunelessly between his teeth. He's wrist deep in her chest, her heart beating in his hands when his phone shrills again, and he frowns.
“Kid's timing always sucked,” he tells her. Her heart feels like a bird, trapped in the cage of his fingers, wings fluttering desperately. “You shoulda taught him better than that, instead of telling him it was okay to be scared. Never mind. He can wait.”
There's not much left in her eyes by the time he's done, empty, dead orbs staring out from flayed muscle and tendons, heavy black thread stitching the Y-cut closed around the bulges of the ribs he cracked open. She twitches as he traces the patterns he burned into her, loops and whorls that make her look feral, fragile, almost unreal.
He leans down over her, presses a chaste kiss to her mouth, stitches rough against his lips as he slides the knife into her thigh, nicks the femoral so that blood pulses out over his fingers.
“If you're lucky,” he whispers into her ear. “Really, really lucky, you'll bleed out before they find you.”
Probably not though. It's a slow, steady flow of blood and he called the paramedics already, just after he washed up, wiped his prints away with methodical precision. Eighteen months, and no one's put together the string of brutal murders across the country, but he's been so very careful, just like first Dad, and then Alistair taught him.
“Time to go.”
He doesn't even bother checking his answerphone, just sends a message back to his brother as he trots down the stairs, mind already turning to the next hunt, the next names on his list; Walt and Roy.
I'M DOING THIS 4 U, SAMMY. YOU'LL UNDERSTAND SOON. DONT CALL AGAIN.
I'VE GOT WORK 2 DO
Author: CalUK
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean W.
Rating: R
Warnings: Torture and gore. Dean is... disturbed. Really disturbed.
Prompt: Supernatural, Dean, After Dean gets out of hell, Dean uses what Alistair taught him to make sure that anyone who ever hurt someone he loved is punished. (possibly include: the hunters from the bar in 5.03 and the ones that kill them in ‘dark side of the moon’)
Going to hell changes a guy. That's normal, right? Expected. But coming back from hell, resurrected, kicking and screaming into the light, that changes you too.
And that wasn't what he expected, not at all.
He thinks even Alistair would be appalled by him, flushes with pride at the thought, cheeks pink beneath their coating of blood and he smiles. The body before him whimpers at the sight, and he shushes her, tip of the blade laid flat across her lips.
“Took a long time to find you,” he tells her. “I want to enjoy this.”
It did take a long time, one of the longest hunts he's been on since he came back, and he's had to dodge calls from his brother and Bobby, firing back texts in answer to the increasingly irate messages they're leaving him.
“Look, man, whatever's going on, we can figure it out. You just have to let us help you, Dean. That's all we want to do. If you don't want to come in, that's fine. Name a place, and I'll be there, I promise. Please, Dean.”
“Someone set fire to a bar down in Garber, Oklahoma yesterday. Trapped two men inside, blocked up the doors and burned the place to the ground around them. No positive IDs yet, but a couple hunters I know hang out there. Tim Wallis and Reggie Dubensk. I'm sure you didn't have anythin' to do with it, but maybe you could call your brother back.”
“I don't know what you are, but you're not my brother. We're taking you down, I swear to god.”
He laughed at that one, sent back; SRY KIDDO WRONG AGAIN - NO 1 HERE BUT US CHICKENS + YOU GOT2 CATCH ME FIRST
They've finally figured out something's wrong, that he came back wrong, but it's too late now. He's got his list, route marked out on his map (red pen, seemed appropriate) and once he's done here, he's heading East.
“You don't remember me, do you?” he asks. She shakes her head, tears streaking through the gore splattering her face. “Guess not. It's been a while. Really, you have no idea. Besides, I must've been like, twelve, last time we met.”
The woman - what's left of her, anyway - shivers and moans and he angles the blade until it slices into her lips.
“Quiet, or I'll cut them off.”
She stills, visibly struggling to bite back the sobs as he shifts on top of her, all his weight on the shattered jigsaw the sledgehammer made of her pelvis. Deliberately, he tightens his knees against the sides of her abdomen, ankles against her hips until she cries out. He smiles, slides the blade along, blood slipping hot and sticky over his fingers.
“You know, you weren't the first teacher to go poking around in our lives, thinking you knew everything,” he murmurs, cutting the first long strip free and holding it up for her to see. “You weren't even the last. But the things you said to Sammy, about Dad...” he tuts, shaking his head. “That was just mean. Open up.”
She trembles, but she opens her mouth and he drops the meat in, works her jaw up and down for her when she can't manage it and covers her mouth and nose with his hand until she swallows, and he smiles at the bloody handprint he leaves on her face.
“I've got one just like it,” he tells her. Then he goes back to carving, whistling tunelessly between his teeth. He's wrist deep in her chest, her heart beating in his hands when his phone shrills again, and he frowns.
“Kid's timing always sucked,” he tells her. Her heart feels like a bird, trapped in the cage of his fingers, wings fluttering desperately. “You shoulda taught him better than that, instead of telling him it was okay to be scared. Never mind. He can wait.”
There's not much left in her eyes by the time he's done, empty, dead orbs staring out from flayed muscle and tendons, heavy black thread stitching the Y-cut closed around the bulges of the ribs he cracked open. She twitches as he traces the patterns he burned into her, loops and whorls that make her look feral, fragile, almost unreal.
He leans down over her, presses a chaste kiss to her mouth, stitches rough against his lips as he slides the knife into her thigh, nicks the femoral so that blood pulses out over his fingers.
“If you're lucky,” he whispers into her ear. “Really, really lucky, you'll bleed out before they find you.”
Probably not though. It's a slow, steady flow of blood and he called the paramedics already, just after he washed up, wiped his prints away with methodical precision. Eighteen months, and no one's put together the string of brutal murders across the country, but he's been so very careful, just like first Dad, and then Alistair taught him.
“Time to go.”
He doesn't even bother checking his answerphone, just sends a message back to his brother as he trots down the stairs, mind already turning to the next hunt, the next names on his list; Walt and Roy.
I'M DOING THIS 4 U, SAMMY. YOU'LL UNDERSTAND SOON. DONT CALL AGAIN.
I'VE GOT WORK 2 DO