SPNFF: To Escape the Grasp
Title: To Escape the Grasp
Word Count: 1480
Summary: As Dean lay down for just a moment’s rest, a hand reached up through the ground at his ankle, like a zombie reaching from its grave.
Warnings: Post-"Survival of the Fittest." So, mild spoilers, etc. related to that.
Disclaimer: I still don't own any part of Show. Much more's the pity, yeah?
A/N: Consider this story AU. It was Carvered long ago, probably even before it was written. Still, an image stuck with me, and it kinda had to be written.
A/N 2: Additional info at the end of the story.
To Escape the Grasp
Of all the monsters he’d tangled with in Purgatory, he feared Thing the most.
He’d been there a few months (it felt like months), sometimes with Cas, sometimes not, when Thing started appearing. It never showed when Cas was around, but Cas wasn’t around very much.
“My energy is stronger than yours, Dean. I will act as a decoy and draw them away.” Sometimes it worked.
Sometimes it didn’t.
“Someone or something is pulling at me, Dean. Something is trying to pull me away.” That wasn’t something he wanted to hear, either.
“But I will not abandon you if I can help it.”
Dean spent most of his time fending for himself, fighting monsters both familiar and new. Some too familiar, with a personal history and a personal beef.
~~~
The first time the hand appeared, Dean had finally found someplace hidden from the glowing red eyes that always watched him. He was exhausted from fighting, from running. Hungry, because it had taken him weeks to figure out what was edible without making him ill, let alone nearly killing him. Thirsty, because most of the water here was swamp. Finding a clean puddle was nearly impossible. Stopping to catch palmfuls of the intermittent rain became common practice.
What he wouldn’t give for a slug of Bobby’s rotgut.
As Dean lay down for just a moment’s rest, a hand reached up through the ground at his ankle, like a zombie reaching from its grave. The earth around it was undisturbed as it grasped at Dean, clawed toward him, and gripped the leg of his jeans. Dean kicked at it frantically, scrambling away. The hand held on tightly, but Dean managed to knock it away, grabbing a dead branch that lay nearby and beating the hand until it was forced to release him and slip back under the surface of the ground.
~~~
Dean had kind of liked watching The Addams Family reruns when he was a kid: a weird family that knew weird things the rest of the world didn’t understand. A weird family that loved each other. Morticia was pretty hot, and Gomez was funny. Sam made up stories about how Uncle Fester could light a light bulb in his mouth.
Thing was the hand in the box that helped out around the house-got the mail, answered the telephone, stirred the soup, even had a passage to a knot hole in a tree in the yard. Dean imagined what kind of dark tunnels and passageways might exist in the house so that Thing could move from one room to another. Thing had a personality all his own and was really friendly. Sure, Dean knew it was just a guy hiding under the table, like a puppet show, but it was fun.
Then the movies came out, with Hollywood effects, and Thing got out of his box and scurried around the house like a spider or a crab or something. Not even a bloody stump. Just a hand. It was disappointing.
But this Thing was real, and grabby, and Dean wasn’t about to let it get its hooks in him.
The second time Thing showed up, it reached out at Dean from a tree. The hand was scratched up, like it'd gotten caught in a thorn bush or gone a few rounds with something with claws. But the tree bark was undisturbed, as if the tree or the hand were an apparition or a hologram, yet both had solid weight. Dean ducked out of reach and slashed its palm with his knife. The cut was deep; Dean saw the blood pool and drip before the hand pulled away, and he knew he had to get out of there, find someplace to hide. The scent of blood was like ringing the dinner bell.
~~~
The next time Thing showed, it appeared out of thin air, wearing a bandage where Dean had cut it during their last encounter. It got a grip on his shoulder this time. Dean nearly had to slip out of his increasingly battered leather jacket, the only form of armor he had, to escape.
~~~
Thing could appear out of nowhere, and frequently did. There was never any warning--no flash of light or rumble of sound or ground-shaking. Unless the hand appeared in front of him, Dean often didn’t know until he felt a tug on his boot, his jacket, his jeans.
Usually the hand was a right hand (Thing 1); sometimes it was a left hand (Thing 2). Sometimes it appeared wearing a glove. Sometimes bloody and bruised, with split knuckles and torn fingernails. Always it reached, clutched, clawed, snatched at Dean, attempting to grip him tight enough to drag him away.
Upon rare occasions, the hand was followed by a long arm, almost to a shoulder, and this really freaked Dean out. On those occasions, the hand had a longer reach, and the arm could hook him around the neck, get him in a choke hold, and cut off his air. It almost happened once, in a moment of overwhelming exhaustion.
He made sure his knife was sharp enough to cut through bone after that.
~~~
Thing was as much a distraction as a danger when it appeared in the middle of fight. Dean almost lost his jugular when Thing reached out of the chest of a werewolf Dean was trying to take down.
~~~
This Thing also seemed to have a personality of its own, which was not comforting. Though it could appear out of nowhere, sometimes it actually looked like it was trying to sneak.
It once invited him to high-five it.
Once, when it appeared out of the ground and grabbed his inner thigh, it seemed to startle a split second before tightening its grip and trying to pull him under. That moment of hesitation gave Dean the chance to fight back.
~~~
There were things in Purgatory that could get inside him. Literally, like the Khan Worm that Eve cooked up, that had made him kill Gwen. And mentally, things that could manipulate his wishes and fears, like the djinn.
The day Thing offered him a piece of pie, Dean’s fear of it increased exponentially.
~~~
Monthsyearsdecades passed. Dean started marking time by his encounters with Thing. He’d grown hyperaware of it, expecting it to appear any time he leaned against a tree, sat on a rock, fought a monster.
The only time he allowed himself to relax at all were those rare times when Cas was with him.
“How long have we been here, Cas?"
“I have no way of knowing.”
In the companionable silence, Dean savored the bit of . . . edible something . . . that Cas had brought.
“What’s the life expectancy in my family?”
Cas tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean without the hunting. Just an average, normal, everyday lifespan of an average member of my family.”
“Your family has hunted for generations. I cannot factor that out.”
“The Campbells, but not the Winchesters.”
“But your father was a soldier. You fight a different kind of war, but it is still war.” Cas’s brow furrowed. “Why do you ask?”
Dean shrugged, tried to brush the grime off of his hands. “Just wondered. I’m tired, Cas. I’m ready for it to be done. Just . . . done.”
“You must not give up, Dean. Time is irrelevant here. By my observation, you do not appear significantly older than when we first became trapped.”
“You mean aside from the hair, the beard, the wounds, and the mud?” Dean asked.
“Your beard is not that long,” Cas replied. “Don’t give up, Dean. I’ll find a way out.”
Dean smirked. He pulled his hand down his face, stroking the short beard. Four months or four hundred years, it didn’t matter. He couldn't keep going like this. It wasn't physically, humanly possible. Living in this constant hyper-alert, fight-or-flight state was going to kill him.
The next time Thing appeared, he wouldn’t run.
~~~
He stood in a space among the trees, pillars like a frame in a secluded spot away from the ever-present red eyes. He’d managed to dodge the pack one more time, and he’d almost managed to catch his breath. He straightened up and focused on getting his bearings. Silence. He waited.
His leather jacket hung off his frame. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt clean. His hair, face, jacket, jeans were caked with rancid mud that smelled a lot like a sewer.
Nothing stirred around him.
Suddenly, something latched onto the back of his jacket collar and yanked viciously, pulling him off of his feet. It pulled him through the doorframe, landing him against someone's solid form before he found himself on the floor and everything went black.
~finis~
A/N 2: This ditty was wholly inspired by this image. Because it wouldn't leave my brain.
Word Count: 1480
Summary: As Dean lay down for just a moment’s rest, a hand reached up through the ground at his ankle, like a zombie reaching from its grave.
Warnings: Post-"Survival of the Fittest." So, mild spoilers, etc. related to that.
Disclaimer: I still don't own any part of Show. Much more's the pity, yeah?
A/N: Consider this story AU. It was Carvered long ago, probably even before it was written. Still, an image stuck with me, and it kinda had to be written.
A/N 2: Additional info at the end of the story.
To Escape the Grasp
Of all the monsters he’d tangled with in Purgatory, he feared Thing the most.
He’d been there a few months (it felt like months), sometimes with Cas, sometimes not, when Thing started appearing. It never showed when Cas was around, but Cas wasn’t around very much.
“My energy is stronger than yours, Dean. I will act as a decoy and draw them away.” Sometimes it worked.
Sometimes it didn’t.
“Someone or something is pulling at me, Dean. Something is trying to pull me away.” That wasn’t something he wanted to hear, either.
“But I will not abandon you if I can help it.”
Dean spent most of his time fending for himself, fighting monsters both familiar and new. Some too familiar, with a personal history and a personal beef.
~~~
The first time the hand appeared, Dean had finally found someplace hidden from the glowing red eyes that always watched him. He was exhausted from fighting, from running. Hungry, because it had taken him weeks to figure out what was edible without making him ill, let alone nearly killing him. Thirsty, because most of the water here was swamp. Finding a clean puddle was nearly impossible. Stopping to catch palmfuls of the intermittent rain became common practice.
What he wouldn’t give for a slug of Bobby’s rotgut.
As Dean lay down for just a moment’s rest, a hand reached up through the ground at his ankle, like a zombie reaching from its grave. The earth around it was undisturbed as it grasped at Dean, clawed toward him, and gripped the leg of his jeans. Dean kicked at it frantically, scrambling away. The hand held on tightly, but Dean managed to knock it away, grabbing a dead branch that lay nearby and beating the hand until it was forced to release him and slip back under the surface of the ground.
~~~
Dean had kind of liked watching The Addams Family reruns when he was a kid: a weird family that knew weird things the rest of the world didn’t understand. A weird family that loved each other. Morticia was pretty hot, and Gomez was funny. Sam made up stories about how Uncle Fester could light a light bulb in his mouth.
Thing was the hand in the box that helped out around the house-got the mail, answered the telephone, stirred the soup, even had a passage to a knot hole in a tree in the yard. Dean imagined what kind of dark tunnels and passageways might exist in the house so that Thing could move from one room to another. Thing had a personality all his own and was really friendly. Sure, Dean knew it was just a guy hiding under the table, like a puppet show, but it was fun.
Then the movies came out, with Hollywood effects, and Thing got out of his box and scurried around the house like a spider or a crab or something. Not even a bloody stump. Just a hand. It was disappointing.
But this Thing was real, and grabby, and Dean wasn’t about to let it get its hooks in him.
The second time Thing showed up, it reached out at Dean from a tree. The hand was scratched up, like it'd gotten caught in a thorn bush or gone a few rounds with something with claws. But the tree bark was undisturbed, as if the tree or the hand were an apparition or a hologram, yet both had solid weight. Dean ducked out of reach and slashed its palm with his knife. The cut was deep; Dean saw the blood pool and drip before the hand pulled away, and he knew he had to get out of there, find someplace to hide. The scent of blood was like ringing the dinner bell.
~~~
The next time Thing showed, it appeared out of thin air, wearing a bandage where Dean had cut it during their last encounter. It got a grip on his shoulder this time. Dean nearly had to slip out of his increasingly battered leather jacket, the only form of armor he had, to escape.
~~~
Thing could appear out of nowhere, and frequently did. There was never any warning--no flash of light or rumble of sound or ground-shaking. Unless the hand appeared in front of him, Dean often didn’t know until he felt a tug on his boot, his jacket, his jeans.
Usually the hand was a right hand (Thing 1); sometimes it was a left hand (Thing 2). Sometimes it appeared wearing a glove. Sometimes bloody and bruised, with split knuckles and torn fingernails. Always it reached, clutched, clawed, snatched at Dean, attempting to grip him tight enough to drag him away.
Upon rare occasions, the hand was followed by a long arm, almost to a shoulder, and this really freaked Dean out. On those occasions, the hand had a longer reach, and the arm could hook him around the neck, get him in a choke hold, and cut off his air. It almost happened once, in a moment of overwhelming exhaustion.
He made sure his knife was sharp enough to cut through bone after that.
~~~
Thing was as much a distraction as a danger when it appeared in the middle of fight. Dean almost lost his jugular when Thing reached out of the chest of a werewolf Dean was trying to take down.
~~~
This Thing also seemed to have a personality of its own, which was not comforting. Though it could appear out of nowhere, sometimes it actually looked like it was trying to sneak.
It once invited him to high-five it.
Once, when it appeared out of the ground and grabbed his inner thigh, it seemed to startle a split second before tightening its grip and trying to pull him under. That moment of hesitation gave Dean the chance to fight back.
~~~
There were things in Purgatory that could get inside him. Literally, like the Khan Worm that Eve cooked up, that had made him kill Gwen. And mentally, things that could manipulate his wishes and fears, like the djinn.
The day Thing offered him a piece of pie, Dean’s fear of it increased exponentially.
~~~
Monthsyearsdecades passed. Dean started marking time by his encounters with Thing. He’d grown hyperaware of it, expecting it to appear any time he leaned against a tree, sat on a rock, fought a monster.
The only time he allowed himself to relax at all were those rare times when Cas was with him.
“How long have we been here, Cas?"
“I have no way of knowing.”
In the companionable silence, Dean savored the bit of . . . edible something . . . that Cas had brought.
“What’s the life expectancy in my family?”
Cas tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean without the hunting. Just an average, normal, everyday lifespan of an average member of my family.”
“Your family has hunted for generations. I cannot factor that out.”
“The Campbells, but not the Winchesters.”
“But your father was a soldier. You fight a different kind of war, but it is still war.” Cas’s brow furrowed. “Why do you ask?”
Dean shrugged, tried to brush the grime off of his hands. “Just wondered. I’m tired, Cas. I’m ready for it to be done. Just . . . done.”
“You must not give up, Dean. Time is irrelevant here. By my observation, you do not appear significantly older than when we first became trapped.”
“You mean aside from the hair, the beard, the wounds, and the mud?” Dean asked.
“Your beard is not that long,” Cas replied. “Don’t give up, Dean. I’ll find a way out.”
Dean smirked. He pulled his hand down his face, stroking the short beard. Four months or four hundred years, it didn’t matter. He couldn't keep going like this. It wasn't physically, humanly possible. Living in this constant hyper-alert, fight-or-flight state was going to kill him.
The next time Thing appeared, he wouldn’t run.
~~~
He stood in a space among the trees, pillars like a frame in a secluded spot away from the ever-present red eyes. He’d managed to dodge the pack one more time, and he’d almost managed to catch his breath. He straightened up and focused on getting his bearings. Silence. He waited.
His leather jacket hung off his frame. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt clean. His hair, face, jacket, jeans were caked with rancid mud that smelled a lot like a sewer.
Nothing stirred around him.
Suddenly, something latched onto the back of his jacket collar and yanked viciously, pulling him off of his feet. It pulled him through the doorframe, landing him against someone's solid form before he found himself on the floor and everything went black.
~finis~
A/N 2: This ditty was wholly inspired by this image. Because it wouldn't leave my brain.
