Untitled
Title Untitled
Topic Supernatural
Genre Angst, Horror, Torture
Rating T
Characters Dean Winchester
Challenge Written for spnquotefic. (Sam: Dean, always with the scissors)
Spoilers Through season 5
The screaming didn’t bother him anymore. It used to; it would crawl under his skin like a thin metal knife and twist and turn until he couldn’t take it anymore. Then he would open his mouth and join the sick, damages chorus until his throat was raw and his mouth was bleeding. Then he’d keep screaming.
The smell didn’t affect him as much, either. At first, it wormed its way into his nostrils, and like acid, burn up his nose and down his throat until he threw up over and over, even though he hadn’t eaten anything for years. It was like he was living in a dumpster filled only with carcasses and mutilated bodies, only worse. It took a while, but eventually he started to add to the never-ending stench, his skin always covered in a thin layer of guts and blood; it coated his mouth like sand in a desert. No matter how many times he spit or emptied his stomach, it was still there.
Then, there was the view. Sometimes, it was just miles and miles of blackness, as far as he could see, and then some. The darkness was so vast and he was so tiny he felt like he was alone in the world, the only one to push back the black and fight for the light. Only, in this fairytale, he had already lost. Sometimes, he waded through a pile of bodies, all maimed and disfigured. Some would be missing heads, while others only had half of the original. Yet he wasn’t pushing his way through corpses, because they moved with him, all trying to get to someplace else. He had to fight against the limbs and lacerations, the single most important thin on his mind was getting to his destination; only, he couldn’t remember where he was going. Then he would look down, realize that he was one of the butchered souls, and the screaming would start all over again.
The worst of it, though, was the fear. It was a palpable thing, no longer just a feeling that caused him to stay up at night and place a very large knife under his pillow. It was mixed right in there, with the gore and the blood, covering his skin and his tongue, seeping through his pours and dominating every inch of his being. No matter how far he ran, how loud he screamed, or how many times he ripped himself to shreds, the
fear would always be there.
All those sights and sounds and tastes, they used to haunt him every second of every day. It drove him to the brink of insanity, where he would stand, his toes over the edge, willing himself to jump. Then he would blink, and it would start all over again, from the beginning; only, the memories of the horrors behind him never faded.
He had long ago forgotten the names that had once been the only things to pass his lips. He didn’t remember his name, or what he was supposed to be, or what he had been doing before he came to this place. All he knew was that this was where he was, and this was his job.
The tabled was laid out before him, the only neat and organized thing in a universe of chaos. The instruments were all so shiny and clean; they had that new metal glimmer. He knew that, by the end of the work-day they would be covered in misery and gore - all the more beautiful. He ran his finger over the sharp blades of the knives, the dull ends of the hammers, and the painful pricks of needles; and that was only the beginning. If he grew bored, he could request more, and they would always give him what he wanted.
He glanced at the soul that was stretched out in front of him. It laid there - surrounded by screams, it’s nose clogged with the stench of a thousand bodies a thousand times over, it’s eyes filled with the horrors that surrounded it, and it’s entire body wracked with fear. He stood there, the corner of his lips turning slight upwards. The soul on his table sobbed, and he just stood there, debating what to use first. His hand reached out, confidently grabbing his chosen instrument, and he got to work, adding another scream to the chorus. It didn’t bother him at all.
Dean always chose the scissors.
Topic Supernatural
Genre Angst, Horror, Torture
Rating T
Characters Dean Winchester
Challenge Written for spnquotefic. (Sam: Dean, always with the scissors)
Spoilers Through season 5
The screaming didn’t bother him anymore. It used to; it would crawl under his skin like a thin metal knife and twist and turn until he couldn’t take it anymore. Then he would open his mouth and join the sick, damages chorus until his throat was raw and his mouth was bleeding. Then he’d keep screaming.
The smell didn’t affect him as much, either. At first, it wormed its way into his nostrils, and like acid, burn up his nose and down his throat until he threw up over and over, even though he hadn’t eaten anything for years. It was like he was living in a dumpster filled only with carcasses and mutilated bodies, only worse. It took a while, but eventually he started to add to the never-ending stench, his skin always covered in a thin layer of guts and blood; it coated his mouth like sand in a desert. No matter how many times he spit or emptied his stomach, it was still there.
Then, there was the view. Sometimes, it was just miles and miles of blackness, as far as he could see, and then some. The darkness was so vast and he was so tiny he felt like he was alone in the world, the only one to push back the black and fight for the light. Only, in this fairytale, he had already lost. Sometimes, he waded through a pile of bodies, all maimed and disfigured. Some would be missing heads, while others only had half of the original. Yet he wasn’t pushing his way through corpses, because they moved with him, all trying to get to someplace else. He had to fight against the limbs and lacerations, the single most important thin on his mind was getting to his destination; only, he couldn’t remember where he was going. Then he would look down, realize that he was one of the butchered souls, and the screaming would start all over again.
The worst of it, though, was the fear. It was a palpable thing, no longer just a feeling that caused him to stay up at night and place a very large knife under his pillow. It was mixed right in there, with the gore and the blood, covering his skin and his tongue, seeping through his pours and dominating every inch of his being. No matter how far he ran, how loud he screamed, or how many times he ripped himself to shreds, the
fear would always be there.
All those sights and sounds and tastes, they used to haunt him every second of every day. It drove him to the brink of insanity, where he would stand, his toes over the edge, willing himself to jump. Then he would blink, and it would start all over again, from the beginning; only, the memories of the horrors behind him never faded.
He had long ago forgotten the names that had once been the only things to pass his lips. He didn’t remember his name, or what he was supposed to be, or what he had been doing before he came to this place. All he knew was that this was where he was, and this was his job.
The tabled was laid out before him, the only neat and organized thing in a universe of chaos. The instruments were all so shiny and clean; they had that new metal glimmer. He knew that, by the end of the work-day they would be covered in misery and gore - all the more beautiful. He ran his finger over the sharp blades of the knives, the dull ends of the hammers, and the painful pricks of needles; and that was only the beginning. If he grew bored, he could request more, and they would always give him what he wanted.
He glanced at the soul that was stretched out in front of him. It laid there - surrounded by screams, it’s nose clogged with the stench of a thousand bodies a thousand times over, it’s eyes filled with the horrors that surrounded it, and it’s entire body wracked with fear. He stood there, the corner of his lips turning slight upwards. The soul on his table sobbed, and he just stood there, debating what to use first. His hand reached out, confidently grabbing his chosen instrument, and he got to work, adding another scream to the chorus. It didn’t bother him at all.
Dean always chose the scissors.