Re: Filled: Flesh on Bone, PG13, disturbing imagery, horror, gore 2/?honeylocusttreeMay 22 2012, 00:03:44 UTC
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He walks, at least. Or, Sam walks and Dean trails awkwardly after him. His leg is shredded, literally, skin hanging off, muscle glistening and blood pulsing with every step. He’s been out of purgatory for fifteen minutes, just enough time for Sam to assess the damage, clean up the worst of the dirt. Enough time for him to vomit in the corner of the shack. Enough to say, “Hospital, Jesus, hospital,” over and over like a mantra.
He can’t carry his brother and he won’t drag him. Can’t risk laying hands on him, for the wild fear that if he misjudges some part will drop off. And so he coaxes Dean toward the car and his brother-what’s left of his brother-follows, left hand clutching the right to his stomach, broken fingers twitching.
Sam imagines Dean’s mind must be a white inferno of agony. He wonders if Dean’s even aware of himself.
He turns away from the shambling mess of bones and skin behind him and keeps moving forward and its only when he’s reached the car that he turns back and realizes Dean’s stopped. Has sunk to the ground, unmoving. Hands clasped together and out to the side, face turned into the earth. It’s hard to make out the shape of him, precisely, lying so still. Parts of him grey-brown, parts dull red, the rust of old blood. Sam catches a glimpse of bone, white shoulder blade peeking out.
He hustles across the hard earth and squats down, hisses, “You have to get up. You have to get up.” Hands hovering above where he thinks Dean’s shoulders are. He watches his back rise and fall, stuttering with uneven, shallow breathes. He can see an impression of Dean’s spine under the skin at the back of his neck. Individual nodules, tumorous and stark.
There’s a strange, clattering noise. Sam realizes it’s his teeth, chattering. His skin is cold. He’s afraid that if he touches his brother, there won’t be anything but flayed skin and shards of bone.
“Get up,” he whispers, “Get up get up get up.”
The broken hand twitches. Slowly, achingly slowly, Dean’s arms draw in toward his chest. The blade catches the light, briefly. The surface of the metal is greasy.
Dean makes a noise. Not like before, the blobby syllables empty of meaning. This one has meaning, this one is long and drawn out and reedy, a sound beyond human experience, a sound that comes out of the earth.
It goes on and on. It makes the sky something horrible. Sam claps his hands over his ears but it doesn’t help.
When Dean starts to choke Sam grabs him by one shoulder and one arm, hauls him up and around. Dean makes an abortive motion with his weapon hand and Sam grabs on, grabs Deans wrist. His brother jerks at the contact and his eyes roll up in his head. His knees go limp.
“Get up,” Sam whispers, as he hoists his brother up, clutches him bodily to his chest, and stands there swaying and trying to ignore the stench of decay. “Get up get up get up.”
He walks, at least. Or, Sam walks and Dean trails awkwardly after him. His leg is shredded, literally, skin hanging off, muscle glistening and blood pulsing with every step. He’s been out of purgatory for fifteen minutes, just enough time for Sam to assess the damage, clean up the worst of the dirt. Enough time for him to vomit in the corner of the shack. Enough to say, “Hospital, Jesus, hospital,” over and over like a mantra.
He can’t carry his brother and he won’t drag him. Can’t risk laying hands on him, for the wild fear that if he misjudges some part will drop off. And so he coaxes Dean toward the car and his brother-what’s left of his brother-follows, left hand clutching the right to his stomach, broken fingers twitching.
Sam imagines Dean’s mind must be a white inferno of agony. He wonders if Dean’s even aware of himself.
He turns away from the shambling mess of bones and skin behind him and keeps moving forward and its only when he’s reached the car that he turns back and realizes Dean’s stopped. Has sunk to the ground, unmoving. Hands clasped together and out to the side, face turned into the earth. It’s hard to make out the shape of him, precisely, lying so still. Parts of him grey-brown, parts dull red, the rust of old blood. Sam catches a glimpse of bone, white shoulder blade peeking out.
He hustles across the hard earth and squats down, hisses, “You have to get up. You have to get up.” Hands hovering above where he thinks Dean’s shoulders are. He watches his back rise and fall, stuttering with uneven, shallow breathes. He can see an impression of Dean’s spine under the skin at the back of his neck. Individual nodules, tumorous and stark.
There’s a strange, clattering noise. Sam realizes it’s his teeth, chattering. His skin is cold. He’s afraid that if he touches his brother, there won’t be anything but flayed skin and shards of bone.
“Get up,” he whispers, “Get up get up get up.”
The broken hand twitches. Slowly, achingly slowly, Dean’s arms draw in toward his chest. The blade catches the light, briefly. The surface of the metal is greasy.
Dean makes a noise. Not like before, the blobby syllables empty of meaning. This one has meaning, this one is long and drawn out and reedy, a sound beyond human experience, a sound that comes out of the earth.
It goes on and on. It makes the sky something horrible. Sam claps his hands over his ears but it doesn’t help.
When Dean starts to choke Sam grabs him by one shoulder and one arm, hauls him up and around. Dean makes an abortive motion with his weapon hand and Sam grabs on, grabs Deans wrist. His brother jerks at the contact and his eyes roll up in his head. His knees go limp.
“Get up,” Sam whispers, as he hoists his brother up, clutches him bodily to his chest, and stands there swaying and trying to ignore the stench of decay. “Get up get up get up.”
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