Fic: Four Months - 120 Years
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Four Months - 120 Years (1/?)
Author: my_atlantis
Rating: R for violence(more in later chapters)
Pairing: Gen
Summary: For the first time in an eternity, he feels a cool breeze brush across his brow.
Spoilers: Up to 4x02, just to be on the safe side.
Warnings: Dean comes back, but not by the grace of an angel. Lots of angst, dark themes, and violence.
For the first time in an eternity, he feels a cool breeze brush across his brow.
For the first time in an eternity, he can breathe without the iron tang of blood filling his lungs.
For the first time in an eternity, he doesn’t feel cagedboxedsmothered in constant agonytormentmisery.
For the first time….
Hazel eyes snap open, then quickly squeeze shut again. The light, its too bright, too perfect. Blinding, but the warmth from the light’s rays effuse his skin, comforting him almost in apology. Slowly this time, first one cracked eyelid opens, then another, letting his pupils dilate and contract accordingly, trying to become accustomed. Above him, clouds made of down lazily roll across a backdrop of the purest cerulean, verdant green fronds edge his peripheral. The green confuses him, then suddenly. Its corn. Something he can remember. He’s flat on his back in the middle of a cornfield, bent stalks pressing up uncomfortably beneath him.
And then his chest is aching, burning up from the inside. His mouth drops open involuntarily, and grateful lungs suck in cold, sweet air, relieving him of the abrupt pain. Automatic body functions expel the used oxygen, then draw in another deep breath until the motions settle into a regular rhythm. He remains motionless save for breathing, then musters up enough strength to stagger to his feet.
Looking around, he spies a stretch of lonely blacktop about a quarter mile to the southwest. An unsettling feeling that itches from underneath his skin drives him there, stumbling onto the blistering asphalt, unaware or just ignorant of the way it scalds the bottom of his bare feet. Standing immobile, perched on the edge of the road for who knows how long, and then it appears. A lone man roaring down the strip on a classic motorcycle, slowing and then stopping twenty feet from where he stood, an incredulous frown appearing on the stranger’s face.
“Hey dude, you okay? Why are you out here in the middle of nowhere with no clothes on? You get mugged or something?”
He takes one step, then another forward.
“Hey, you okay? Hey, stay there buddy. Are you hurt? Don’t come any closer.” The man’s voice begins to rise with the faint beginnings of fear; of the unknown, of the way his face is completely devoid, eyes a vacant window to a body with no soul.
Two more steps, then everything goes under in a violent haze of red.
- - -
“Jack, neat.”
“You got it, four bucks.”
The light from the streetlamp outside doesn’t do the inside of the dive bar any justice. Long shadows envelop the room, masking the decorative splashes of paint on the wall. They also curl around the bodies entombed inside, still alive and moving as of yet, but making their movements sluggish as if everyone was subdued on the same sedative. Exchanging money from a stranger’s wallet for the drink, he retreats to a stool at the corner of the long bar, hooking his feet on the bottom rungs of the stool and watching all the other patrons’ reflections in the mirror on the back wall. The prickling sensation, like ants crawling up inside of him, has long since eased, apparently complacent for the moment. Another man’s clothes covers his body now, slightly too big for his withered frame, but better than nothing. Another man’s motorcycle is now his trusty steed, but faint longing for another means of transportation pulls at him. Beyond the here and now, nothing drives him, he feels like another is controlling his motions from the outside, a puppet toy lost without its master. One thing bubbles up from the recesses of his memory though.
“You got a name, stranger?” Cheap lipstick and tacky eyeshadow covering a plain face beams at him from the stool next over, empty drink in her hand and the others surrounding her giving a clue to her obvious intoxication.
“Sam.” Somehow he knows that’s not his name, but it’s the only thing he’s got.
- - -
She stinks of cheap perfume and dry menthol smoke, the two a nauseating combination that makes his stomach curdle. She’s obviously gone beyond recognition, but that doesn’t stop her spindly fingers from stripping him of his new clothes and pushing him back onto the scratchy sheets of the motel bed, the woolen fibers sharp and stinging against his skin.
He lies still as she covers his body with her own, pulling and tugging reactions from his body as he stares up at the ceiling, absently counting the hairline fractures in the tiles. After a while she collapses next to him, noxious breath fanning over his face as she sloppily presses kisses to his brow, nose, cheeks, and chin, but not his mouth. The itch is starting to return, like biting needles marching their way up the backs of his legs. He can’t pinpoint the reason behind the feeling, or why it makes him feel like if he doesn’t let it out soon the unease will consume him whole. All that matters is that it feels like a beast is breathing down his neck, fangs and tongue salivating at the chance to rip him apart.
“Was that good for you, sweetness? Or does sugar mama gotta give you another ride-” Her eyes widen in shock, and he merely blinks. Her blood, warm and sticky glides over his fist and down his arm, pooling on the mattress underneath his elbow. His fingers tighten around the weakly pulsing muscle within their grip, another choking gasp coming from her slack mouth. He counts off the beats, up and then back down from ten as the feeling begins to ebb like a tide back out to sea. When it fades away to nothingness at last, he lifts his eyes to her face, -so strangely pale underneath her layer of makeup- and feels hollow inside as he crushes her heart in his hand like a rotten apple.
Title: Four Months - 120 Years (1/?)
Author: my_atlantis
Rating: R for violence(more in later chapters)
Pairing: Gen
Summary: For the first time in an eternity, he feels a cool breeze brush across his brow.
Spoilers: Up to 4x02, just to be on the safe side.
Warnings: Dean comes back, but not by the grace of an angel. Lots of angst, dark themes, and violence.
For the first time in an eternity, he feels a cool breeze brush across his brow.
For the first time in an eternity, he can breathe without the iron tang of blood filling his lungs.
For the first time in an eternity, he doesn’t feel cagedboxedsmothered in constant agonytormentmisery.
For the first time….
Hazel eyes snap open, then quickly squeeze shut again. The light, its too bright, too perfect. Blinding, but the warmth from the light’s rays effuse his skin, comforting him almost in apology. Slowly this time, first one cracked eyelid opens, then another, letting his pupils dilate and contract accordingly, trying to become accustomed. Above him, clouds made of down lazily roll across a backdrop of the purest cerulean, verdant green fronds edge his peripheral. The green confuses him, then suddenly. Its corn. Something he can remember. He’s flat on his back in the middle of a cornfield, bent stalks pressing up uncomfortably beneath him.
And then his chest is aching, burning up from the inside. His mouth drops open involuntarily, and grateful lungs suck in cold, sweet air, relieving him of the abrupt pain. Automatic body functions expel the used oxygen, then draw in another deep breath until the motions settle into a regular rhythm. He remains motionless save for breathing, then musters up enough strength to stagger to his feet.
Looking around, he spies a stretch of lonely blacktop about a quarter mile to the southwest. An unsettling feeling that itches from underneath his skin drives him there, stumbling onto the blistering asphalt, unaware or just ignorant of the way it scalds the bottom of his bare feet. Standing immobile, perched on the edge of the road for who knows how long, and then it appears. A lone man roaring down the strip on a classic motorcycle, slowing and then stopping twenty feet from where he stood, an incredulous frown appearing on the stranger’s face.
“Hey dude, you okay? Why are you out here in the middle of nowhere with no clothes on? You get mugged or something?”
He takes one step, then another forward.
“Hey, you okay? Hey, stay there buddy. Are you hurt? Don’t come any closer.” The man’s voice begins to rise with the faint beginnings of fear; of the unknown, of the way his face is completely devoid, eyes a vacant window to a body with no soul.
Two more steps, then everything goes under in a violent haze of red.
- - -
“Jack, neat.”
“You got it, four bucks.”
The light from the streetlamp outside doesn’t do the inside of the dive bar any justice. Long shadows envelop the room, masking the decorative splashes of paint on the wall. They also curl around the bodies entombed inside, still alive and moving as of yet, but making their movements sluggish as if everyone was subdued on the same sedative. Exchanging money from a stranger’s wallet for the drink, he retreats to a stool at the corner of the long bar, hooking his feet on the bottom rungs of the stool and watching all the other patrons’ reflections in the mirror on the back wall. The prickling sensation, like ants crawling up inside of him, has long since eased, apparently complacent for the moment. Another man’s clothes covers his body now, slightly too big for his withered frame, but better than nothing. Another man’s motorcycle is now his trusty steed, but faint longing for another means of transportation pulls at him. Beyond the here and now, nothing drives him, he feels like another is controlling his motions from the outside, a puppet toy lost without its master. One thing bubbles up from the recesses of his memory though.
“You got a name, stranger?” Cheap lipstick and tacky eyeshadow covering a plain face beams at him from the stool next over, empty drink in her hand and the others surrounding her giving a clue to her obvious intoxication.
“Sam.” Somehow he knows that’s not his name, but it’s the only thing he’s got.
- - -
She stinks of cheap perfume and dry menthol smoke, the two a nauseating combination that makes his stomach curdle. She’s obviously gone beyond recognition, but that doesn’t stop her spindly fingers from stripping him of his new clothes and pushing him back onto the scratchy sheets of the motel bed, the woolen fibers sharp and stinging against his skin.
He lies still as she covers his body with her own, pulling and tugging reactions from his body as he stares up at the ceiling, absently counting the hairline fractures in the tiles. After a while she collapses next to him, noxious breath fanning over his face as she sloppily presses kisses to his brow, nose, cheeks, and chin, but not his mouth. The itch is starting to return, like biting needles marching their way up the backs of his legs. He can’t pinpoint the reason behind the feeling, or why it makes him feel like if he doesn’t let it out soon the unease will consume him whole. All that matters is that it feels like a beast is breathing down his neck, fangs and tongue salivating at the chance to rip him apart.
“Was that good for you, sweetness? Or does sugar mama gotta give you another ride-” Her eyes widen in shock, and he merely blinks. Her blood, warm and sticky glides over his fist and down his arm, pooling on the mattress underneath his elbow. His fingers tighten around the weakly pulsing muscle within their grip, another choking gasp coming from her slack mouth. He counts off the beats, up and then back down from ten as the feeling begins to ebb like a tide back out to sea. When it fades away to nothingness at last, he lifts his eyes to her face, -so strangely pale underneath her layer of makeup- and feels hollow inside as he crushes her heart in his hand like a rotten apple.