Black Clouds
Title: Black Clouds
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Back when Dean was in the pit, Alastair put a trigger in his head. Now, at some vague point post-S6, it's time for Dean to start torturing again.
Alastair POV because, well, because I'm sick. Also, if you want to avoid even the most general S6 spoilers (that won't make sense to you without having seen it anyway) you should probably skip the paragraph that starts with That's the one thing you miss...
Fill for 'Brainwashing' on my angst_bingo card and written for the Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme (#5) on hoodie_time .
Today's the day. You feel it in every part of your being. Today, Dean Winchester will once again wield his razor, slice and hack and stab until all that's left is your beautiful protégé.
The human brain is a miserable, pathetic little thing that's easily rewired with shiny new additions buried under old layers, so deep you're the only one who remembers they're even there.
Movies make it look easy, but really, brainwashing is an art form. An eternity of fixing the smallest details, painting and sculpting until the triggers, the cracks, the beautiful buried darkness all play together like a well practiced orchestra. Just in case you ever manage to get out, pet, you used to whisper into his ear, all the while kneading and rearranging the wiring in Dean Winchester's soul's mind.
It took forever for someone to utter the phrase, but you don't mind anymore.
It's fun watching your boy squirm and struggle every single day as he tries to push the darkness all the way down where he can pretend it's not there at all. It's like those first few years when he was in the pit. All delicate and breakable and convinced he could fight you off with a healthy dose of piss and vinegar.
That's the one thing you miss here, really, where all you can do is watch. Eve said something about getting everyone out, but somehow that didn't work out and nobody here likes to discuss Purgatory business with the outsiders that only got stuck here because there was no other place left to go, so you can only guess the Hardy Boys must have screwed up the mother's plan as well.
In the beginning you were shaking with the need to cutsliceSHATTER, but by now you have come to appreciate the joys of being a voyeur. It's rewarding on an all 'nother kind of level.
The waiting, the apprehension, the fear that you boy's meat suit might kick it before anyone ever gets the chance to say it and then -
"Good morning sir, is your family protected against an attack by killer bees?"
You almost went with something Manchurian-esque - but little Dean-o never did join the armed forces and he's missing a middle name to make it work, so you decided to pick something he used to babble in his pain-filled dreams. You sort of like the randomness.
The old, buried lessons bubble up inside him. You can see him struggling against it for a second, but then his eyes go blank and his jaw squares and you know that black cloud of lust and pain and fear you planted deep inside of him is settling over every other part of his reassembledPRETTYshinyhurting soul.
"Sammy," he growls, hangs up on the insurance man without saying good bye.
Before Sam can do much more than lift his head a couple of inches it's getting slammed back into the headboard. You watch your boy overpower the giant loaf of muscle and hair he calls brother with nothing but a few well aimed punches. Quick and efficient ond oh so beautiful.
It's a symphony of blood and pain and pleaseDeannoyoudontwannadothisplease, the pitter-patter of tiny drops of blood on the filthy motel room floor. It's like the ancient, eternal song of hell, recreated for your ears and your ears only.
Your boy's still got it. You taught him well and even after all these years he knows how to keep his victim alive and conscious for as long as possible - reassembling the broken pieces of a human being so you can slice him up again is such a pain in the you-know-what on earth. The cuts are precise, just right and the way he says Sammy every time he gets into his little brother's personal space, breathing hot puffs of air down his bruised throat, you feel your entire being shiver and writhe and moan. He's your best. After all those Millennia, he's your masterpiece.
The best part is a little while later when Sam chokes on his own blood while trying to perform some useless exorcism. It comes spluttering upwards, thick and dark red and trickles back down into his lungs, gets coughed up again, where it clings to his cracked lips and teeth and lands on the canvas that is Sam's shirt.
Dean laughs and you feel like clapping him on the back. Good job, Daniel-san. So much promise, so much raw talent.
He makes Sam wait. Plays with the razor blade just over the nape of Sam's neck until he's shivering and twitching and still begging, always with the begging, same as his brother. The teasing is the best part of it. The victim's fear raw and delicious on your tongue. Just ask any wolf or lion.
You're weeping with joy by the time your little soldier reaches for the knife Sam got for his fourteenth birthday ("Dad went all out man, don't think he spent that much money on all my birthday presents combined and get this, the little bitch goes and tells him he won't need a knife once he's a famous magician. Ha. Can you believe the balls on that kid, Al?")
And then it stops. Sam isn't seeing Dean anymore. He's calling him Lucifer. Michael. Is begging them to stop and something in his brother's brain switches again and the dark cloud gets pushed down, all the way down until the brilliant green of his eyes gets frantic and his blood slick fingers are trying to get his baby brother free of the tight ropes that bind him to the plastic chair.
"Sammy," he says again, in that other voice that he used when you'd walk up to him with Sam's face and cut off his eye-lids so he'd have to watch his baby brother slice him up. Always with the begging these Winchester boys.
"Sammy..."
You're getting bored of this. The magic's over. Now it's just to blubbering messes sitting in a pool of dark red blood. Dean keeps trying to touch his brother's face, soothe him, make the nightmares stop and Sam keeps shrinking away from the crimson fingers, mumbling about please and sorry and no more.
You pull back from them, if you wanted to watch a pathetic bunch of siblings cry their hearts out over the unfairness of their lives you could just go spend time with the children Eve left down here.
The last thing you see is your boy getting up, tears streaming down his face, reaching for the shotgun on the table.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Back when Dean was in the pit, Alastair put a trigger in his head. Now, at some vague point post-S6, it's time for Dean to start torturing again.
Alastair POV because, well, because I'm sick. Also, if you want to avoid even the most general S6 spoilers (that won't make sense to you without having seen it anyway) you should probably skip the paragraph that starts with That's the one thing you miss...
Fill for 'Brainwashing' on my angst_bingo card and written for the Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme (#5) on hoodie_time .
Today's the day. You feel it in every part of your being. Today, Dean Winchester will once again wield his razor, slice and hack and stab until all that's left is your beautiful protégé.
The human brain is a miserable, pathetic little thing that's easily rewired with shiny new additions buried under old layers, so deep you're the only one who remembers they're even there.
Movies make it look easy, but really, brainwashing is an art form. An eternity of fixing the smallest details, painting and sculpting until the triggers, the cracks, the beautiful buried darkness all play together like a well practiced orchestra. Just in case you ever manage to get out, pet, you used to whisper into his ear, all the while kneading and rearranging the wiring in Dean Winchester's soul's mind.
It took forever for someone to utter the phrase, but you don't mind anymore.
It's fun watching your boy squirm and struggle every single day as he tries to push the darkness all the way down where he can pretend it's not there at all. It's like those first few years when he was in the pit. All delicate and breakable and convinced he could fight you off with a healthy dose of piss and vinegar.
That's the one thing you miss here, really, where all you can do is watch. Eve said something about getting everyone out, but somehow that didn't work out and nobody here likes to discuss Purgatory business with the outsiders that only got stuck here because there was no other place left to go, so you can only guess the Hardy Boys must have screwed up the mother's plan as well.
In the beginning you were shaking with the need to cutsliceSHATTER, but by now you have come to appreciate the joys of being a voyeur. It's rewarding on an all 'nother kind of level.
The waiting, the apprehension, the fear that you boy's meat suit might kick it before anyone ever gets the chance to say it and then -
"Good morning sir, is your family protected against an attack by killer bees?"
You almost went with something Manchurian-esque - but little Dean-o never did join the armed forces and he's missing a middle name to make it work, so you decided to pick something he used to babble in his pain-filled dreams. You sort of like the randomness.
The old, buried lessons bubble up inside him. You can see him struggling against it for a second, but then his eyes go blank and his jaw squares and you know that black cloud of lust and pain and fear you planted deep inside of him is settling over every other part of his reassembledPRETTYshinyhurting soul.
"Sammy," he growls, hangs up on the insurance man without saying good bye.
Before Sam can do much more than lift his head a couple of inches it's getting slammed back into the headboard. You watch your boy overpower the giant loaf of muscle and hair he calls brother with nothing but a few well aimed punches. Quick and efficient ond oh so beautiful.
It's a symphony of blood and pain and pleaseDeannoyoudontwannadothisplease, the pitter-patter of tiny drops of blood on the filthy motel room floor. It's like the ancient, eternal song of hell, recreated for your ears and your ears only.
Your boy's still got it. You taught him well and even after all these years he knows how to keep his victim alive and conscious for as long as possible - reassembling the broken pieces of a human being so you can slice him up again is such a pain in the you-know-what on earth. The cuts are precise, just right and the way he says Sammy every time he gets into his little brother's personal space, breathing hot puffs of air down his bruised throat, you feel your entire being shiver and writhe and moan. He's your best. After all those Millennia, he's your masterpiece.
The best part is a little while later when Sam chokes on his own blood while trying to perform some useless exorcism. It comes spluttering upwards, thick and dark red and trickles back down into his lungs, gets coughed up again, where it clings to his cracked lips and teeth and lands on the canvas that is Sam's shirt.
Dean laughs and you feel like clapping him on the back. Good job, Daniel-san. So much promise, so much raw talent.
He makes Sam wait. Plays with the razor blade just over the nape of Sam's neck until he's shivering and twitching and still begging, always with the begging, same as his brother. The teasing is the best part of it. The victim's fear raw and delicious on your tongue. Just ask any wolf or lion.
You're weeping with joy by the time your little soldier reaches for the knife Sam got for his fourteenth birthday ("Dad went all out man, don't think he spent that much money on all my birthday presents combined and get this, the little bitch goes and tells him he won't need a knife once he's a famous magician. Ha. Can you believe the balls on that kid, Al?")
And then it stops. Sam isn't seeing Dean anymore. He's calling him Lucifer. Michael. Is begging them to stop and something in his brother's brain switches again and the dark cloud gets pushed down, all the way down until the brilliant green of his eyes gets frantic and his blood slick fingers are trying to get his baby brother free of the tight ropes that bind him to the plastic chair.
"Sammy," he says again, in that other voice that he used when you'd walk up to him with Sam's face and cut off his eye-lids so he'd have to watch his baby brother slice him up. Always with the begging these Winchester boys.
"Sammy..."
You're getting bored of this. The magic's over. Now it's just to blubbering messes sitting in a pool of dark red blood. Dean keeps trying to touch his brother's face, soothe him, make the nightmares stop and Sam keeps shrinking away from the crimson fingers, mumbling about please and sorry and no more.
You pull back from them, if you wanted to watch a pathetic bunch of siblings cry their hearts out over the unfairness of their lives you could just go spend time with the children Eve left down here.
The last thing you see is your boy getting up, tears streaming down his face, reaching for the shotgun on the table.