Man in the Shadow
Title: Man in the Shadow
Rating: PG.-13
Wordcount: 1200
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Dean's run-in with a crazy preacher sets off his memories of hell.
Written for a prompt by supernoodle77 on the Dean focused h/c comment fic meme #4 on hoodie_time and as a fill for 'Religion' on my angst_bingo card.
supernoodle77 also made the awesome illustration for her prompt long before I ever started writing this.
"He oughta be in a hospital," Bobby says for the third time in as many hours and Sam keeps shaking his head.
Hospitals won't do Dean any good. Never have.
Insurance card is busted, kid.
Hey Sam, would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?
Find someone else. It's not me.
None of Dean's injuries are life threatening and a hospital is the last place that will make him better, Sam knows that much. Hospitals don't do Dean any good.
:: :: ::
"The Lord picked you."
It's the first thing Dean hears. And damnit he told Sam that with their track record with angels of the Lord, working cases involving crazy paramilitary pentecostal sects should be near the bottom of their to-do list. Somewhere around 'go skinny dipping in boiling lava' maybe. Or 'get Bobby a new guard dog'. Or -
"He said to get you ready to serve Him."
Dean's tied to a chair. Head throbbing somewhere behind his right ear. Enough fingers broken to be worth jack shit when it comes to working open the tight knots of the ropes that are wound around his wrists.
"I'm sorry," the thick, honey sweet voice drawls out in the darkness. "You need to renounce the devil first."
Dean struggles against the ropes on principle. Curses over the girly yelp when pain shoots through his hands and wrists, up into his shoulders.
"The Lord has chosen you."
"Seriously? If Cas put you up to this I'ma kick his feathery, pampered ass. Lemme the fuck go."
Just outside Dean's line of vision he can hear footsteps. Somebody steps closer.
Not fluttering feathers.
"We will need to work on that. You need to be at peace before you can serve our father."
:: :: ::
Dean just showed up earlier today, maybe an hour after Bobby made Sam take a break from his frantic search for his brother.
Just stood there on the doorstep, staring off into space, covered with blood - his own as well as Father Greg's from what Sam can tell - like an extra straight out of a John Carpenter movie.
Sam had half a mind to ship him off to the loony bin, right then and there when he started giggling like a madman, leaving red hand and footprints all over Bobby's library.
The giggling stopped though. Now Dean is just staring off into space with a distant, loopy smile plastered on his split lips. Sam is fairly sure that's worse.
:: :: ::
Knives. He can taste the steelbloodpain on his tongue long before Father Greg ever picks them up. They glisten out in the darkness. Call to him to slicehackSCREAMhurt.
:: :: ::
Bobby's working through his library. Says he has a couple of leads, but Sam doubts he will find anything useful. Fucked-up, pentecostal whackjob, sort of cancels out satanic witch craft as far as Sam can tell.
Though they thought the same thing back in Nebraska, the first time Dean was dying.
:: :: ::
Greg sings.
Dean sneers over the pain and panicked fluttering of his heart. "Jeez, you suck at this."
Blood runs into Dean's eye.
:: :: ::
The sun filters through the thick red curtains, leaves fine lines of light and shadow, criss-crossing over the cuts and welts on Dean's face and forearms.
Dean's hand traces the pattern on his forearm, wets his lips, nervously rocks back and forth on the soft sofa until Sam is swaying with him.
Sam doesn't push him, doesn't ask what's wrong this time (because when he does, more often then not Dean's eyes go blank and he tells Sam to shut the fuck up and reaches for the nearest flask.)
Sam tries really hard not to fiddle with the cellphone in his pocket that holds Ruby's phone number.
:: :: ::
"Our Lord Jesus is so lovable, Dean. He wants you to enjoy his love."
Greg keeps singing while he's working his knife into Dean's shoulder. Hymns Dean tries to not remember from back when they used to visit Pastor Jim's place.
"You need to cast out the darkness, Dean. I can carve a new, smiling face, just for you."
:: :: ::
It's late at night; star-less sky and the air smells like wet grass and rusty cars. Sam comes back to sit next to his brother on the couch, fresh cup of caffeine in his hands. He hasn't slept for way too long, but neither has Dean and somehow this feels like it used to. You and me against the world.
A bandaged hand shoots out and hot coffee burns through Sam's jeans into his thigh when shattered fingers clench into his shoulder for a fraction of a second before they get pulled back, cradled against Dean's chest who is trying to smile through the thick tears that are welling up in his eyes.
"Please don't," Dean whispers. His eyes are bright and flickering all across the room, the shaking of his head and violent shivers all melting into one.
:: :: ::
Alastair's voice glides over the notes. Not off-key, but not exactly perfect hits either.
And you know that I'm damned if I never get out and you know that I'm damned if I do. But with every last beat I got left in my heart, you know I'd rather be damned with you.
His voice dances around the syllables, scratches Dean's ear, when Alastair leans in to kiss the gottabedamnedyouknowIwannabedamned into his hair.
:: :: ::
"I'm here to help you," Sam whispers, his voice rough and rushed in the hurry to keep his brother talking. This is good. Talking's gotta be good. Better than shell shocked silence at least.
"I don't wanna."
"What Dean? You gotta tell me, man."
"I don't wanna have a smiling new face carved into me."
The corners of Dean's mouth twitch until the cuts on his lips and cheeks start bleeding again and when Sam wraps his hand around his brother's neck to make him look him in the eye he can feel the erratic heart beat, pushing against the meticulous stitches Bobby put there this morning.
:: :: ::
You need to let God wash the pain away.
All you need to do is say yes.
I saved your daughter, you bastard.
I'm not doing this to hurt you. All the dirt needs to come out, so God's love can come in.
Say yes, pet. Say yes for me. All you gotta do is carve that first soul.
You need to smile. Cast out the hate and fear. God wants you to smile for him.
Yes, okay? Yes. I'll do it. Sign me up.
:: :: ::
"Sammy?" Dean asks later, when the sky is turning pink and gray and Sam's throat is starting to hurt from it'sokay and you'resafe and nothingbad'sgonnahappentoyou.
They're huddled up on the too-small couch together. A huge mess of arms and legs and it's almost like back in that other life when Sam would scoot over to Dean's side of the bed because the night got too dark and the dreams too real.
"What's the matter?" Sam prompts when Dean's eyes flutter closed again and his head drops all the way down until it's resting on Sam's shoulder.
"Go 'way," Dean mumbles, his voice getting muffled by the facbric of Sam's flannel. "'m g'nna hurt you 'f you don' get out."
Sam keeps stroking the top of Dean's head; no cuts up there.
"They made 'em look like you, Sammy." Dean's hands are shaking, would probably be twisting and wringing against each other if it weren't for the thick white bandages. "They made 'em look like you and then I had to hurt 'em and please, Sammy, you gotta leave."
Hell. It used to Sam's nightmares, then his visions. Dean always said the right things back then. Now it's always hell and Sam never knows what to say.
:: :: ::
Sometimes, when you're in hell, they make you wait for the longest time until someone picks up the knife again. They send demons to coo over you, wearing the faces of your loved ones - Sammydadmom.
Most of the souls learn to shut down when that happens. Others cry and sob and beg their loversbrotherssisters to put an end to the pain.
Dean thinks it would probably confuse Sam, the way kindness can be torture too.
Rating: PG.-13
Wordcount: 1200
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Dean's run-in with a crazy preacher sets off his memories of hell.
Written for a prompt by supernoodle77 on the Dean focused h/c comment fic meme #4 on hoodie_time and as a fill for 'Religion' on my angst_bingo card.
supernoodle77 also made the awesome illustration for her prompt long before I ever started writing this.
"He oughta be in a hospital," Bobby says for the third time in as many hours and Sam keeps shaking his head.
Hospitals won't do Dean any good. Never have.
Insurance card is busted, kid.
Hey Sam, would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?
Find someone else. It's not me.
None of Dean's injuries are life threatening and a hospital is the last place that will make him better, Sam knows that much. Hospitals don't do Dean any good.
:: :: ::
"The Lord picked you."
It's the first thing Dean hears. And damnit he told Sam that with their track record with angels of the Lord, working cases involving crazy paramilitary pentecostal sects should be near the bottom of their to-do list. Somewhere around 'go skinny dipping in boiling lava' maybe. Or 'get Bobby a new guard dog'. Or -
"He said to get you ready to serve Him."
Dean's tied to a chair. Head throbbing somewhere behind his right ear. Enough fingers broken to be worth jack shit when it comes to working open the tight knots of the ropes that are wound around his wrists.
"I'm sorry," the thick, honey sweet voice drawls out in the darkness. "You need to renounce the devil first."
Dean struggles against the ropes on principle. Curses over the girly yelp when pain shoots through his hands and wrists, up into his shoulders.
"The Lord has chosen you."
"Seriously? If Cas put you up to this I'ma kick his feathery, pampered ass. Lemme the fuck go."
Just outside Dean's line of vision he can hear footsteps. Somebody steps closer.
Not fluttering feathers.
"We will need to work on that. You need to be at peace before you can serve our father."
:: :: ::
Dean just showed up earlier today, maybe an hour after Bobby made Sam take a break from his frantic search for his brother.
Just stood there on the doorstep, staring off into space, covered with blood - his own as well as Father Greg's from what Sam can tell - like an extra straight out of a John Carpenter movie.
Sam had half a mind to ship him off to the loony bin, right then and there when he started giggling like a madman, leaving red hand and footprints all over Bobby's library.
The giggling stopped though. Now Dean is just staring off into space with a distant, loopy smile plastered on his split lips. Sam is fairly sure that's worse.
:: :: ::
Knives. He can taste the steelbloodpain on his tongue long before Father Greg ever picks them up. They glisten out in the darkness. Call to him to slicehackSCREAMhurt.
:: :: ::
Bobby's working through his library. Says he has a couple of leads, but Sam doubts he will find anything useful. Fucked-up, pentecostal whackjob, sort of cancels out satanic witch craft as far as Sam can tell.
Though they thought the same thing back in Nebraska, the first time Dean was dying.
:: :: ::
Greg sings.
Dean sneers over the pain and panicked fluttering of his heart. "Jeez, you suck at this."
Blood runs into Dean's eye.
:: :: ::
The sun filters through the thick red curtains, leaves fine lines of light and shadow, criss-crossing over the cuts and welts on Dean's face and forearms.
Dean's hand traces the pattern on his forearm, wets his lips, nervously rocks back and forth on the soft sofa until Sam is swaying with him.
Sam doesn't push him, doesn't ask what's wrong this time (because when he does, more often then not Dean's eyes go blank and he tells Sam to shut the fuck up and reaches for the nearest flask.)
Sam tries really hard not to fiddle with the cellphone in his pocket that holds Ruby's phone number.
:: :: ::
"Our Lord Jesus is so lovable, Dean. He wants you to enjoy his love."
Greg keeps singing while he's working his knife into Dean's shoulder. Hymns Dean tries to not remember from back when they used to visit Pastor Jim's place.
"You need to cast out the darkness, Dean. I can carve a new, smiling face, just for you."
:: :: ::
It's late at night; star-less sky and the air smells like wet grass and rusty cars. Sam comes back to sit next to his brother on the couch, fresh cup of caffeine in his hands. He hasn't slept for way too long, but neither has Dean and somehow this feels like it used to. You and me against the world.
A bandaged hand shoots out and hot coffee burns through Sam's jeans into his thigh when shattered fingers clench into his shoulder for a fraction of a second before they get pulled back, cradled against Dean's chest who is trying to smile through the thick tears that are welling up in his eyes.
"Please don't," Dean whispers. His eyes are bright and flickering all across the room, the shaking of his head and violent shivers all melting into one.
:: :: ::
Alastair's voice glides over the notes. Not off-key, but not exactly perfect hits either.
And you know that I'm damned if I never get out and you know that I'm damned if I do. But with every last beat I got left in my heart, you know I'd rather be damned with you.
His voice dances around the syllables, scratches Dean's ear, when Alastair leans in to kiss the gottabedamnedyouknowIwannabedamned into his hair.
:: :: ::
"I'm here to help you," Sam whispers, his voice rough and rushed in the hurry to keep his brother talking. This is good. Talking's gotta be good. Better than shell shocked silence at least.
"I don't wanna."
"What Dean? You gotta tell me, man."
"I don't wanna have a smiling new face carved into me."
The corners of Dean's mouth twitch until the cuts on his lips and cheeks start bleeding again and when Sam wraps his hand around his brother's neck to make him look him in the eye he can feel the erratic heart beat, pushing against the meticulous stitches Bobby put there this morning.
:: :: ::
You need to let God wash the pain away.
All you need to do is say yes.
I saved your daughter, you bastard.
I'm not doing this to hurt you. All the dirt needs to come out, so God's love can come in.
Say yes, pet. Say yes for me. All you gotta do is carve that first soul.
You need to smile. Cast out the hate and fear. God wants you to smile for him.
Yes, okay? Yes. I'll do it. Sign me up.
:: :: ::
"Sammy?" Dean asks later, when the sky is turning pink and gray and Sam's throat is starting to hurt from it'sokay and you'resafe and nothingbad'sgonnahappentoyou.
They're huddled up on the too-small couch together. A huge mess of arms and legs and it's almost like back in that other life when Sam would scoot over to Dean's side of the bed because the night got too dark and the dreams too real.
"What's the matter?" Sam prompts when Dean's eyes flutter closed again and his head drops all the way down until it's resting on Sam's shoulder.
"Go 'way," Dean mumbles, his voice getting muffled by the facbric of Sam's flannel. "'m g'nna hurt you 'f you don' get out."
Sam keeps stroking the top of Dean's head; no cuts up there.
"They made 'em look like you, Sammy." Dean's hands are shaking, would probably be twisting and wringing against each other if it weren't for the thick white bandages. "They made 'em look like you and then I had to hurt 'em and please, Sammy, you gotta leave."
Hell. It used to Sam's nightmares, then his visions. Dean always said the right things back then. Now it's always hell and Sam never knows what to say.
:: :: ::
Sometimes, when you're in hell, they make you wait for the longest time until someone picks up the knife again. They send demons to coo over you, wearing the faces of your loved ones - Sammydadmom.
Most of the souls learn to shut down when that happens. Others cry and sob and beg their loversbrotherssisters to put an end to the pain.
Dean thinks it would probably confuse Sam, the way kindness can be torture too.