Fic: Rack and Ruin
Note: I'm still completely, utterly spoiler-free concerning Season Four of Supernatural.
Title: Rack and ruin
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.
Warnings: obscure reference to suicide and character death(s); spoilerious for 3x16; weirdling
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: G with, y'know, Hell and all
Summary: This is the way it won't happen.
Wordcount: ~370
A/N: Number 10 here.
There's no time in Hell, just torture. Twists and turns and terrors that keep him tethered still, bound with no way to flee.
He cannot tell how long the screams have been running his throat raw, memories falling like tiny red miracles until there's just the shadow of something other than stone and shackles. Remnants of reasons not to forget, to hold as hard as he can on to every little piece that's his.
A part of him knows that there must have been something before all this, but the shards refuse to shed light, and the shades steal another slice, strip his skin off his soul.
The stained sunlight stutters, and that's the first sign of something changing.
Not long after that, the chains fade and the hooks slip through his seeming like he's nothing.
He still falls among the wreckage, feels ground where there before was emptiness. Spies a single figure shuffling towards him, hunched in on itself, darker than blood.
It's not one of his tormenters; those he could never really see, dancing in the periphery of his vision, taunting him with traces of things he'd held dear.
This one, though... The eyes are different, even if he can't compare them with anything tangible. There are new lines, a shade to the bangs he thinks he hasn't seen before. The closer the newcomer gets, the stronger the sense of familiarity becomes as brain cells bloom anew.
He can remember his own name, bound in brass around his neck. He can remember a time before the fetters, the claws and the teeth and the coldness of coming War.
There's a rueful smile upon Sam's lips when he stops mere feet from Dean.
It's like a dream, a cruel fantasy Hell has summoned forth.
But living warmth meets his tentative touch, the flesh familiar even here.
Sam steps closer, drawing his hands from his pockets, pressing Dean close enough to hear the heartbeat.
The questions crowd in on him, but he can't remember how to speak, how to ask any of them, words lost in the wake of the impossible.
"The only way to Hell," Sam whispers the answer, feather-firm against him, "is to die with sin on your soul."
Incidentally, I never realized just how bloody much I've written by hand during the last couple of months. And not all of it sucks, either. o_O
Title: Rack and ruin
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.
Warnings: obscure reference to suicide and character death(s); spoilerious for 3x16; weirdling
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: G with, y'know, Hell and all
Summary: This is the way it won't happen.
Wordcount: ~370
A/N: Number 10 here.
There's no time in Hell, just torture. Twists and turns and terrors that keep him tethered still, bound with no way to flee.
He cannot tell how long the screams have been running his throat raw, memories falling like tiny red miracles until there's just the shadow of something other than stone and shackles. Remnants of reasons not to forget, to hold as hard as he can on to every little piece that's his.
A part of him knows that there must have been something before all this, but the shards refuse to shed light, and the shades steal another slice, strip his skin off his soul.
The stained sunlight stutters, and that's the first sign of something changing.
Not long after that, the chains fade and the hooks slip through his seeming like he's nothing.
He still falls among the wreckage, feels ground where there before was emptiness. Spies a single figure shuffling towards him, hunched in on itself, darker than blood.
It's not one of his tormenters; those he could never really see, dancing in the periphery of his vision, taunting him with traces of things he'd held dear.
This one, though... The eyes are different, even if he can't compare them with anything tangible. There are new lines, a shade to the bangs he thinks he hasn't seen before. The closer the newcomer gets, the stronger the sense of familiarity becomes as brain cells bloom anew.
He can remember his own name, bound in brass around his neck. He can remember a time before the fetters, the claws and the teeth and the coldness of coming War.
There's a rueful smile upon Sam's lips when he stops mere feet from Dean.
It's like a dream, a cruel fantasy Hell has summoned forth.
But living warmth meets his tentative touch, the flesh familiar even here.
Sam steps closer, drawing his hands from his pockets, pressing Dean close enough to hear the heartbeat.
The questions crowd in on him, but he can't remember how to speak, how to ask any of them, words lost in the wake of the impossible.
"The only way to Hell," Sam whispers the answer, feather-firm against him, "is to die with sin on your soul."
Incidentally, I never realized just how bloody much I've written by hand during the last couple of months. And not all of it sucks, either. o_O