SPN fic - abyssus abyssum invocat, Gen, Dean-centred fic
Title: abyssus abyssum invocat
Fandom: SPN
Rating: R, for some imagery, and for descriptions/implications of torture
Disclaimer: Not mine! Don't sue. Thank you~!
Spoilers: Pretty much all of season 4, though especially 4x10
Wordcount: 728
Summary: Psalm 42 Deep calls to deep in the voice of your waterfalls: all your whirpools and waves have passed over me.
Dean is on the rack and the only thing that moves him is his thumping heart bared with the skin over top it peeled back. His hands are nailed palm-through and his ankles are crossed left over right and nailed with a railroad spike, vicious iron. He wants to be screaming but he has no tongue. “Oh, Dean,” Alistair tsks. “I told you not to move.” Dean’s eyes dart side to side, side to side.
Picasso with a razor Alistair cuts them out.
Dean is on the rack crying blood. Sightless he thinks, This isn’t real, and for a second it isn’t.
It’s not real when he wakes up underground. The skin of his shoulder burning like hellfire, it’s not real as he digs.
His shoulder burns with Castiel’s brand and Dean almost remembers what it was like to be touched without skin getting in the way. It’s not real, it’s not real.
This has happened before. After years on the rack he would slip into daydream hazes where he made it back to the surface of the earth. He’s conducted such an elaborate fantasy this time around. He can make them more complete, believe in them more, if he darts his eyes side to side until Alistair notices and cuts them out, or scoops them clean, or rips - Dean can have faith then in his hallucinations because there is nothing he can see (though he hears and smells and, oh fuck, tastes) to refute them.
Dean is awake, Dean is asleep, Dean is in Hell. Dean is in Hell, he’s in Hell, he can’t get out. His eyes aren’t closed. He’s not crying he’s bleeding.
Castiel’s hand is a kindness on his skin. Dean touches the imprint of that grip and the echo of pain tells him: I’m free.
The soul is slippery, it writhes. Dean has to dig his fingers in to get a good grip. Its mouth is open but it has no tongue and it once was female but is no longer, lacks all characteristics defining gender. Dean is a soul not a body. He forgets. In Hell he forgets. Dean is a soul and he holds another soul. There’s no skin in the way of their touching.
Its mouth is open and it screams. No skin to get in the way so Dean feels that scream inside, echoing.
He wakes up and it hurts so he knows he’s still above ground. He dreams about Hell so that must mean he’s not there. When he’s in Hell he dreams about -
Dean is screaming but not with a tongue anyone can hear.
*
Anna’s eyes are the darkest thing Dean has ever seen. When he looks in them he’s swallowed up, lightless, pulled into her gravity.
Anna says forgive. But Dean remembers Alistair, remembers saying Yes, remembers he chose it. Free will and free choice. That was his decision, and he has to own it.
Anna’s hand is on Castiel’s hand on Dean’s skin. Her touch reminds him: You are free.
*
Sam doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it, and doesn’t get it, and goes on not getting it.
The soul is on the rack and Dean put her there. It. The soul is on the rack and it is screaming. No skin between them. It is screaming and screaming and screaming until. It’s not. Anymore.
Alistair’s hand guides Dean’s hand. Fatherly, affectionate, Remember when I used to do this to you instead of with you? Alistair chuckles and Dean’s eyes close, beneath his eyelids he darts them side to side, side to side.
Dean has lived forty years without Sam and God help him. Forty years and God help him.
How can he tell Sam the things -? He’s seen and - those things that - Dean isn’t human. Not anymore. He doesn’t feel human. No one human should know how to cut those sounds out of another soul.
Forgive, but he can’t. He just. He can’t.
No skin to get in the way. He carries it with him; above ground the scream is inside Dean. He has a body again and his body is a cage. The scream is inside him. It wants out.
Sam doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it and doesn’t get it and goes on not getting it. There are no words. Dean’s not crying. He’s bleeding.
___________________________________________________________________________
Notes: A lot of work went into what is a less than thousand word story. Thnx to Skysalla for beta'ing and making this a less confusing story; thnx to Isis for pointing me toward a title for this sucker and generally listening to me complain; and thnx, always, to Nee. The reference to Alistair as "Picasso with a razor" is a line of Ruby's in 4x10; the first time I saw someone use the lines: "Are you crying?"/"No, I'm bleeding." was in the last of Gaiman's Sandman graphic novels - I tweaked it and put it to use here. I'm aware that pretty much everyone and their dog has written this story, but I wanted to do my own spin on it, so here it is. Enjoy?
Fandom: SPN
Rating: R, for some imagery, and for descriptions/implications of torture
Disclaimer: Not mine! Don't sue. Thank you~!
Spoilers: Pretty much all of season 4, though especially 4x10
Wordcount: 728
Summary: Psalm 42 Deep calls to deep in the voice of your waterfalls: all your whirpools and waves have passed over me.
Dean is on the rack and the only thing that moves him is his thumping heart bared with the skin over top it peeled back. His hands are nailed palm-through and his ankles are crossed left over right and nailed with a railroad spike, vicious iron. He wants to be screaming but he has no tongue. “Oh, Dean,” Alistair tsks. “I told you not to move.” Dean’s eyes dart side to side, side to side.
Picasso with a razor Alistair cuts them out.
Dean is on the rack crying blood. Sightless he thinks, This isn’t real, and for a second it isn’t.
It’s not real when he wakes up underground. The skin of his shoulder burning like hellfire, it’s not real as he digs.
His shoulder burns with Castiel’s brand and Dean almost remembers what it was like to be touched without skin getting in the way. It’s not real, it’s not real.
This has happened before. After years on the rack he would slip into daydream hazes where he made it back to the surface of the earth. He’s conducted such an elaborate fantasy this time around. He can make them more complete, believe in them more, if he darts his eyes side to side until Alistair notices and cuts them out, or scoops them clean, or rips - Dean can have faith then in his hallucinations because there is nothing he can see (though he hears and smells and, oh fuck, tastes) to refute them.
Dean is awake, Dean is asleep, Dean is in Hell. Dean is in Hell, he’s in Hell, he can’t get out. His eyes aren’t closed. He’s not crying he’s bleeding.
Castiel’s hand is a kindness on his skin. Dean touches the imprint of that grip and the echo of pain tells him: I’m free.
The soul is slippery, it writhes. Dean has to dig his fingers in to get a good grip. Its mouth is open but it has no tongue and it once was female but is no longer, lacks all characteristics defining gender. Dean is a soul not a body. He forgets. In Hell he forgets. Dean is a soul and he holds another soul. There’s no skin in the way of their touching.
Its mouth is open and it screams. No skin to get in the way so Dean feels that scream inside, echoing.
He wakes up and it hurts so he knows he’s still above ground. He dreams about Hell so that must mean he’s not there. When he’s in Hell he dreams about -
Dean is screaming but not with a tongue anyone can hear.
*
Anna’s eyes are the darkest thing Dean has ever seen. When he looks in them he’s swallowed up, lightless, pulled into her gravity.
Anna says forgive. But Dean remembers Alistair, remembers saying Yes, remembers he chose it. Free will and free choice. That was his decision, and he has to own it.
Anna’s hand is on Castiel’s hand on Dean’s skin. Her touch reminds him: You are free.
*
Sam doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it, and doesn’t get it, and goes on not getting it.
The soul is on the rack and Dean put her there. It. The soul is on the rack and it is screaming. No skin between them. It is screaming and screaming and screaming until. It’s not. Anymore.
Alistair’s hand guides Dean’s hand. Fatherly, affectionate, Remember when I used to do this to you instead of with you? Alistair chuckles and Dean’s eyes close, beneath his eyelids he darts them side to side, side to side.
Dean has lived forty years without Sam and God help him. Forty years and God help him.
How can he tell Sam the things -? He’s seen and - those things that - Dean isn’t human. Not anymore. He doesn’t feel human. No one human should know how to cut those sounds out of another soul.
Forgive, but he can’t. He just. He can’t.
No skin to get in the way. He carries it with him; above ground the scream is inside Dean. He has a body again and his body is a cage. The scream is inside him. It wants out.
Sam doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it and doesn’t get it and goes on not getting it. There are no words. Dean’s not crying. He’s bleeding.
___________________________________________________________________________
Notes: A lot of work went into what is a less than thousand word story. Thnx to Skysalla for beta'ing and making this a less confusing story; thnx to Isis for pointing me toward a title for this sucker and generally listening to me complain; and thnx, always, to Nee. The reference to Alistair as "Picasso with a razor" is a line of Ruby's in 4x10; the first time I saw someone use the lines: "Are you crying?"/"No, I'm bleeding." was in the last of Gaiman's Sandman graphic novels - I tweaked it and put it to use here. I'm aware that pretty much everyone and their dog has written this story, but I wanted to do my own spin on it, so here it is. Enjoy?