Drabbles: Family
Title: Family
Author: : idc_chan
Pairing/characters: Dean, Alistair, John, Sam, Mary
Rating: : Hard R
Disclaimer: SPN doesn’t belong to me.
Summary: Dean tries to cope in Hell.
Warnings/Spoilers: Torture, violence
Author's Notes: Many thanks to artisticentropy and brittac for your help and suggestions. Written for spn_solstice
1. Sam
"Sam!"
Hooks pierce his shoulder, a burning sensation, muscle deep. The taste of iron fills his mouth, trickles into his hoarse throat. He coughs and his mouth fills with warm liquid.
"Sam!" he cries the name into the abyss, a prayer. Sweat drips down his face, falls stinging into his eyes. He blinks, breathes in the scent of ash and sulfur and coughs again. His lungs burn, they heave and gasp for clean air that doesn’t exist.
“Sam!” he calls again. The word echoes even though there are no walls, only empty space in front of him, stretching towards eternity.
2. Dad
His head tilts forward, drool and blood leak from his lips. It falls down his chin. The liquid burns as it continues down his chest. Each is like a drip of acid against his shirt, against his skin, against his muscle, against his bone. His shoulders throb, his legs burn, his arms sting, his chest heaves and the sensations grow fiercer as each moment passes. His ears ring and he can hear the rapid thump of his heart. An image wavers in front of his eyes.
“Sam?” he tries.
“No,” the image responds. His father’s voice is dripping with disappointment.
3. Mother
The first thing he notices is the breeze. It’s cool and smells fresh and he takes lungful after lungful of fresh air. The absence of pain hurts before he realizes it isn’t supposed to. There is grass beneath his feet, wet and cool with dew and he collapses to his knees, presses his face to the ground. He thrusts his tongue against the thin, green blades, absorbs the moisture there. He hears someone speaking, whispering soothing syllables into the air. A familiar woman stands beside him, presses a comforting hand against his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she whispers and he cries.
4. Sammy
The small figure in his arms is limp and cold. The boy weighs more than anything he has ever held. He refuses to let go of the weight. Where there should be arms, the boy has torn, ragged, bloody stumps. His legs are bent at an impossible angle, bone sticks through his right leg, gleaming white. Urine drips onto his hands, a release before the child died in his arms, screaming his name, begging for his help. Something tears at his back, a knife, peeling skin away and he stares at the child in arms, unable to move whispering, “Sammy.”
5. Alistair
A hand grips his chin, forces him to face cold, white eyes. “So tired already?” a voice croons.
Images swim in front of him. Flashes of children growing up, blood stained sheets, roaring fires, rabid black dogs with terrifying growls.
“Tsk-tsk. It’s only been a few hours, and daddy’s little soldier is nearly finished.” The demon squeezes its hand, his skin falls away from his face. He feels the scorching air against his exposed muscle and bone.
“There is a way to stop it,” the voice promises. “You can end this. It won’t even cost that much.”
“No,” he hisses.
6. John
“Nothing less than you deserve,” the man says gruffly.
He screams as his flesh burns and bubbles in front of his eyes. It melts and slides away exposing the pulsing muscle underneath. It starts with his chest, flows outwards to his arms, legs, back, upwards to his face. Sickening squishing noises reach his ears.
The man nods at him, walks towards him, picks up pieces of his skin and produces a long, gleaming needle. The man pieces the skin back, sewing haphazardly.
“If you’d just been more observant, more cautious, better ,” his father hisses, “I wouldn’t have to do this.”
7. Brother
He doesn’t trust the fresh air. The breeze causes his teeth to chatter in fear. The grass feels prickly and his feet bleed into the ground. He remembers things here more clearly than when he’s on the rack.
Remembers that it always starts good and always ends bloody. He should recognize the man in front of him, the one flinching and screaming as smoking, studded whips lash into his back. He wants to stop the whip, can’t move from his place, can’t endure more pain.
“Brother!” the man screams. The word means…meant…everything. He wishes he could remember why.
8. Father
“I remember your Daddy,” the thing says, licking its lips. It’s holding a blood coated razor in its right hand. The razor moves towards him and he flinches with remembered pain.
“Stubborn old man never would let me end his pain. You, you on the other hand have a chance.” The thing says the words. He tries not to hear them.
“You know,” the razor bites into his flesh. “You should judge your Daddy a little more harshly. He abandoned you after all.”
He has nothing left to say. He feels hollow.
The thing smiles widely. “Maybe you already do.”
9. Son
“Dad!” He’s running towards a man, the man should mean safety, security. Blood is coating him like a tacky second skin. His arms and legs feel heavy as he runs. The man turns towards him, for a moment he thinks everything is going to be okay. His world is right again. The man turns away.
He’s crying and his own tears burn his skin. He always hurts even when no one is actively causing him harm. He exists in a haze of pain and fire. “It can stop anytime you say the word,” a familiar voice echoes through his head.
10. Dean
His hand is steady when he accepts the razor he’s being offered. The creature in front of him grins. “Knew you had it in you.”
The woman lying in front of him is crying, pleading, calling a name that means nothing to him. He traces her flesh with the razor, revels in her pain. Her pain means that his has ceased. He can still smell the sulfur in the air, but it tastes cleaner now. A hand pats his shoulder as he carves deeper.
“Very good,” the voice says. “I’m very proud of you, son. I’m proud of you Dean.”
Author: : idc_chan
Pairing/characters: Dean, Alistair, John, Sam, Mary
Rating: : Hard R
Disclaimer: SPN doesn’t belong to me.
Summary: Dean tries to cope in Hell.
Warnings/Spoilers: Torture, violence
Author's Notes: Many thanks to artisticentropy and brittac for your help and suggestions. Written for spn_solstice
1. Sam
"Sam!"
Hooks pierce his shoulder, a burning sensation, muscle deep. The taste of iron fills his mouth, trickles into his hoarse throat. He coughs and his mouth fills with warm liquid.
"Sam!" he cries the name into the abyss, a prayer. Sweat drips down his face, falls stinging into his eyes. He blinks, breathes in the scent of ash and sulfur and coughs again. His lungs burn, they heave and gasp for clean air that doesn’t exist.
“Sam!” he calls again. The word echoes even though there are no walls, only empty space in front of him, stretching towards eternity.
2. Dad
His head tilts forward, drool and blood leak from his lips. It falls down his chin. The liquid burns as it continues down his chest. Each is like a drip of acid against his shirt, against his skin, against his muscle, against his bone. His shoulders throb, his legs burn, his arms sting, his chest heaves and the sensations grow fiercer as each moment passes. His ears ring and he can hear the rapid thump of his heart. An image wavers in front of his eyes.
“Sam?” he tries.
“No,” the image responds. His father’s voice is dripping with disappointment.
3. Mother
The first thing he notices is the breeze. It’s cool and smells fresh and he takes lungful after lungful of fresh air. The absence of pain hurts before he realizes it isn’t supposed to. There is grass beneath his feet, wet and cool with dew and he collapses to his knees, presses his face to the ground. He thrusts his tongue against the thin, green blades, absorbs the moisture there. He hears someone speaking, whispering soothing syllables into the air. A familiar woman stands beside him, presses a comforting hand against his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she whispers and he cries.
4. Sammy
The small figure in his arms is limp and cold. The boy weighs more than anything he has ever held. He refuses to let go of the weight. Where there should be arms, the boy has torn, ragged, bloody stumps. His legs are bent at an impossible angle, bone sticks through his right leg, gleaming white. Urine drips onto his hands, a release before the child died in his arms, screaming his name, begging for his help. Something tears at his back, a knife, peeling skin away and he stares at the child in arms, unable to move whispering, “Sammy.”
5. Alistair
A hand grips his chin, forces him to face cold, white eyes. “So tired already?” a voice croons.
Images swim in front of him. Flashes of children growing up, blood stained sheets, roaring fires, rabid black dogs with terrifying growls.
“Tsk-tsk. It’s only been a few hours, and daddy’s little soldier is nearly finished.” The demon squeezes its hand, his skin falls away from his face. He feels the scorching air against his exposed muscle and bone.
“There is a way to stop it,” the voice promises. “You can end this. It won’t even cost that much.”
“No,” he hisses.
6. John
“Nothing less than you deserve,” the man says gruffly.
He screams as his flesh burns and bubbles in front of his eyes. It melts and slides away exposing the pulsing muscle underneath. It starts with his chest, flows outwards to his arms, legs, back, upwards to his face. Sickening squishing noises reach his ears.
The man nods at him, walks towards him, picks up pieces of his skin and produces a long, gleaming needle. The man pieces the skin back, sewing haphazardly.
“If you’d just been more observant, more cautious, better ,” his father hisses, “I wouldn’t have to do this.”
7. Brother
He doesn’t trust the fresh air. The breeze causes his teeth to chatter in fear. The grass feels prickly and his feet bleed into the ground. He remembers things here more clearly than when he’s on the rack.
Remembers that it always starts good and always ends bloody. He should recognize the man in front of him, the one flinching and screaming as smoking, studded whips lash into his back. He wants to stop the whip, can’t move from his place, can’t endure more pain.
“Brother!” the man screams. The word means…meant…everything. He wishes he could remember why.
8. Father
“I remember your Daddy,” the thing says, licking its lips. It’s holding a blood coated razor in its right hand. The razor moves towards him and he flinches with remembered pain.
“Stubborn old man never would let me end his pain. You, you on the other hand have a chance.” The thing says the words. He tries not to hear them.
“You know,” the razor bites into his flesh. “You should judge your Daddy a little more harshly. He abandoned you after all.”
He has nothing left to say. He feels hollow.
The thing smiles widely. “Maybe you already do.”
9. Son
“Dad!” He’s running towards a man, the man should mean safety, security. Blood is coating him like a tacky second skin. His arms and legs feel heavy as he runs. The man turns towards him, for a moment he thinks everything is going to be okay. His world is right again. The man turns away.
He’s crying and his own tears burn his skin. He always hurts even when no one is actively causing him harm. He exists in a haze of pain and fire. “It can stop anytime you say the word,” a familiar voice echoes through his head.
10. Dean
His hand is steady when he accepts the razor he’s being offered. The creature in front of him grins. “Knew you had it in you.”
The woman lying in front of him is crying, pleading, calling a name that means nothing to him. He traces her flesh with the razor, revels in her pain. Her pain means that his has ceased. He can still smell the sulfur in the air, but it tastes cleaner now. A hand pats his shoulder as he carves deeper.
“Very good,” the voice says. “I’m very proud of you, son. I’m proud of you Dean.”