She'll Eat You Alive
Title: Inside Your Head (Part Seven)
Series: The Overbite Saga
Characters: Dean, Darla, Sam, implied Darla/Dean
Rating: R
Medium: Fic
Word Count: 1290
Author's Note: this is the last chapter of this segment, but the series will continue, and I may be somewhat aware of my evilness, but it can't be stopped. I've tried. It won't yield. ok and hiding...
He stares down at his steady, bloody hands. It makes him feel sick. He can feel his reflection in the periphery. Silent, judging, as if an entity unto itself. If there was one vampire myth Dean wished were true, it was the whole “no reflection” deal. He can’t stomach it. At least not when she wasn’t around. Things would be so much simpler if he didn’t have to see...
It wasn’t something he’d ever readily admit, but there is a part of him that had always envied civilians their ability to take comfort in their flimsy belief that the darkness wasn’t something that could touch them, it was something that happened to other people. Not them. There was nothing lurking in the dark. All you had to do was flip on a light, forget the shadows it cast. They didn’t want to know what they couldn’t explain. Dean didn’t have that luxury. It was getting harder to remember he ever had.
He knew what lay beneath and he also knew exactly how much pressure it took to crush the larynx with his bare hands.
And it’s almost funny how he can commit such atrocities without the tiniest iota of remorse. Not in the moment. In the moment he revels in the freedom of it. The beast in full possession of his soul. When he was with her he didn’t have to feel, didn’t have to think, just do, but when he’s left on his own?
The faintest ghost of laugh, barely a huff, leaves him. It is a little funny he keeps thinking about it. His soul. That was another thing. He wasn’t exactly one hundred percent whether it had truly gone. Doubt refracting from the mirror face even in the dimmest of light.
He can’t stop licking his lips, stained red, like some sort of sadistic clown make-up, it’s the first time he’s ever felt the fear of clowns was legit. He can still feel the sticky substance on them, still taste it, really testing his gag reflex. His lip curls in disgust as he meets the scrutiny of his reflection full on. The thing that disturbs most is the taste, no longer like copper, but rich, sweet on its way down, like her dulcet tones, but in moments like these, all he tastes is bitterness.
*~*~*
Darla smirks as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, catching a glimpse of Dean’s back as she gives him one last look over her shoulder. He was as co-dependent in death as he had been in life, and while others may have simply smothered him in reassurance, Darla knew the importance of leaving him to his own devices every once in a while. Making him crave her return and the release that only she could provide.
She’s no fool. She knows he’s not fully on board yet. Can see it the way he seeks her gaze, her approval after a kill. How his fingers linger on every touch, silently pleading for her to stay, for he would never beg aloud. Not for her. What he was yet to understand was that he didn’t have to. She would offer her body freely. All he had to do was take. She was confident that he would learn in time.
Darla moves to the window, drawing back the curtain, when she hears something that was distinctly that of a car door being shut with deliberate care by some who doesn’t want to be heard. By someone who knows what they are. The same someone who is now approaching the house. She stays at the window a while before going to the dining room to retrieve her favourite knife. A little thrill goes through her as she is slammed up against the wall, an amused sort of chuckle leaving her as warm hands close round her throat, squeezing hard.
“Where is he?” the demand from the brute of the man pinning her in place, but her smirk never wavers, the familial scent filtering through her senses tells her everything she needs to know, the depth of their bond more suffocating than the hands denying her the air she doesn’t need. Her gaze snaps to Dean’s who she can see over her captor’s shoulder, and she knows it’s over. Even though she can see the look in his eyes it still manages to take her by surprise when he prises what she understands to be his brother off of her, throwing him across the room.
Darla tilts her head to the side, watching the tension roll across his shoulders and she takes a step forwards, their eyes meeting for the very last time as he turns, no exchange needed. She leaves.
*~*~*
Sam lets his head thunk down against the steering wheel. It’s been a whole week since his last solid lead. Calling Bobby seems to be the most reasonable solution he can come up with. He’s even punched halfway through the number at least a half dozen times already by now. But he can’t bring himself to complete it. As far as Bobby is concerned Sam is dead, and the longer it takes him to find his brother the more and more likely it becomes that what Sam might be looking for is a corpse.
The ripple of revulsion shakes him to his core. Dean can’t be dead. He won’t believe it. He can’t. And he can’t believe that he would be brought back for any purpose if it didn’t include finding his brother alive. And that’s when he sees the Impala. Everything slowing down into that moment as his head follows the black beauty. It takes his brain a couple more seconds to catch up with his eyes, and he almost convinces himself that it was just a trick of the light, except somewhere he just knows that it’s not true.
His heartbeat thuds loudly in his ears. It’s going the other way, and there are too many cars ahead of and behind him. Every second of hesitation costing him another moments distance.
He speeds up a little and then yanks the handbrake the car sliding round on an arc, the tires screeching in protest, before gunning it. He’s not going to let anything else slip through his fingers.
*~*~*
Sam keeps one hand on his gun as he makes his way across what may have once passed as a garden, Impala or no, something doesn’t feel right. But he can’t help but put his hand to the hood as he passes her. A tingle creeps along his spine as he gets that eerie feeling of being watched. He pushes on, back to the wall as he reaches the door, arm extending slowly, fingers steady as they grasp the door handle, though he gulps as the door clicks open.
He isn’t really even fully conscious of his next movements until he feels the flutter of flesh beneath his hands. His stomach clenches as the honey-rich laughter reverberates through his hands, the only word he feels can truly describe it, is evil and he tightens his grip.
After that the next thing he remembers is pain, before he has the vaguest recollection of being flung across the room. His hand automatically goes to his head, wondering if he’ll get a concussion. Sam pushes himself up into a sitting position, grunting as the floor seems to move with him. He closes his eyes to try and regain some sort of equilibrium before getting up to his feet, staggering a few steps before his eyes refocus. Eyes clapping onto green, he froze.
“Dean?”
|Part One |Part Two |Part Three |Part Four |Part Five |Part Six |Part Seven|
Series: The Overbite Saga
Characters: Dean, Darla, Sam, implied Darla/Dean
Rating: R
Medium: Fic
Word Count: 1290
Author's Note: this is the last chapter of this segment, but the series will continue, and I may be somewhat aware of my evilness, but it can't be stopped. I've tried. It won't yield. ok and hiding...
He stares down at his steady, bloody hands. It makes him feel sick. He can feel his reflection in the periphery. Silent, judging, as if an entity unto itself. If there was one vampire myth Dean wished were true, it was the whole “no reflection” deal. He can’t stomach it. At least not when she wasn’t around. Things would be so much simpler if he didn’t have to see...
It wasn’t something he’d ever readily admit, but there is a part of him that had always envied civilians their ability to take comfort in their flimsy belief that the darkness wasn’t something that could touch them, it was something that happened to other people. Not them. There was nothing lurking in the dark. All you had to do was flip on a light, forget the shadows it cast. They didn’t want to know what they couldn’t explain. Dean didn’t have that luxury. It was getting harder to remember he ever had.
He knew what lay beneath and he also knew exactly how much pressure it took to crush the larynx with his bare hands.
And it’s almost funny how he can commit such atrocities without the tiniest iota of remorse. Not in the moment. In the moment he revels in the freedom of it. The beast in full possession of his soul. When he was with her he didn’t have to feel, didn’t have to think, just do, but when he’s left on his own?
The faintest ghost of laugh, barely a huff, leaves him. It is a little funny he keeps thinking about it. His soul. That was another thing. He wasn’t exactly one hundred percent whether it had truly gone. Doubt refracting from the mirror face even in the dimmest of light.
He can’t stop licking his lips, stained red, like some sort of sadistic clown make-up, it’s the first time he’s ever felt the fear of clowns was legit. He can still feel the sticky substance on them, still taste it, really testing his gag reflex. His lip curls in disgust as he meets the scrutiny of his reflection full on. The thing that disturbs most is the taste, no longer like copper, but rich, sweet on its way down, like her dulcet tones, but in moments like these, all he tastes is bitterness.
*~*~*
Darla smirks as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, catching a glimpse of Dean’s back as she gives him one last look over her shoulder. He was as co-dependent in death as he had been in life, and while others may have simply smothered him in reassurance, Darla knew the importance of leaving him to his own devices every once in a while. Making him crave her return and the release that only she could provide.
She’s no fool. She knows he’s not fully on board yet. Can see it the way he seeks her gaze, her approval after a kill. How his fingers linger on every touch, silently pleading for her to stay, for he would never beg aloud. Not for her. What he was yet to understand was that he didn’t have to. She would offer her body freely. All he had to do was take. She was confident that he would learn in time.
Darla moves to the window, drawing back the curtain, when she hears something that was distinctly that of a car door being shut with deliberate care by some who doesn’t want to be heard. By someone who knows what they are. The same someone who is now approaching the house. She stays at the window a while before going to the dining room to retrieve her favourite knife. A little thrill goes through her as she is slammed up against the wall, an amused sort of chuckle leaving her as warm hands close round her throat, squeezing hard.
“Where is he?” the demand from the brute of the man pinning her in place, but her smirk never wavers, the familial scent filtering through her senses tells her everything she needs to know, the depth of their bond more suffocating than the hands denying her the air she doesn’t need. Her gaze snaps to Dean’s who she can see over her captor’s shoulder, and she knows it’s over. Even though she can see the look in his eyes it still manages to take her by surprise when he prises what she understands to be his brother off of her, throwing him across the room.
Darla tilts her head to the side, watching the tension roll across his shoulders and she takes a step forwards, their eyes meeting for the very last time as he turns, no exchange needed. She leaves.
*~*~*
Sam lets his head thunk down against the steering wheel. It’s been a whole week since his last solid lead. Calling Bobby seems to be the most reasonable solution he can come up with. He’s even punched halfway through the number at least a half dozen times already by now. But he can’t bring himself to complete it. As far as Bobby is concerned Sam is dead, and the longer it takes him to find his brother the more and more likely it becomes that what Sam might be looking for is a corpse.
The ripple of revulsion shakes him to his core. Dean can’t be dead. He won’t believe it. He can’t. And he can’t believe that he would be brought back for any purpose if it didn’t include finding his brother alive. And that’s when he sees the Impala. Everything slowing down into that moment as his head follows the black beauty. It takes his brain a couple more seconds to catch up with his eyes, and he almost convinces himself that it was just a trick of the light, except somewhere he just knows that it’s not true.
His heartbeat thuds loudly in his ears. It’s going the other way, and there are too many cars ahead of and behind him. Every second of hesitation costing him another moments distance.
He speeds up a little and then yanks the handbrake the car sliding round on an arc, the tires screeching in protest, before gunning it. He’s not going to let anything else slip through his fingers.
*~*~*
Sam keeps one hand on his gun as he makes his way across what may have once passed as a garden, Impala or no, something doesn’t feel right. But he can’t help but put his hand to the hood as he passes her. A tingle creeps along his spine as he gets that eerie feeling of being watched. He pushes on, back to the wall as he reaches the door, arm extending slowly, fingers steady as they grasp the door handle, though he gulps as the door clicks open.
He isn’t really even fully conscious of his next movements until he feels the flutter of flesh beneath his hands. His stomach clenches as the honey-rich laughter reverberates through his hands, the only word he feels can truly describe it, is evil and he tightens his grip.
After that the next thing he remembers is pain, before he has the vaguest recollection of being flung across the room. His hand automatically goes to his head, wondering if he’ll get a concussion. Sam pushes himself up into a sitting position, grunting as the floor seems to move with him. He closes his eyes to try and regain some sort of equilibrium before getting up to his feet, staggering a few steps before his eyes refocus. Eyes clapping onto green, he froze.
“Dean?”
|Part One |Part Two |Part Three |Part Four |Part Five |Part Six |Part Seven|