Fic: Not Who You Used to Be
Title: Not Who You Used to Be
Author: tinypinkmouse /
tinypinkmouse /
tinypinkmouse
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Dean, and a tiny bit of Castiel
Word Count: 1010
Spoilers: Through season four.
Warnings: Umm... torture, in a non-graphic way. Self harm. Insanity. Oh and 2nd person pov.
Summary: All you need is to keep it quiet for a while.
Disclaimer: Not mine obviously. *sigh*
Notes: Right. Haven't posted anything for a while and then this? There's something wrong with me.
You never forget to make sure your weapons are ready to use. Your life depends on it and you've never forgotten. It used to calm you down, make it feel like everything was right with the world. You've always liked doing it, because it'll save your life again and your brothers.
Now it's… empty. You clean your gun because it needs to be done. Your life depends on it, but it doesn't matter anymore.
You draw the whetstone slowly along the length of the knife and you want that feeling it used to give you. Like you were doing something worthwhile. It's not there and it never will be again.
You take a swig of the rotgut that's the only thing you can afford right now. You don't even grimace at the taste anymore. It doesn't burn going down and that should tell you something.
The knife is still in your hand and you drag the now and always sharp edge over the inside of your forearm. You watch the blood swell up from the shallow cut and it doesn't feel like much of anything at all. For a moment you can see yourself drive the knife through your forearm, the image is sharp and clear inside your mind before you blink a few times and it blurs.
There's a few small drops of blood on the knife's edge. You lift the knife to your mouth and press the flat of it against your tongue.
All you can taste is cold steel.
You let the edge of the knife drag through the flesh on your arm lightly. Tiny bright droplets of blood blossom up, until a few of them get large enough and run down your arm. This cut is deeper, but you still can't feel it.
It doesn't matter. It doesn't do anything. You could peel back all the skin on your body, bleed yourself dry and it would never change anything.
Sometimes you can feel it just beneath your skin. At the back of your head, looking out through your eyes.
There's a demon inside you and your blood still tastes like blood.
***
It shouldn't be so easy to keep it from Sam. Not all of it of course, but enough. Just enough that Sam will never know this. Can't ever know this.
You've almost forgotten why it's so important.
Your lips stretch out and you bare your teeth in what someone might call a smile, but it doesn't feel like one. You haven't felt like smiling in a long time. She whimpers around the gag in her mouth and you pat her cheek gently. This isn't her fault at all and a part of you feels sorry for her for ending up here with you.
Sam thinks you're off getting laid with the pretty waitress and won't even wonder why you won't show up till morning. That was what you meant to do. That's why you went home with the pretty waitress. But this isn't about sex and you didn't mean to, but you just can't help yourself.
You need this. Need it so much more than sex. No. You don't, it does.
She's stretched out on the bed, arms and legs spread out and bound with rope that will probably leave her wrists and ankles raw, especially with the way she was trashing earlier. She stopped doing that when you were cutting away her clothes, but you think she'll probably start up again soon. They always do and you can't blame them really. You used to do the same.
You drag the point of your knife over her collarbone and down between the pert little breasts. It's only teasing, the touch not even hard enough to pierce the skin. And yes, she's pulling at the ropes around her arms again, trying to get away.
It doesn't take much pressure at all for the blade to pierce skin and sink into flesh. You know exactly where to cut if you want to reach in and pull out her insides. You know where to stab to kill her in one stroke, you know how to make it last as long as you want. So you don't, you don't really want to hurt her after all.
She tries to scream, but the gag doesn't let her. You didn't want to gag her, the screams are a part of it. How else would you know you're doing it right? But this isn't the place for screams, the only place you hear the screams anymore is in your dreams.
And it's there again, writhing beneath your skin. You just need for it to be quiet for a while.
***
The blue eyes see too much of you. They see the demon behind your eyes, even when you try to hide.
"Dean," he says and yes, that's you. It tears at you like hot blades through your gut, and you should know, and you're not sure if it's the voice or the name.
There's blood on your hands and none of it is yours. Maybe it went too far this time, it needs more, every time. More and more and more, just to keep it quiet. You can't let it escape, but keeping it inside you…
There's blood on your hands and other things and you don't want to think about it. You can't think about it, because it's almost quiet now, writhing in discomfort under the blue eyes piercing through every part of you. And you can't turn around and look, because there's someone lying bound on the bed behind you, on sheets soaked with blood. You can't turn to look because you can't hear him whimpering anymore.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
You're laughing.
***
There's a knife in your hands. Sharp like always, it pierces skin and flesh easily. You know just where it will hurt the most.
You look into bright blue eyes and you grin. If there's any guilt at all, you can't hear it for the wild laughter inside your head.
After a while there are screams.
Author: tinypinkmouse /
tinypinkmouse /
tinypinkmouse
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Dean, and a tiny bit of Castiel
Word Count: 1010
Spoilers: Through season four.
Warnings: Umm... torture, in a non-graphic way. Self harm. Insanity. Oh and 2nd person pov.
Summary: All you need is to keep it quiet for a while.
Disclaimer: Not mine obviously. *sigh*
Notes: Right. Haven't posted anything for a while and then this? There's something wrong with me.
You never forget to make sure your weapons are ready to use. Your life depends on it and you've never forgotten. It used to calm you down, make it feel like everything was right with the world. You've always liked doing it, because it'll save your life again and your brothers.
Now it's… empty. You clean your gun because it needs to be done. Your life depends on it, but it doesn't matter anymore.
You draw the whetstone slowly along the length of the knife and you want that feeling it used to give you. Like you were doing something worthwhile. It's not there and it never will be again.
You take a swig of the rotgut that's the only thing you can afford right now. You don't even grimace at the taste anymore. It doesn't burn going down and that should tell you something.
The knife is still in your hand and you drag the now and always sharp edge over the inside of your forearm. You watch the blood swell up from the shallow cut and it doesn't feel like much of anything at all. For a moment you can see yourself drive the knife through your forearm, the image is sharp and clear inside your mind before you blink a few times and it blurs.
There's a few small drops of blood on the knife's edge. You lift the knife to your mouth and press the flat of it against your tongue.
All you can taste is cold steel.
You let the edge of the knife drag through the flesh on your arm lightly. Tiny bright droplets of blood blossom up, until a few of them get large enough and run down your arm. This cut is deeper, but you still can't feel it.
It doesn't matter. It doesn't do anything. You could peel back all the skin on your body, bleed yourself dry and it would never change anything.
Sometimes you can feel it just beneath your skin. At the back of your head, looking out through your eyes.
There's a demon inside you and your blood still tastes like blood.
***
It shouldn't be so easy to keep it from Sam. Not all of it of course, but enough. Just enough that Sam will never know this. Can't ever know this.
You've almost forgotten why it's so important.
Your lips stretch out and you bare your teeth in what someone might call a smile, but it doesn't feel like one. You haven't felt like smiling in a long time. She whimpers around the gag in her mouth and you pat her cheek gently. This isn't her fault at all and a part of you feels sorry for her for ending up here with you.
Sam thinks you're off getting laid with the pretty waitress and won't even wonder why you won't show up till morning. That was what you meant to do. That's why you went home with the pretty waitress. But this isn't about sex and you didn't mean to, but you just can't help yourself.
You need this. Need it so much more than sex. No. You don't, it does.
She's stretched out on the bed, arms and legs spread out and bound with rope that will probably leave her wrists and ankles raw, especially with the way she was trashing earlier. She stopped doing that when you were cutting away her clothes, but you think she'll probably start up again soon. They always do and you can't blame them really. You used to do the same.
You drag the point of your knife over her collarbone and down between the pert little breasts. It's only teasing, the touch not even hard enough to pierce the skin. And yes, she's pulling at the ropes around her arms again, trying to get away.
It doesn't take much pressure at all for the blade to pierce skin and sink into flesh. You know exactly where to cut if you want to reach in and pull out her insides. You know where to stab to kill her in one stroke, you know how to make it last as long as you want. So you don't, you don't really want to hurt her after all.
She tries to scream, but the gag doesn't let her. You didn't want to gag her, the screams are a part of it. How else would you know you're doing it right? But this isn't the place for screams, the only place you hear the screams anymore is in your dreams.
And it's there again, writhing beneath your skin. You just need for it to be quiet for a while.
***
The blue eyes see too much of you. They see the demon behind your eyes, even when you try to hide.
"Dean," he says and yes, that's you. It tears at you like hot blades through your gut, and you should know, and you're not sure if it's the voice or the name.
There's blood on your hands and none of it is yours. Maybe it went too far this time, it needs more, every time. More and more and more, just to keep it quiet. You can't let it escape, but keeping it inside you…
There's blood on your hands and other things and you don't want to think about it. You can't think about it, because it's almost quiet now, writhing in discomfort under the blue eyes piercing through every part of you. And you can't turn around and look, because there's someone lying bound on the bed behind you, on sheets soaked with blood. You can't turn to look because you can't hear him whimpering anymore.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
You're laughing.
***
There's a knife in your hands. Sharp like always, it pierces skin and flesh easily. You know just where it will hurt the most.
You look into bright blue eyes and you grin. If there's any guilt at all, you can't hear it for the wild laughter inside your head.
After a while there are screams.