always.
Summary: There is a method to his madness.
Category: Character. Oneshot. Dark.
Timeline: Refers to events through Jump The Shark (4.19).
Characters: Dean.
Wordcount: ~370
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Holy crap, I fic'ed! I thought I was broken. Must have been the last two day's worth of character deep-dives with
tahirire and
samidha . You broke me down, finally! But I think this might be the only Dean meta I can scratch together. This is for you guys. :) Fragmented thoughts about Dean that became a pattern and turned into this.
They stab. They cut and tear. They grind at his flesh with the junction of their power, serrated edges peeling away the connective tissues and hewing away at his bones.
The grinding and the hewing and the tearing apart don't hurt. It's about knowing that it should.
Someone's tight grip working, painstakingly revealing what's never seen the light of day -- and never will. Twisted sons of bitches.
**
His face contorts and he twists away from twin blades that anchor him down, strip him away, until there's no feeling left. Nothing. Nothingness. It starts to feel good.
**
Somehow, that's worse.
**
Somehow, that's selfish.
**
He stabs. He cuts and rends and tears. Two dull points, because dull works better, twisting at the deep places. He grinds them up, chews them, spits them back out. Until there is nothing. They don't smile and thank him. Yet.
**
He stabs with one hand, the junctions of his fingers gripping and curling and pulling it in, down, past. Handful by handful, it is painstaking work revealing what's never seen the light of day -- and suddenly there is nothing.
His hand stretches open.
**
He doesn't deserve all of these open hands.
**
He slices little pieces off and feeds them to the only person who's ever had a tight-fisted grip on him up here. It's not quite the same. He tries the open-handed one. Not any better. They tell him he's the head of the line. They tell him he's the end of the line. Yeah, well, give him a choice and he'll go first -- and hope to be the last -- every damn time.
But they won't cut at him, not like he needs them to. And then, they find the one who will. And then, since when does the only person who's ever had a tight-fisted grip on him up here... use an open hand?
**
No more paper, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks. And three's a crowd. And it's like the belly of the whale ... only this has sharp, pointy teeth. That'll work.
**
They bump fists, tight-fisted grips holding twin blades of secrets. He fakes frustration and he goes down, down first, down the hole, down in the dark, with a hidden smile.
Always with the scissors.
Category: Character. Oneshot. Dark.
Timeline: Refers to events through Jump The Shark (4.19).
Characters: Dean.
Wordcount: ~370
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Holy crap, I fic'ed! I thought I was broken. Must have been the last two day's worth of character deep-dives with
tahirire and
samidha . You broke me down, finally! But I think this might be the only Dean meta I can scratch together. This is for you guys. :) Fragmented thoughts about Dean that became a pattern and turned into this.
They stab. They cut and tear. They grind at his flesh with the junction of their power, serrated edges peeling away the connective tissues and hewing away at his bones.
The grinding and the hewing and the tearing apart don't hurt. It's about knowing that it should.
Someone's tight grip working, painstakingly revealing what's never seen the light of day -- and never will. Twisted sons of bitches.
**
His face contorts and he twists away from twin blades that anchor him down, strip him away, until there's no feeling left. Nothing. Nothingness. It starts to feel good.
**
Somehow, that's worse.
**
Somehow, that's selfish.
**
He stabs. He cuts and rends and tears. Two dull points, because dull works better, twisting at the deep places. He grinds them up, chews them, spits them back out. Until there is nothing. They don't smile and thank him. Yet.
**
He stabs with one hand, the junctions of his fingers gripping and curling and pulling it in, down, past. Handful by handful, it is painstaking work revealing what's never seen the light of day -- and suddenly there is nothing.
His hand stretches open.
**
He doesn't deserve all of these open hands.
**
He slices little pieces off and feeds them to the only person who's ever had a tight-fisted grip on him up here. It's not quite the same. He tries the open-handed one. Not any better. They tell him he's the head of the line. They tell him he's the end of the line. Yeah, well, give him a choice and he'll go first -- and hope to be the last -- every damn time.
But they won't cut at him, not like he needs them to. And then, they find the one who will. And then, since when does the only person who's ever had a tight-fisted grip on him up here... use an open hand?
**
No more paper, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks. And three's a crowd. And it's like the belly of the whale ... only this has sharp, pointy teeth. That'll work.
**
They bump fists, tight-fisted grips holding twin blades of secrets. He fakes frustration and he goes down, down first, down the hole, down in the dark, with a hidden smile.
Always with the scissors.