I Created the Sound of Madness
Title: I Created the Sound of Madness
Authors: lipsticknguns & cosmo_naught
Beta: cosmo_naught
Rating: R
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Horror, Angst
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~3800
Warnings: Violence, Gore, Implied Non-Con
A/N: Kudos to cosmo_naught for her insanely amazing editing and co-writing abilities!
Written for this prompt at hoodie_time.
maypoles : Sam washes Dean’s hair for him.
There’s sand underneath his fingernails, sharp and gritty little crystals pushing into the tender skin beneath.
Blue-black waves crash against the shore, spraying droplets of cold water against the side of his face.
Dean blinks once, then twice, trying to focus.
A pear-shaped drop of red gleams as splatters into the sand. Another follows, dropping onto the same spot.
The moon glows softly, bright and full over the ocean, illuminating the pure white sand of the ribbon of beach. Massive, jagged black rocks rise around the mouth of the cave nearby in the water.
Dean coughs, his throat sandpaper-dry.
He’s on his knees by the crashing waves, gripping the handle of a serrated silver blade in the bruised fingers of his right hand. Dark, coal-colored clouds churn above-head, promising heavy rainfall. The wind howls in his ear, screaming and whipping across his face, making his eyes sting and wringing the salty liquid from within.
He blinks again.
More red drops follow, marring the smooth canvas of soft sand with cinnamon-dark splotches.
His left hand clutches a long, black iron pipe. His head’s pounding and his arms are slick and covered in blood and large gashes. His chest heaves and drips with the same dark liquid. His t-shirt is in shreds and his jeans are stained with mud.
He squeezes the weapons in his hands and tries to think. His head pounds with the effort, but he can’t remember anything.
“Dean.”
Dean whirls around on his knees, lifting the iron pipe to attack. His head spins and he can’t see what he’s aiming at; where the voice is coming from. There’s blood dripping into his eyes.
“Dean.” Hands grasp his shoulders, large fingers pressing into his shoulder blades. “Hey, relax. It’s just me.”
Sam.
Streaks of lightning rip violently through the sky, white-hot flashes of light. He can see them, but he can’t see his brother.
“Sam,” Dean rasps, and drops the weapons somewhere to his left, arms shaking. “Sammy.” He reaches out to Sam with his left hand while swiping blindly at his face with the other, trying to find the source of the blood flow. The pads of his fingers brush against wet, sliced skin just above his right brow.
“Don’t touch that,” Sam orders, pushing Dean’s fingers away from the cut. “Think you can walk?”
Dean stumbles, already pushing up to his feet. His head spins and his thigh muscles strain to lift him up, legs trembling violently before they fold in and send him falling face-first toward the ground.
Sam catches him before he collides with the earth. “Hey, hey, take it easy.”
Dean mumbles Sam’s name and fists his hands in his brother’s shirt. He drops his head down onto Sam’s shoulder.
His blood’s seeping into the cotton of Sam’s shirt, but he presses his forehead in further and moves his hands to clutch Sam’s arms, dizzy with adrenaline and the pain shooting through his body.
His eyes are starting to sting again.
Sam’s saying something, but Dean only manages to catch a couple words before Sam’s voice is cut off and there’s suddenly nothing but earsplitting silence ringing in his ears.
He tries to lift his head up, but his muscles feel too heavy and move too slowly. The movement feels time-consuming; it must be light-years before his eyes finally move to Sam’s. He tries to open his mouth to speak. His lips form the words he wants to say, but they do it painfully slow. And nothing comes out.
Sam is looking at him, saying something again, but Dean still can’t hear it.
It’s starting to rain; bullets of water falling into his hair and running down the sides of his face. Gray fog begins to cloud the edges of his vision and Sam’s face begins fading away as he plummets into the darkness.
*
Clothes soaking wet and heart hammering against his ribs, Dean wakes, gasping and choking and fighting to let air into his lungs.
The water’s around him now, waves lashing at his bare torso angrily, and there’s dark clouds overhead. It’s raining, coming down hard.
For a moment, he thinks he’s drowning.
But then Sam’s there--leaning towards him, one hand on Dean’s shoulder and another cupping his neck; keeping his head upright. There are rocks digging into the naked skin of his back, cold and hard against his bruised skin, and the water flows restlessly around him. Thunder rumbles, deep and resounding from above, but it sounds muted; smothered.
“Dean,” Sam says. “Dean, hey, it’s okay.”
Dean looks around, disoriented, as the ice-cold water strikes his skull in an unforgiving rhythm.
They’re just inside the entrance of the cave. Boulders litter the water, some small and some rising tall over his head, surrounding him in a semi-circle of colossal, asphalt-grey walls. He’s propped up against a boulder right at the mouth of the cave, and his lower body’s stretched out in the water.
The current’s still strong, but the water’s shallow here. It’s safe.
He can see the ocean and the beach from here, lit up by both the lighthouse and moonbeams. Sam’s waded into the water and is angled toward him, sitting on an adjacent rock, soaking wet cotton stretching wide over his shoulders. He’s twisting Dean’s shirt in his hands.
“W-what’re we doing here?” Dean asks, teeth chattering.
Dean blinks. Lightning crackles somewhere far away above the ocean, splitting the sky in half with sharp, broken streaks, and everything is painted purple and white for a moment before becoming inky-black and blue again. Sam’s suddenly a lot closer than he was a minute ago.
“Sam,” Dean says, looking up in confusion. A ship horn sounds from afar, and Dean cringes.
The steady drip-drip of the water falling from the top of the cave’s mouth echoes off of the wall, the sound interjected at times by the sound of the rushing waves and booming thunder outside.
“Dean,” Sam says. “Your arm...I have to look at it. Gotta get you fixed up before we can leave,”
Dean flicks his eyes downward. His arms have been cleaned of the blood; maybe washed away by the rain, maybe by Sam.
“You’ve lost too much blood. You shouldn’t walk around without having the cuts wrapped up first,” Sam says.
The cuts have been cleaned, but they’re beading up with liquid again, both dark red and clear, and the large gashes stand out sharply against the pale skin of his inner forearms. His arms are shaking uncontrollably and he flinches when lightning strikes again, somewhere closer this time.
“Easy,” Sam whispers, edging nearer. He pulls Dean’s left arm into his lap and starts wringing the excess water from the shirt.
He twists the wet fabric around Dean’s upper forearm, tightens it until there’s only a few inches of it left unwrapped, and knots it up securely. It takes a couple of minutes for Sam to wrap his arm up, and Dean feels his eyes slipping shut, although he jerks up when Sam gives the knot a final tug before tightening it.
Gold light flashes before his eyes, and the cave’s darker and Sam’s leaning back now.
Dean’s arm starts to feel swollen and heavy. The ties are restricting and uncomfortable.
Sam’s watching him carefully. “Okay?” he asks. His hands hover over the fabric; uncertain.
Dean nods. “Yeah.”
“Dean,” Sam breathes, an exhale of mingled exhaustion and exasperation. He runs a hand through his dripping hair. “Why didn’t you call me? If I’d known it was this bad...”
Another flash of gold light, and Dean leans back against the cool rock, feeling lightheaded. Sam’s still talking, but Dean tunes him out. Rain showers down on him at an angle through the cave entrance.
A strange fog settles over his mind, spreading and seeping into the corners and he blinks, feeling unsettled.
He doesn’t remember what he was thinking about; just that it might have been important. He stretches his legs in the cool, rushing water, trying to push away the strange feeling and says, “I can probably walk now.”
Sam’s watching him silently.
After a moment, Sam looks down. “We’re not done yet,” he says, pulling off his own drenched shirt. “You’ll probably pass out again unless I tie up your other wounds. You’ve lost too much blood already.”
Dean looks down at his arm and frowns.
Pain suddenly shoots through his head, bursts of red and black and gold and when he opens his eyes again, Sam’s sitting about ten feet away, looking at him.
Dean stares back, waiting.
Sam doesn’t move for a full minute. He’s got his eyes locked onto Dean’s and just carries on staring until Dean’s neck starts to prickle uncomfortably. Dean’s about to say something, just when the prickling on the back of his neck is getting to be too much, but that’s when Sam closes his eyes slowly and lets out a sharp bark of laughter.
Sam’s lips twist up; sardonic imitation of a smile. Another, more bitter laugh escapes his mouth. “Dean,” he says, shaking his head. He whispers something under his breath; the words are hushed, yet carry an excited buzz.
Dean looks at him, a strange feeling sweeping through him. “What was that?”
Sam’s smile widens, eyes still closed. He whispers the words again, and Dean still can’t hear. Sam’s hair is wet; dark flames licking and curling around his neck and temples.
Something’s wrong.
Sam laughs again, derisively; bright flash of gleaming white teeth. His laughing grows louder and louder, ringing painfully in Dean’s ears.
Dean’s stomach gives a sickening lurch and he almost chokes on the freezing rainwater as Sam’s eyes flick back open.
His brother’s eyes are black.
Demon-black.
Dean scrambles backwards, breathing raggedly. The water slows his movements, but leaves his heart pounding. He fumbles around for his knife before remembering that he dropped it somewhere on the beach.
Fuck.
Fuck.
His mind is blank; he can’t remember the words to the exorcism ritual, doesn’t remember how to swim away, doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to be doing right now.
Sam lurches towards him, grabbing his shoulders, knocking him down and hissing something, but Dean doesn’t understand the words.
Dean’s slammed back against the boulder, and pain shoots through his spine in sharp bursts of fire.
Everything’s weighted down suddenly; sluggish, moving too slowly for it to be right.
Sam’s laughing; hair wet and sticking to his skin, he’s throwing his head back and shaking with mirth. The muscles in his arms bunch and twist as he slams Dean harder against the rock, and Dean’s sure he can feel his skull cracking against it.
Sam spreads his fingers over Dean’s bare stomach and presses down hard.
Then, his hand is being shoved into Dean’s stomach--right inside, oh, God--with a nauseating squish and pulling out, intestines slippery and writhing and curling in his fist. Blood and pus and slimy clear liquid pour out, long strings of it crudely connecting his entrails to Sam’s wrist and sliding down, snakelike in manner. Sam squeezes them until they burst in his hand with a revolting pop, spraying blood everywhere and laughing like a psychopath as he pretends to take a bite.
He’s still laughing as his hand shoves back in, putting the intestines back inside Dean where they belong. They twist and turn and wriggle inside him stubbornly, showering Sam’s bare skin with blood. Bile forms in Dean’s throat and he coughs up blood and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t fucking move.
Sam’s grinning now; all gleaming teeth and oily black eyes. He whispers, “Dean,” like it’s a secret, as he slides his bloody hand down Dean’s ripped-open stomach. “Dean.” His hand slips lower, to the denim waistband, and pushes inside. Dean’s flipped around so he hits the rock face-first with his wrists pinned behind him and then Sam is plastered up against his back.
“Gonna break you,” Sam whispers into Dean’s ear. “Gonna make you like it.”
Maniacal laughter echoes off of the cave’s walls and drowns out everything else until Dean’s shaking and begging for it to stop.
*
“Dean. Dean, fuck. Christ--Dean, what’s wrong?” Sam’s holding onto his shoulders; bone-crushing grip--will he ever let go?
“Sam,” Dean says, voice scraping in his throat. His hands are trembling and trying to find purchase; somewhere, anywhere.
He’s still here; in the cave, and he knows this much due to the drip-drip of the water falling down from the mouth of the cave.
“Jesus, Dean, look at me!”
Dean goes still, increasingly bruising grip snapping Dean out of his state of frenzy. He looks up into his brother’s eyes and goes rigid at what he sees.
No black.
Blue, green, gold, brown; reflection of every color of the rainbow.
But no black.
Dean bites down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood and tightens his fists, fingernails digging into his palm, breaking the skin there.
“Christo,” he whispers, throat tightening around the word.
Sam freezes, fingers digging into Dean’s shoulders, and looks at Dean hard. A flicker of something flits across his face, but it’s gone in a second.
“Dean,” Sam says. He removes one of his hands from Dean and plants it over the protection tattoo on his bare chest. Still intact. Lines are all there. “Dean, it’s okay. It’s me.”
Dean stares at his brother, heart beating rabbit-fast, threatening to pound right out of his chest. He imagined it. His stomach hasn’t been torn open. Just bruised, maybe scratched up a little from the beach.
Just his imagination.
He really must have lost a lot of blood.
Or hit his head hard.
Sam’s watching him like he’s waiting for Dean to admit that he’s gone insane.
Dean breathes in shakily.
“Right,” he says hoarsely after a moment, trembling right down to his bones. “Right. Yeah, okay.” Thunder booms from above, and the rain starts coming down even harder. Dean sucks in another harsh breath of air before saying, “Storm’s pickin’ up.”
Sam’s still watching, a strange expression on his face. “Yeah,” he says, finally turning away. “We better fix you up before getting you to the car. Come on, I have to see your arm.”
Dean glances down at the carved-up flesh of his unwrapped arm, heart still racing. It’s spilling blood again, long rivers of warm crimson fluid running down his skin. It stings and he can almost feel the sharp swipe of a weapon--not his own--slicing against his skin back at the beach, and the oily, black stare pinning him before whispering words he’d never be ready to hear. He pushes his arm into Sam’s lap.
“Dean,” Sam says. He’s looking at Dean again, with that same expression on his face. “Why’d you have the knife out?”
Dean knows Sam can see right through him, the same way he can see right through Sam.
Sam scrunches up his shirt to squeeze the water out, waiting for an answer.
Dean stays silent as Sam straightens Dean’s arm out before beginning to wrap it up. Sam’s mouth thins in anger after a full minute of silence. He tightens the fabric and finishes knotting the fabric over Dean’s arm.
Dean blinks, bright gold light flashing before his eyes again, and then Sam is suddenly behind Dean, his chest pressed to Dean’s back and Dean tenses all over.
Sam cups the foaming water in his hands and pours it slowly over Dean’s head.
Dean relaxes; bows his head forward and closes his eyes, cool summer night wind rushing past him and the steady cadence of the rain drumming against the rocks. Sam’s fingers slide through his hair slowly.
There’s blood caked on his scalp, he can feel it; dried flakes that the rain hasn’t been able to wash away. A sharp, citrusy, lemon-lime scent fills the air as Sam brushes through the gelled spikes. The dried blood loosens and washes away as Sam rubs gently at Dean’s scalp. His thumbs glide over the soft skin behind his ears as his fingers slip through hair. His fingers massage the water into Dean’s skin and the tangy scent of his hair gel becomes soft and muted as Sam washes it away, replaced by the damp smell of rain.
He doesn’t know how much time passes like this, but he does know that the scent of blood never completely subsides, no matter how long Sam spends washing it out.
Sam’s using one hand now, pouring water and washing it away while his other hand brushes Dean’s side. Dean opens his eyes, and is met with the unsteady gaze of his reflection.
The shape of his face is distorted by the rippling water, though his clouded green eyes look lost and rimmed red with exhaustion. The gash on his forehead is a long dark line above his brow.
Knuckles skim over Dean’s stomach, slow and slightly ticklish.
And then Sam’s hand is dropping down, a large, heavy weight on Dean’s stomach. It slides over aching and bruised skin. Dean’s head falls back against Sam’s chest on a shaky breath and Sam does it again; rubs slowly, unfurling a low, buzzing warmth deep in Dean’s belly, stroking his palm just above the edge of dark denim sticking to Dean’s skin.
Dean shivers as he’s reminded of the same hand, dripping with Dean’s blood and guts, moving over the same area. He closes his eyes.
Sam stops after a moment, fingers splayed wide over Dean’s stomach, covering the area between one jut of hipbone and the other.
Dean’s vision fogs up for a moment before clearing up, and suddenly, everything’s twenty times brighter than before.
“Dean,” Sam’s saying. “We were hunting a ghost. Why’d you have the knife out?”
Dean shakes his head. Dean blinks, black and gold streaking jagged across his vision, and Sam’s in front of him now, saying something about the hunt; something about leaving.
Dean says something back, but he’s so out of it, he doesn’t understand his own words.
Sam’s holding both of Dean’s wrists and he turns them over in his hand, rubbing his thumbs of the sliced skin on Dean’s arm.
It’s quiet for a while, and then Sam whispers, “Why are you following me?”
The dripping grows louder.
“You can’t change me back,” Sam says. “It won’t work.”
Dean looks up at his brother. He takes in the sharp, angled lines of his brother’s face and the almost feral slant of his fox-like eyes. He reaches his hand out and touches Sam’s jaw. Sam goes still.
Dean stretches up slowly and presses his mouth to Sam’s.
Sam is unresponsive for what seems like forever, and Dean knows he has to pull away.
Sam looks at Dean; long enough to make Dean uncomfortable again. Then he tucks his fingers under the hinges of Dean’s jaw and lifts Dean’s chin up.
Then Sam moves forward slowly, pushing Dean backwards until the rock is digging into his lower back. He whispers, “It won’t work,” again; voice hushed this time. Their bare chests press together and their mouths are inches away.
Dean holds his breath, waiting, heart rate picking up. His stomach muscles quiver as Sam runs a hand up his side, but he stays still. Sam’s hand slides to Dean’s lower back and then wraps around. He leans down, eyes flickering over Dean’s face, cataloguing all of Dean’s movements.
He finally closes the distance and presses his mouth to Dean’s.
Dean slips his fingers into Sam’s damp hair. Sam kisses across the seam of Dean’s mouth and slides his tongue into Dean’s throat; licks over the roof of Dean’s mouth and curls his fingers around the back of Dean’s neck, fingertips slipping wetly into Dean’s hair. He moves slowly, languidly.
Dean wraps his mouth around Sam’s tongue to suck carefully, and is rewarded with a low, long groan from Sam.
It’s a while before they break apart.
When they’re done, Sam presses his face into Dean’s neck and murmurs Dean’s name before sinking his teeth in.
Dean doesn’t feel the sting of skin breaking.
Sam pulls away, fingers still clasped around Dean’s neck.
Heart lodged in his throat and throbbing painfully, Dean reaches out to touch again; soft brush of fingertips against Sam’s jaw.
His brother’s face melts away, ooze of flesh dripping onto Dean’s shirt and masking the bloodstains.
*
Dean blinks, once, then twice, woken up by the sound of the waves.
The summer air is sweet and strong and weighted with the scent of sea salt. The pain coursing through his body is dizzying, but his physical senses are remarkably keen and alert regardless.
It’s dark out. The moon hangs high up above, disappearing and reappearing with an effortless grace from behind the heavy clouds. The water’s stained a deep, almost surreally radiant purple, the sky a rich mess of silvery-gray and dark navy blue. Stars are arbitrarily scattered over the sky, glints of diamonds glittering visibly only for moments before the clouds conceal them again.
His arms are slick, dripping with ruby-red fluid. He’s on his knees, head bowed, right by the crashing waves. His forehead stings and there’s blood dripping in his eyes.
The sand is reddened with blood; the beach littered with human bodies--maybe a dozen, maybe more. They lie still, not breathing, and some have tendrils of black smoke curling and dancing out of their mouths. Moonlight spills over them in a pool of white light, exaggerating the paleness of their skin.
Ruby’s knife is lodged in his fist, smooth handle cool against his burning flesh, the uneven blade cutting into his fingers and dripping blood that isn’t entirely his. His other hand is empty.
He feels dizzy, disoriented, like he’s swinging, hanging from a pendulum of sorts, and the cuts in his chest and arms are sore and aching. His skin boils with heat from within, like his blood’s been set aflame.
He notes absently that his arms are bleeding, gashes marring the smooth skin of his forearms.
There’s a dark silhouette of a man standing at the far edge of the beach. The man turns toward Dean, watching. He’s tall, taller than Dean, and his broad shoulders are tensed with anticipation but his hands hang lazily at his sides. He smiles, gleam of white teeth piercing through the dark and a flash of yellow-gold light where human eyes should be.
Dean’s vision blurs with tears and he stumbles, trying to get to his feet, swaying as the blood rushes to his head.
“Sam,” he whispers, dropping the knife. He staggers towards the man. “Sammy.”