Drabbles: Thoughts in 100 words
I've become addicted to drabbles as a form of disciplined expression. Here's where I'm gonna stick 'em. With a pic for each one.
Blink of an Eye
Dean hissed as the keen edge of the blade slid through the ropes and into the tender skin of his forearm. He felt the hot blood race in a line down his arm to puddle in his hands as he sawed, fingers cramping and now slick as he awkwardly gripped the handle of the blade, wishing to God he'd brought a smaller knife.
His head snapped up, heart racing, staring into the unbroken blackness surrounding him.
The knife slipped through his fingers and clattered to the floor.
Not that it mattered.
They were here and it was already too late.
Never Enough
Dean arched forward, body shuddering, muscles across his back writhing as his sweat slicked belly slid over the warm body beneath him. Scarlet nails dug into his flesh, leaving marks that would last much longer than his memories of this moment.
Her hair could have been any color, he only knew it felt soft; the eyes that watched his face had been inviting, but without expectation.
They had not even exchanged names.
He was just another ship passing through her night and she knew it.
And she was another empty experience that would fulfill his want...
But never his need.
Asunder
Blood soaked from breastbone to boots, a widening trail of scarlet marking his path as he staggered drunkenly down the tilting hallway, his fingers clutching desperately, trying to keep his guts from spilling out through the rip across his belly.
Coughing, crimson frothing his lips, he fell against the wall, pain so bad he wondered if he would simply break in two if he released the grip he had on himself.
Wall and boots greased by blood, he slid helplessly to the floor, eyes closing.
Sam's voice suddenly in his ear; he was gripped by rough hands.
"I've got you."
Purpose
Dean studied the end of the match, the combination of colors and chemicals that produced that sudden flash of fire with the flick of a thumbnail
Creation and destruction joined at the end of a tiny sliver of wood. The match never knew what would set it off and why, only that it was always waiting for that sudden moment of combustible purpose, it's reason for existing.
The moment that gave it meaning.
He thumbed the little stick to life, watched it burn for a few seconds, then tossed it in the grave.
Sometimes, he knew how that match felt.
Not With A Bang...
It was an endless forever of agony. The torturers changed, each with their own style, but the result was still the same.
And at the end of each 'day', there was always Alistair.
Asking the same question.
And Dean always gave the same answer.
As the decades passed, no matter what horrors were inflicted upon him, the moment Dean came to fear most was when Alistair would come and ask his question.
Afraid of the day he couldn't say no anymore.
After thirty years, that day finally came.
And all of a sudden, he couldn't wait for Alistair to arrive.
Even Hell Won't Have me Now
"Dean?"
"I'm fine, Sam." Dean said tightly, sitting outside their motel room door, staring into the darkness.
"You sure?"
Dean's eyes burned. "I'm fine," he repeated.
Alone, Dean lifted the bottle and drank deeply, grimacing as the liquor burned his throat, still raw from the words he had spoken.
The things I did...
There was no release in confessing his sins to Sam. He had been too weak-spirited to continue the fight and he blazed with self loathing and shame.
The whiskey he was pouring in his stomach would numb his brain, but he couldn't pour it in his heart.
Coming Attractions
Face pressed into the splintery wood, Dean clenched his eyes, waiting for the next strike, thinking he knew what to expect now. But when this one fell, it made the first one seem a gentle caress by comparison as the buckle of the belt tore across the skin of his lacerated shoulders, digging into the raw flesh like the fangs of a snake.
He couldn't stop the cry as he was struck again, the burning blast of the leather sticking to his skin before it was ripped loose, encouraging voices spurring his torturer on.
After the sixth blow, he screamed.
Nowhere left to go
Dean twisted his neck, seeing Sam holding the whip, the long, knotted strands moving as his hands shook.
Fear in his eyes.
Orange fire, redolent with oils and herbs, danced behind him.
Sweat slicked Dean's bare skin, splashing to the ground with tiny sizzles as he waited for what was coming.
"Do it!" he finally barked, feet braced, tugging the ropes lashing him spread-eagled between the trees.
"I can't..."
"Yes, you can," Dean snarled, closing his eyes, willing his shaking body to keep fighting a little longer.
Because they had no choice
"God, Sam! Please! Do it now!!"
You Never Know
"What's wrong?" Sam asked.
"I've got something in my eye," Dean growled, rubbed at his watering eye, trying to dislodge the offending object.
"You want me to look?"
"Naw, I'll be right there." Dean made a 'go ahead' motion with his free hand, continuing to dig into his eye, finally extricating a long eyelash to his great relief. He started to flick it away, then paused, glancing over at Sam to make sure he was occupied with the witnesses
I can't believe I'm doing this, he thought.
But he still made the wish and blew the lash into the sky.
With These Hands...
Sam lifted his hand and spread long fingers, feeling the heat pulse gathering in his palm as he summoned the raw power from within himself.
There was pain, but the rush, my God, the rush as he pulled the demon from the body it would have ridden into the ground before taking another rippled Sam's skin with sensation so strong it almost made him shudder with pleasure.
It scared him, thrilled him, left him in awe that he could harness and control this power from only God knew where.
But knowing, deep down, God had nothing to do with it.
You want those ribs wet or dry?
Dean felt the ribs snap when he slammed into the edge of the tombstone. Solid cracks he could almost hear that sent shockwaves of hurt and nausea through his body. His gasp of pained surprise sucked rain into his windpipe and he doubled over in agony, choking and spluttering, legs sliding in the water and mud until he was laying against the very grave marker that had injured him.
Embroidery
Dean stared at the line of sutures marching down the length of his forefinger as
Sam finished stitching, squinting in the bad light, pausing most notably on the
area where some of what looked like stuff that should have been inside the
gash was sort of hanging out in places. Nothing major, but still...
With tweezers, Sam crammed the escaping tissue back into the split in Dean's
skin in a movement so nauseating Dean gagged.
Now I lay me down to die
The car was never going to stop and he was going to die here in the
PASSENGER side of his own car while Sam tried to find a motel for the night.
Muscles aching, brain woozy and short-circuiting as his fever crept higher,
stomach knotting with cramps, so nauseous he knew one more touch on the
brakes or sway of the big car in a too tight turn and he was going to be
decorating the dashboard.
Quiet as a mouse
Sam pushed himself further into the shadows, pulling Dean's limp body against him, the side of his face pressed to Dean's head, blood already forming glue between them.
The creature outside tried to scent them, snuffling and scratching beyond the darkness of the rocks shielding them. Sam prayed the special dust they had covered themselves with would keep them hidden.
He tried to control his own shaking breath.
Go away, go away...
Dean moved as consciousness returned. His boot jerked minutely, dislodging a pebble.
Sam's hand moved quickly to Dean's mouth.
Everything in its place
Nausea rolled through Dean as Sam gently tried to manipulate his shoulder back into the socket. The usual snap-jerk move hadn't worked. Three tries had sent Dean, gagging, to his knees.
"I'm sorry," Sam repeated in a litany of apologies.
On his knees and one elbow, bad arm hugged to his belly, head down, Dean gasped, "Just gimme a second..." Sweat dripped off his chin, joining the other dark spots on the dirty carpet.
Slowly he straightened, still kneeling, bracing himself as Sam hesitantly gripped his elbow again.
"Ready?"
Hammering the point home
"Just get it out, Sam," Dean grit his teeth.
The sight of the three and a half inch galvanized nail buried to the head in his
shoulder was nauseating to say the least.
bitch..." He clamped the nail tightly in the pliers and jerked before Dean could
think about it.
Dean let out a hoarse growl of pain as the metal was dragged free of the
muscle, blood poured down his arm.
Burned Out
The 110 degree heat rippled the air as Sam and Dean moved toward the car.
Added to the fever Dean had been running for the last three days, it gave him
the nauseating sensation of floating slightly above the ground as he walked.
going to be sick.
Raising a hand to his sweating face, eyes unfocusing as the world spiraled
slowly around him, Sam's words faded into silence.
What lies beneath
Wearily, Dean unbuckled his belt and flipped open the top button, very aware of the raw burn on his right side. He carefully pulled up his t-shirt, tugging it gently loose from the blood sticking it to his skin, and moved to see his reflection in the bathroom mirror better.
He hadn't realized how deeply he had scraped and bruised the skin in a wide band from just above his hip to below his beltline when he fell on the rocks.
Gingerly, he unzipped his jeans and pushed the fabric lower, hissing at the painful drag.
Which is worse?
Dean cried out as dozens of venom soaked barbs peppered his chest.
Everywhere they touched was like being injected with acid.
The poison acted fast, pain, dizziness and nausea sending him instantly to his
knees, retching.
"Lay still!" Sam barked, shoving Dean onto his back and tearing open his shirt.
barbs bursting with a sizzling pop. He arched up in shock, screaming.
It was like being set on fire.
Puzzle Pieces
Sam's hands shook as he threaded the circular needle, swallowing down his
nausea at the sight of the crisscrossed slashes on Dean's abdomen. Dean
was mercifully unconscious, spread on the ground like a sacrifice, bloody
towels beneath him to keep him off the dirt.
there in the cloudy green orbs.
Lucky Day
Dean's skin tried to shudder off his body as the biggest frigging rat he had ever seen detached itself from the shadows and began to climb his body.
Horrified, he jerked on his bindings, choking on blood, desperately twisting his body to try dislodge the creature, but it clung like a burr and enjoyed the ride.
Settling on Dean's chest, tiny black eyes studying him, it stretched forward to nuzzle at the corner of his bloody mouth, claws digging into his chin as Dean tried to pull away.
Abruptly, it turned, chittering loudly to the others.
Come and get it.
House of Cards
Kneeling in the mud, babbling desperately to keep Sam's attention, Dean clutched at his brother's face and body, shook him, screamed at him, ordered him to stay as if the words alone would be enough to hold him.
To keep him there.
Promised him anything, everything, whether it was within Dean's power to give or not.
But Sam didn't listen, he never did. The light in his eyes grew dark and the warmth left him.
Dean followed his brother's slow collapse to the cold ground.
Ceasing his pleas for Sam to remain, he begged instead to go with him.
Chance of a Lifetime
"A rare beauty is this next lot," the auctioneer crooned.
Unable to speak or move, head and neck locked in a brace, arms and legs tethered tightly, Dean was shoved before a table seated with a dozen figures whose heads were draped with filmy fabrics of varying hues, only their black eyes visible.
A clawed finger trailed past his ear. "A face to die for, to be worn with pride and envied by all. The lovely green eyes," the smooth voice continued, "may be purchased separately, of course."
"Ladies and gentleman, this face can be yours. What am I bid?"