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.
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.
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
clutched 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."
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 added, "will
be sold separately, of course."
"Ladies and gentleman, this face can be yours. What am I bid?"
Madness
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.
Congratulations On Your Success
"I'll be in soon," he lied, without looking at her.
Staring into the darkness that was a year old tonight, he lifted his tumbler of whiskey. Unfortunately, no amount of liquor seemed to numb the pain.
A year and he still agonized. The wound an abyss of never-ending grief, just like six months ago, a week ago, a day, an hour.
The breath-he-just-took ago.
Drinking deeply, he closed his eyes against the burn. From his throat, his eyes…his heart.
No one knew, a year ago, Sam Winchester had thrown himself into hell and had saved the world.
For everyone, but Dean.
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 into his stomach would numb his brain, but he couldn't pour it in his heart.
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. He ceased his pleas for Sam to remain and begged instead to go with him.
I Can Hear You Calling
"You're gonna be okay, Dean." Sam had said it so many times, gripping Dean's dry, calloused fingers tightly, he almost believed it himself.
Dean drifted on a sea of pain killers, heart monitor beeping an erratic rhythm in time with his shallow breaths, his attention focused on a point past
Sam's right shoulder.
"Mom?" Dean whispered suddenly, childlike, in wondering surprise.
Sam went cold.
Shooting a look behind him, he moved to block Dean's line of sight, clutching Dean's hand to his chest. Tears spilled down his cheek.
"NO! Don't look!, " he ordered, "I'm here, Dean, look at me!"
Lay Your Burden Down
Sam looked up as cold water sprayed him.
"Dean!" he yelled. "Watch it!"
Dean ignored him, innocence personified, busily soaping down the impala.
Shaking off the droplets, Sam returned to the file he was reading only to be showered again.
"DEAN!"
This time, Dean was watching, a glint in his eye and a crook to his mouth.
The tip of the hose lifted …
And it was on.
Rolling in the wet grass and the hot sun, for a moment, they were just brothers, laughing, swearing and punching , fighting only to be the winner in a
war of water.
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 behind his gag, 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 mouth, claws digging into his chin as Dean tried
to turn away.
Abruptly, it turned, chittering loudly to the others.
Come and get it.
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.
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.
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!"
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.
Sensation
"Sam!" Dean barked, catching sight of the worn covers over Sam's body bob up and down frantically as he writhed, moaning.
"What the HELL are you doing?" Dean yelped, shocked. He stomped over to Sam, yanking the covers down, smacking his younger brother's offending
hand away. "I've told you! Don't do that. At least be sneaky. I can see you doing it for God's sake!"
Sam groaned, desperately in need of release. "Please, Dean! I can't help it!"
"It'll fade if you leave it alone!" Dean held Sam's hands tight, resolute.
"Chicken Pox itches, dude. You gotta stop scratching!"
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.
Specimen
Dean's boots slipped on the wet leaves covering the steep roof and suddenly he was falling.
Below him, twisted spikes of iron from the rusty old fence clawed skyward, reaching for him, splitting the flesh as his body was caught in their jagged
embrace.
One point sank into the upper right side of his chest, emerging to the sound of his scream, through the muscles next to his shoulder blade, leaving him
dangling helplessly, like an insect impaled on a pin.
His agonized eyes rolled toward the moon as the leathery beat of wings heralded the arrival of the collector.
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.
End
clutched 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."
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 added, "will
be sold separately, of course."
"Ladies and gentleman, this face can be yours. What am I bid?"
Madness
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.
Congratulations On Your Success
"I'll be in soon," he lied, without looking at her.
Staring into the darkness that was a year old tonight, he lifted his tumbler of whiskey. Unfortunately, no amount of liquor seemed to numb the pain.
A year and he still agonized. The wound an abyss of never-ending grief, just like six months ago, a week ago, a day, an hour.
The breath-he-just-took ago.
Drinking deeply, he closed his eyes against the burn. From his throat, his eyes…his heart.
No one knew, a year ago, Sam Winchester had thrown himself into hell and had saved the world.
For everyone, but Dean.
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 into his stomach would numb his brain, but he couldn't pour it in his heart.
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. He ceased his pleas for Sam to remain and begged instead to go with him.
I Can Hear You Calling
"You're gonna be okay, Dean." Sam had said it so many times, gripping Dean's dry, calloused fingers tightly, he almost believed it himself.
Dean drifted on a sea of pain killers, heart monitor beeping an erratic rhythm in time with his shallow breaths, his attention focused on a point past
Sam's right shoulder.
"Mom?" Dean whispered suddenly, childlike, in wondering surprise.
Sam went cold.
Shooting a look behind him, he moved to block Dean's line of sight, clutching Dean's hand to his chest. Tears spilled down his cheek.
"NO! Don't look!, " he ordered, "I'm here, Dean, look at me!"
Lay Your Burden Down
Sam looked up as cold water sprayed him.
"Dean!" he yelled. "Watch it!"
Dean ignored him, innocence personified, busily soaping down the impala.
Shaking off the droplets, Sam returned to the file he was reading only to be showered again.
"DEAN!"
This time, Dean was watching, a glint in his eye and a crook to his mouth.
The tip of the hose lifted …
And it was on.
Rolling in the wet grass and the hot sun, for a moment, they were just brothers, laughing, swearing and punching , fighting only to be the winner in a
war of water.
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 behind his gag, 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 mouth, claws digging into his chin as Dean tried
to turn away.
Abruptly, it turned, chittering loudly to the others.
Come and get it.
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.
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.
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!"
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.
Sensation
"Sam!" Dean barked, catching sight of the worn covers over Sam's body bob up and down frantically as he writhed, moaning.
"What the HELL are you doing?" Dean yelped, shocked. He stomped over to Sam, yanking the covers down, smacking his younger brother's offending
hand away. "I've told you! Don't do that. At least be sneaky. I can see you doing it for God's sake!"
Sam groaned, desperately in need of release. "Please, Dean! I can't help it!"
"It'll fade if you leave it alone!" Dean held Sam's hands tight, resolute.
"Chicken Pox itches, dude. You gotta stop scratching!"
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.
Specimen
Dean's boots slipped on the wet leaves covering the steep roof and suddenly he was falling.
Below him, twisted spikes of iron from the rusty old fence clawed skyward, reaching for him, splitting the flesh as his body was caught in their jagged
embrace.
One point sank into the upper right side of his chest, emerging to the sound of his scream, through the muscles next to his shoulder blade, leaving him
dangling helplessly, like an insect impaled on a pin.
His agonized eyes rolled toward the moon as the leathery beat of wings heralded the arrival of the collector.
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.
End