Okay so I was mad today. Very, very mad. Think the force of the Hulk and the cold precision of . . . Actually, I can't think of an appropriate character for that last part.
Let's just say I was royally pissed.
And I couldn't write anything else so I wrote this.
I'm warning you now it is dark. You know how Sam said that Winchester dark was pretty dark?
This makes normal Winchester dark look like a freaking sun gone supernova.
If that's not your cup of tuna then you might want to back out now and go find another fic. I won't be hurt.
Otherwise . . . you've been warned.
Also, potential spoilerishness up to 4x11 Family Remains. Nothing major, but it is in there.
And considering the end of the fic, I'd also say it's safely AU.
Don't expect any more of this. It is intriguing, I'll admit, but not my normal sandbox.
If I get this mad again you'll be seeing me on the nightly news, not writing fanfic.
He thought many times of what hell would be like.
In his nightmares. In those brief times between almost dying and realizing he'd survived, when time stretched and reality became hazy. In his moments of despair when he was brutally honest with himself and he admitted that he didn't trust his brother enough to get him out of the deal.
But never—never—in all the times he imagined it, tried to fathom what is would be like, tried to prepare himself for the torture that would be inflicted on him, did he imagine this.
He paints.
He was never the artistic kind in life.
The closest he came to painting then was the judicious use of chocolate on a woman's skin. He smiles and thinks fondly of those times. They were delicious memories.
Much like these will be.
The chocolate, warm and smooth and dripping slightly as he drew abstract designs over soft skin, sometimes golden with sunlight or genetics, sometimes pale as moonlight on white rose petals. It was sweet and thick and tasted so fucking good when he licked it off, mingled with the soft sighs of his canvas.
His paint now is warm and smooth and dripping slightly. The skin comes in as many shades as it did then. And it is still sweet and thick and he always licks his fingers when he's done.
Licks up every . . .
last . . .
drop.
But there are no sighs from his canvas now.
Fearful whimpers.
Painful moans.
Pleas for mercy.
But no sighs.
He dips his fingers in the thick pool, making sure the coating is even, and then hooks them slightly, to scoop up that extra little bit.
He has a design in mind and he'll need to work quickly before it dries.
A soft mewling sound escapes as he brushes broad fingertips over a pale forehead.
"Please . . . stop . . ."
He ignores the whispered words and continues his work.
He has found a soothing sort of comfort in his art.
That is the most unexpected part, he thinks.
How much he enjoys painting in blood.
o.o
He's being moved today. To a new section. They say he's learned all he can here, has perfected his art. Time to learn something new.
A stir of excitement twirls through his belly.
He's come to know that learning new things is the best part of being here.
He never imagined there was so much to learn.
He is led to a new room, sad because he will miss the old one. He had so much fun there.
But he's also sure he will have fun here.
He is shown his workstation, a neat and tidy tray next to a rolling stool and a generous table. The tray is covered with a sheet and he wonders what treasures lay beneath it.
There is no instruction beyond, "Have fun."
That's all he's ever told.
He didn't know what to make of it at first, but now he does. That's his invitation to play. To explore. To try new things.
There is no wrong path, though some are more satisfying than others.
He lifts the cloth and smiles, the expression childlike in its pure joy.
He is a painter no more. Brushes and fingers are tools of the past.
His tools now are shiny and sharp. So very, very sharp, he learns, as he presses a thumb to one edge and nearly slices it off.
He laughs at the sight and sticks the bleeding digit into his mouth, eyes closing as he tastes the sweetness there.
And then his new medium arrives.
He no longer paints on canvases.
Now he is a master carver.
The block of unblemished skin before him makes a sound, tears leak down the face.
He ignores them and goes to work. Before he is done tears will not be the only thing sliding down skin to drip onto the table and flow to the floor.
o.o
They move him more often now.
He used to stay in a place for weeks or even months.
Now he's lucky if he gets days before they give him something new. He was in his last station longer than most of the other recent ones, but he suspects that's because he took so long to finish his project.
He enjoyed it quite a bit.
It was a kind of painting, though much more satisfying than the blood.
The pungent smell of the gasoline tingled his nostrils and made him giggle, like the bubbles in champagne he tried once.
He took far more time then anyone else in his area. They had no respect for their arts though. Sure, they got louder screams and they got them more often, but none were as sweet as his.
He'd paint first, drawing out paths on the skin. He'd taken to talking as he did so, explaining what he was doing and why.
He found it made the cries to stop more poignant, the screams more satisfyingly shrill.
And then he'd use a piece of straw. The flame so small on the end it was almost smoke.
And he'd touch it off, watching with glee as it raced over the skin, spreading outward in a rush of heat, like dominoes falling one by one.
And then, when the whole skin was in flames and the screams were drawing attention, he'd put it out.
With acid.
A few seconds to savor the new pitch of the cries and he'd douse the whole mess with water. First ice cold, then a second fall of boiling hot.
Then he'd start all over again.
He'd gotten the timing down to such precision that he could keep going for almost a month on that one medium alone.
Layer . . .
by . . .
layer . . .
He'd strip them down until they were nothing but bones.
And then he'd wave his hand and fix it all . . .
And start over.
o.o
He used to have an audience.
They were distracting at one time.
And then, when they caused him to twitch and mess up the perfect line he was drawing, he sprayed them with the vat of boiling oil he'd been working with in a fit of rage.
And set them on fire.
No one came to watch him for a time after that, but eventually they came back.
They learned to be quiet.
And he learned to ignore them.
He wonders if there is someone else now, someone more interesting than him.
They've stopped coming to watch.
He's intrigued by the fact that it seems to bother him.
One day he asks why.
There is something in Alistair's eyes when he considers his answer.
Something he's only used to seeing in the eyes of his mediums.
He realizes it's fear and amusement curves his generous lips.
"Alistair," he asks, voice deliberately kept low and smooth. He's discovered this tone and pitch and volume is the one that heightens the fear response more than any other. "You're not afraid of me are you?"
Alistair sneers, words cold and sharp as he is put back in his place.
Or at least, he assumes that was Alistair's objective.
He's surprised to find it doesn't work.
Once upon a time the very thought of hearing that voice say anything at all would have made him shudder and cringe and beg for mercy.
Now it amuses him.
As does the blood that runs down to the floor when he slides his largest carving knife between Alistair's third and fourth ribs on the left side.
A twist and a gentle push and Alistair is gasping, eyes wide with panic and pain and—oh yes, the fear.
He drinks it in, inhaling deeply as if it were a scent he could breathe.
And maybe it is.
"It's been fun," he says, the charming smile he used when bidding farewell to the ladies in his last life making a reappearance. "But I have places to go and people to see. Later, dude."
He gives the blade one more sharp push and then releases it and Alistair's body, turning and walking away without a backward glance.
o.o
He pauses at the Gates, considers the wide world that lays before him . . . and then turns around.
He has a tail.
Or rather, his tail has a tail.
He kneels down, and beckons the creature forward with a wiggle of his fingers.
They met in New Harmony, Indiana, under circumstances that some might think would cause bad blood between them.
He's since learned there is no such thing as bad blood. And he can now appreciate her skills. She is one of the best of her kind.
They used to work together as well. Only a month, but boy did they have fun.
"Hey, girl," he murmurs. "Did you miss me?"
She whines and licks his face, surprising a laugh out of him.
Burying his fingers into her ruff, he presses his forehead to hers.
"You want to go for a walk? See what fun toys we can find to play with out there?"
She wriggles and dances in place, barking once.
He stands and looks back.
He never had the experience in his life so he can't be positive, but . . . he thinks this must be what it's like to graduate from college.
He learned a lot here.
Time to take those skills and put them to use.
With a snap of his fingers, his companion heels to his side and they stride through the Gates.
Just a man and his dog looking for some fun.
If you're not running for your life by now I'd appreciate a word or two on what you thought of my evil!Dean. Personally, he creeped me the hell out, but maybe someone out there likes him.