alwaysenduphere (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alwaysenduphere) wrote2008-12-14 10:52 pm
alwaysenduphere) wrote2008-12-14 10:52 pm
Entry tags:
SPN fic: the rock is still rolling (can you feel it coming)
Title: the rock is still rolling (can you feel it coming)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darkmerrick
Word Count: 822
Rating: ;pg-13 for violence, mostly
Characters/Pairing: OFC and her perspective of Dean
Spoilers: 4.10
Summary: She spends years in hell, looking up into green eyes.
At this point it’s more a question of what body part doesn’t hurt. Slices in her thigh, a gash in her stomach, even a hole through her arm. Every part hurts. Except she doesn’t have body parts, anymore. She’s just a soul, a remnant of a woman who once used to live, used to feel, used to breathe.
Used to be strong, to be loved. Used to know the difference between right and wrong, between making deals with devils and wars with friends. None of that remains down here.
Down here, she’s nothing.
Her hand hurts, and it’s no wonder: there’s no hand left, just blood. She tries not to look, always tries not to pay attention to what’s happening to her, tries not to feel the pain or remind herself of what she once was. She’s just a soul now; her body just a fragment of her mind, existing only because someone believes it does exist. A soul has no nerves to feel; no brain to relay the message. She’s only a thing now, her body laid to rest. She can’t feel (But she does).
Then in a split second, the hand is whole once again, and the whole process starts over once again. But there’s a moment in between being a bloody pulp of a soul to being whole once again, just a moment, where she could be Sisyphus at the tip of that hill, no hope but no hurt either.
Then the switch falls, the whip cracks, the knife slices, carves, dices, and she’s climbing up that hill once again. Forever damned in a world with no reprieve.
And every day, every moment she’s on the rack, she looks up into those green eyes of his and wonders what fate lies in store for them both. She’s stared at him for years and years, and not a day have those eyes ever looked back as his hand tore at her breast or his whip ripped at her calf. But she still looks, still focuses on them. It’s something, in a place where nothing is prominent. She hasn’t decided yet if compassion or pity is left in them, but there’s something there still, like he’s not simply a hollow shell of soul on a journey to become something far from man-like. The simple idea is enough to keep her saying no, enough to keep her from giving in, letting go, and embracing all hell has to offer.
++
The moment she looks up at him, her first time on the rack, he looks right through her. He doesn’t remember her, but she’s not surprised. It was only 10 amazing minutes full of gasping, sweating, and grabbing at scummy ceramic bathroom sinks. She remembers it like it was yesterday (for all she knows, it was).
She wasn’t memorable, not in life. Just a small-town waitress with peroxide hair and a gap-toothed grin. She’s not going to be memorable in death, either. Not after he finishes with her.
They’d left her alone for the first days (months, years, who know) in a dark corner. Things would come every so often, check on her, twist the steel hooks in her arms and legs just right so she wouldn’t forget her place, but she was alone in her suffering then.
Now she’s surrounded by nothing but screams and red streaks in her vision. Sometimes she doesn’t notice that both belong to her.
++
She screams his name once when his arm’s buried inside her. He pulls it out, blood dripping from elbow down. Looks at her, cocks his head. The sense of recognition is almost not there, almost too far gone to be anything.
“You know me?” He rasps. She knows it’s the first words he’s spoken in a long time (weeks, months, years, all the same).
“I did, once.” She coughs, the blood slipping out the side of her lips in a steady flow. “You’ve changed a bit since we last spoke.” A rue smile crosses her face briefly.
He stares through her a moment, an expression of familiarity slowly seeping into him. She can see the moment he remembers, recognizes her body, her curves, the sound of her voice. His hands twitch at his sides shortly before she feels them, one of them returning to the cavity in her side, pulling and peeling away layers inside. The other one covers her mouth, holds firm. She can’t speak, can’t even breathe (not that she needs to here), and she knows recognition wasn’t what he needed.
The hand digs in just the right spot, and she can’t help it, the muffled screams pour out from behind his hand.
++
Days, months, years. Years, she’s sure of. Years she’s stared at the cold face of him, watched it turn from disgust to delight as he ripped her apart piece by piece. She doesn’t feel pain anymore, doesn’t feel a thing; she doubts he does either.
Author:
darkmerrickWord Count: 822
Rating: ;pg-13 for violence, mostly
Characters/Pairing: OFC and her perspective of Dean
Spoilers: 4.10
Summary: She spends years in hell, looking up into green eyes.
At this point it’s more a question of what body part doesn’t hurt. Slices in her thigh, a gash in her stomach, even a hole through her arm. Every part hurts. Except she doesn’t have body parts, anymore. She’s just a soul, a remnant of a woman who once used to live, used to feel, used to breathe.
Used to be strong, to be loved. Used to know the difference between right and wrong, between making deals with devils and wars with friends. None of that remains down here.
Down here, she’s nothing.
Her hand hurts, and it’s no wonder: there’s no hand left, just blood. She tries not to look, always tries not to pay attention to what’s happening to her, tries not to feel the pain or remind herself of what she once was. She’s just a soul now; her body just a fragment of her mind, existing only because someone believes it does exist. A soul has no nerves to feel; no brain to relay the message. She’s only a thing now, her body laid to rest. She can’t feel (But she does).
Then in a split second, the hand is whole once again, and the whole process starts over once again. But there’s a moment in between being a bloody pulp of a soul to being whole once again, just a moment, where she could be Sisyphus at the tip of that hill, no hope but no hurt either.
Then the switch falls, the whip cracks, the knife slices, carves, dices, and she’s climbing up that hill once again. Forever damned in a world with no reprieve.
And every day, every moment she’s on the rack, she looks up into those green eyes of his and wonders what fate lies in store for them both. She’s stared at him for years and years, and not a day have those eyes ever looked back as his hand tore at her breast or his whip ripped at her calf. But she still looks, still focuses on them. It’s something, in a place where nothing is prominent. She hasn’t decided yet if compassion or pity is left in them, but there’s something there still, like he’s not simply a hollow shell of soul on a journey to become something far from man-like. The simple idea is enough to keep her saying no, enough to keep her from giving in, letting go, and embracing all hell has to offer.
++
The moment she looks up at him, her first time on the rack, he looks right through her. He doesn’t remember her, but she’s not surprised. It was only 10 amazing minutes full of gasping, sweating, and grabbing at scummy ceramic bathroom sinks. She remembers it like it was yesterday (for all she knows, it was).
She wasn’t memorable, not in life. Just a small-town waitress with peroxide hair and a gap-toothed grin. She’s not going to be memorable in death, either. Not after he finishes with her.
They’d left her alone for the first days (months, years, who know) in a dark corner. Things would come every so often, check on her, twist the steel hooks in her arms and legs just right so she wouldn’t forget her place, but she was alone in her suffering then.
Now she’s surrounded by nothing but screams and red streaks in her vision. Sometimes she doesn’t notice that both belong to her.
++
She screams his name once when his arm’s buried inside her. He pulls it out, blood dripping from elbow down. Looks at her, cocks his head. The sense of recognition is almost not there, almost too far gone to be anything.
“You know me?” He rasps. She knows it’s the first words he’s spoken in a long time (weeks, months, years, all the same).
“I did, once.” She coughs, the blood slipping out the side of her lips in a steady flow. “You’ve changed a bit since we last spoke.” A rue smile crosses her face briefly.
He stares through her a moment, an expression of familiarity slowly seeping into him. She can see the moment he remembers, recognizes her body, her curves, the sound of her voice. His hands twitch at his sides shortly before she feels them, one of them returning to the cavity in her side, pulling and peeling away layers inside. The other one covers her mouth, holds firm. She can’t speak, can’t even breathe (not that she needs to here), and she knows recognition wasn’t what he needed.
The hand digs in just the right spot, and she can’t help it, the muffled screams pour out from behind his hand.
++
Days, months, years. Years, she’s sure of. Years she’s stared at the cold face of him, watched it turn from disgust to delight as he ripped her apart piece by piece. She doesn’t feel pain anymore, doesn’t feel a thing; she doubts he does either.
no subject
no subject
no subject
But a fab idea for a fic, and really well executed!
Thanks for sharing!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject