Flash memefic: Flesh on Bone; PG13, horror, disturbing imagery
Flesh on Bone
Warnings: Gore, horror, disturbing imagery
Spoilers: 7x23
Note: For the current s7 finale H/C meme, for this prompt by roque_clasique. This is extremely unpleasant. Consider this a warning.
Straight-up horror images. Might be disturbing.
--
Flesh on Bone
--
Dean paws at his face with his left hand, the ruined stumps of two missing fingers leaving rust-colored trails down his cheek. Sam grabs at his wrist, forces it away, and down. He dabs at the blistered skin at the corner of his brother’s mouth with an alcohol-damp cotton ball. Dean doesn’t move or even really register the touch. He blinks at odd intervals, and occasional tears leak from one eye or the other, and drip unacknowledged from the base of his jaw.
There’s so much blood, so much fluid. Pussing ruined skin, mottled and leathered in places, not scarred but simply changed, made into something other. His right hand is too badly damaged to unwrap from the handle of his weapon, fingers broken and wrapped securely around the hilt with a leather that reeks of decay. Sickness.
He finishes swabbing his brother’s face, at least for the moment. Presses lightly on the sides of his jaw, as if Dean’s a cat that needs to have its mouth forced open. It doesn’t work.
“Open your mouth,” Sam says, trying to be gentle. “Please.”
Dean’s mouth won’t close completely. It’s strangely off center, damaged in a way Sam can’t quite match to any injury he’s ever seen. Looking at it makes him faintly nauseous.
“Open, please.”
Dean’s eyes shift, briefly, and after a long pause he makes a thick gobbet of noise and opens his mouth. Sam half expects it to go on opening, unhinging the entirety of his face. His whole skeleton.
It doesn’t though. Stops at the normal place and reveals dulled dry skin, the ridges at the roof of his mouth faintly visible.
He’s missing five teeth.
Sam swears.
--
He walks, at least. Or, Sam walks and Dean trails awkwardly after him. His leg is shredded, literally, skin hanging off, muscle glistening and blood pulsing with every step. He’s been out of purgatory for fifteen minutes, just enough time for Sam to assess the damage, clean up the worst of the dirt. Enough time for him to vomit in the corner of the shack. Enough to say, “Hospital, Jesus, hospital,” over and over like a mantra.
He can’t carry his brother and he won’t drag him. Can’t risk laying hands on him, for the wild fear that if he misjudges some part will drop off. And so he coaxes Dean toward the car and his brother-what’s left of his brother-follows, left hand clutching the right to his stomach, broken fingers twitching.
Sam imagines Dean’s mind must be a white inferno of agony. He wonders if Dean’s even aware of himself.
He turns away from the shambling mess of bones and skin behind him and keeps moving forward and its only when he’s reached the car that he turns back and realizes Dean’s stopped. Has sunk to the ground, unmoving. Hands clasped together and out to the side, face turned into the earth. It’s hard to make out the shape of him, precisely, lying so still. Parts of him grey-brown, parts dull red, the rust of old blood. Sam catches a glimpse of bone, white shoulder blade peeking out.
He hustles across the hard earth and squats down, hisses, “You have to get up. You have to get up.” Hands hovering above where he thinks Dean’s shoulders are. He watches his back rise and fall, stuttering with uneven, shallow breathes. He can see an impression of Dean’s spine under the skin at the back of his neck. Individual nodules, tumorous and stark.
There’s a strange, clattering noise. Sam realizes it’s his teeth, chattering. His skin is cold. He’s afraid that if he touches his brother, there won’t be anything but flayed skin and shards of bone.
“Get up,” he whispers, “Get up get up get up.”
The broken hand twitches. Slowly, achingly slowly, Dean’s arms draw in toward his chest. The blade catches the light, briefly. The surface of the metal is greasy.
Dean makes a noise. Not like before, the blobby syllables empty of meaning. This one has meaning, this one is long and drawn out and reedy, a sound beyond human experience, a sound that comes out of the earth.
It goes on and on. It makes the sky something horrible. Sam claps his hands over his ears but it doesn’t help.
When Dean starts to choke Sam grabs him by one shoulder and one arm, hauls him up and around. Dean makes an abortive motion with his weapon hand and Sam grabs on, grabs Deans wrist. His brother jerks at the contact and his eyes roll up in his head. His knees go limp.
“Get up,” Sam whispers, as he hoists his brother up, clutches him bodily to his chest, and stands there swaying and trying to ignore the stench of decay. “Get up get up get up.”
--
He dreams, in the dark, of the plain and the distant tree line, and something shambling toward him, barely human and dragging its leg, skin hanging in rags.
It’s a dream. He knows it’s a dream. But he sits up gasping in the uncomfortable chair and the moonlight through the window shows his brother’s features, jaw taped shut, skin as pale as dust. His hands rest on his chest and the weapon’s been cut away and Sam doesn’t know what they did with it.
He pushes forward, to the edge of the chair, leans over and digs his fingers into the edge of the bed. The snow-white blanket.
“Dean,” he hisses. “Dean.”
His brother’s eyes open, slowly. They’re filmed over, gummed up, and they roll around wide and terrified before settling on Sam’s face. Sam swallows.
“I had a dream,” he whispers, doesn’t know why he does. “You were f-following me. Chasing me.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Dean stares at him for a long time, eyes fixed. Unmoving. And then he makes some long distressed noise and shuts his eyes and tilts his head back and blood starts leaking from the bandages around his mouth, and Sam’s on his feet and clattering into the hall shouting help help please help.
--
Purgatory is for monsters.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam murmurs, peeling back the bandages on Dean’s left hand, exposing the skin to the air for the first time in days. The skin is healing, slowly but steadily. He sets the bowl of warm water in his lap and talks to his brothers knuckles, the mottled skin as he slowly cleans it. “I’m sorry I upset you. But you’re not…I was never afraid of you.”
Dean lifts his right hand, still in the cast, moves it as if he means to press it to his recently unbandaged jaw. Sam grabs it, brings it gently away.
“I’ll never be afraid of you,” he says.
-end-
--
Title from the Wikipedia article for Begotten.
Warnings: Gore, horror, disturbing imagery
Spoilers: 7x23
Note: For the current s7 finale H/C meme, for this prompt by roque_clasique. This is extremely unpleasant. Consider this a warning.
Straight-up horror images. Might be disturbing.
--
Flesh on Bone
--
Dean paws at his face with his left hand, the ruined stumps of two missing fingers leaving rust-colored trails down his cheek. Sam grabs at his wrist, forces it away, and down. He dabs at the blistered skin at the corner of his brother’s mouth with an alcohol-damp cotton ball. Dean doesn’t move or even really register the touch. He blinks at odd intervals, and occasional tears leak from one eye or the other, and drip unacknowledged from the base of his jaw.
There’s so much blood, so much fluid. Pussing ruined skin, mottled and leathered in places, not scarred but simply changed, made into something other. His right hand is too badly damaged to unwrap from the handle of his weapon, fingers broken and wrapped securely around the hilt with a leather that reeks of decay. Sickness.
He finishes swabbing his brother’s face, at least for the moment. Presses lightly on the sides of his jaw, as if Dean’s a cat that needs to have its mouth forced open. It doesn’t work.
“Open your mouth,” Sam says, trying to be gentle. “Please.”
Dean’s mouth won’t close completely. It’s strangely off center, damaged in a way Sam can’t quite match to any injury he’s ever seen. Looking at it makes him faintly nauseous.
“Open, please.”
Dean’s eyes shift, briefly, and after a long pause he makes a thick gobbet of noise and opens his mouth. Sam half expects it to go on opening, unhinging the entirety of his face. His whole skeleton.
It doesn’t though. Stops at the normal place and reveals dulled dry skin, the ridges at the roof of his mouth faintly visible.
He’s missing five teeth.
Sam swears.
--
He walks, at least. Or, Sam walks and Dean trails awkwardly after him. His leg is shredded, literally, skin hanging off, muscle glistening and blood pulsing with every step. He’s been out of purgatory for fifteen minutes, just enough time for Sam to assess the damage, clean up the worst of the dirt. Enough time for him to vomit in the corner of the shack. Enough to say, “Hospital, Jesus, hospital,” over and over like a mantra.
He can’t carry his brother and he won’t drag him. Can’t risk laying hands on him, for the wild fear that if he misjudges some part will drop off. And so he coaxes Dean toward the car and his brother-what’s left of his brother-follows, left hand clutching the right to his stomach, broken fingers twitching.
Sam imagines Dean’s mind must be a white inferno of agony. He wonders if Dean’s even aware of himself.
He turns away from the shambling mess of bones and skin behind him and keeps moving forward and its only when he’s reached the car that he turns back and realizes Dean’s stopped. Has sunk to the ground, unmoving. Hands clasped together and out to the side, face turned into the earth. It’s hard to make out the shape of him, precisely, lying so still. Parts of him grey-brown, parts dull red, the rust of old blood. Sam catches a glimpse of bone, white shoulder blade peeking out.
He hustles across the hard earth and squats down, hisses, “You have to get up. You have to get up.” Hands hovering above where he thinks Dean’s shoulders are. He watches his back rise and fall, stuttering with uneven, shallow breathes. He can see an impression of Dean’s spine under the skin at the back of his neck. Individual nodules, tumorous and stark.
There’s a strange, clattering noise. Sam realizes it’s his teeth, chattering. His skin is cold. He’s afraid that if he touches his brother, there won’t be anything but flayed skin and shards of bone.
“Get up,” he whispers, “Get up get up get up.”
The broken hand twitches. Slowly, achingly slowly, Dean’s arms draw in toward his chest. The blade catches the light, briefly. The surface of the metal is greasy.
Dean makes a noise. Not like before, the blobby syllables empty of meaning. This one has meaning, this one is long and drawn out and reedy, a sound beyond human experience, a sound that comes out of the earth.
It goes on and on. It makes the sky something horrible. Sam claps his hands over his ears but it doesn’t help.
When Dean starts to choke Sam grabs him by one shoulder and one arm, hauls him up and around. Dean makes an abortive motion with his weapon hand and Sam grabs on, grabs Deans wrist. His brother jerks at the contact and his eyes roll up in his head. His knees go limp.
“Get up,” Sam whispers, as he hoists his brother up, clutches him bodily to his chest, and stands there swaying and trying to ignore the stench of decay. “Get up get up get up.”
--
He dreams, in the dark, of the plain and the distant tree line, and something shambling toward him, barely human and dragging its leg, skin hanging in rags.
It’s a dream. He knows it’s a dream. But he sits up gasping in the uncomfortable chair and the moonlight through the window shows his brother’s features, jaw taped shut, skin as pale as dust. His hands rest on his chest and the weapon’s been cut away and Sam doesn’t know what they did with it.
He pushes forward, to the edge of the chair, leans over and digs his fingers into the edge of the bed. The snow-white blanket.
“Dean,” he hisses. “Dean.”
His brother’s eyes open, slowly. They’re filmed over, gummed up, and they roll around wide and terrified before settling on Sam’s face. Sam swallows.
“I had a dream,” he whispers, doesn’t know why he does. “You were f-following me. Chasing me.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Dean stares at him for a long time, eyes fixed. Unmoving. And then he makes some long distressed noise and shuts his eyes and tilts his head back and blood starts leaking from the bandages around his mouth, and Sam’s on his feet and clattering into the hall shouting help help please help.
--
Purgatory is for monsters.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam murmurs, peeling back the bandages on Dean’s left hand, exposing the skin to the air for the first time in days. The skin is healing, slowly but steadily. He sets the bowl of warm water in his lap and talks to his brothers knuckles, the mottled skin as he slowly cleans it. “I’m sorry I upset you. But you’re not…I was never afraid of you.”
Dean lifts his right hand, still in the cast, moves it as if he means to press it to his recently unbandaged jaw. Sam grabs it, brings it gently away.
“I’ll never be afraid of you,” he says.
-end-
--
Title from the Wikipedia article for Begotten.