Fic: Red Right Hand
Title: Red Right Hand
Author: That would be me.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1154
Warnings: Torture
Pairings: Dean/Fake!Castiel, Dean/Castiel
Author's Notes: Inspired by this painting and this song.
...on a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man in a dusty black coat with a red right hand...
The song has been playing on a loop for hours. It's an endless stream of bass and rough voice belting out lyrics and he can't take it anymore. It's in his head, worming its way through the cracks and breaks in his psyche and it's going to drive him insane.
He drops his head back, staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Something warm and wet trickles down his cheek, making tracks in the blood already caked onto his skin.
"No, no, no. Don't you do that, Dean."
There's a hand on his cheek, brushing the blood away. His eyes slide shut. Stinging pain in his cheek and his head snaps to the side. He lets it. He squeezes his eyes shut and his head snaps to the other side, stinging in the other cheek.
...he's a god, he's a man, he's a ghost, he's a guru...
"Turn it off," Dean begs, looking up at the thing. The thing that's wearing Castiel's face. But it's all wrong, all so wrong. The eyes are wrong.
"Turn what off?" it asks, and the voice is so Castiel, rough, with a lilt of confusion. It brushes its hand over Dean's face again, the touch too gentle, too loving, and that hurts more than being slapped had.
"The music. Please," he moans, flinches away from the hand.
It cocks its head and Dean shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, Castiel is looking at him in confusion. "But I like this song, Dean. So... fitting."
"Cas, please..." His voice barely a whisper.
"Please what, Dean?" Castiel leans forward, presses that hand, the one that's stained red, has the fingernails like claws, to his cheek. "You only have to ask. I'll give you whatever you want."
"Let me go," Dean chokes out. "Please."
Castiel tuts, shaking his head and draws one of those fingernails over his cheek, the pain bright and sharp. "I'll let you go eventually. You know I will. Don't you trust me?"
Dean bites back a sob. "Yes," he moans. Because he does. He trusts Castiel explicitly, trusts him with his life, his brother's life, with the world. Castiel wouldn't hurt him without a reason to. Dean has done something very bad. That's the only explanation.
..you'll see him in your nightmares, you'll see him in your dreams...
"I love you, Dean. You know that, right?"
Dean tries to breathe through the pain in his chest. He's sucking in air and coughing it back up in wet, thick globs of blood.
"I love you very much. That's why I have to do this."
His chest aches again, Castiel's wrong, wrong fingers pressing into the skin, forcing their way through that layer of nerves that are screaming for release from this torture. Dean doesn't make a noise.
"This is the way it has to be."
...you're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan designed and directed by his red right hand...
At some point, Dean forgets why he's trying so hard to be quiet. Every single touch is electric, every whisper of skin, every sharp press of the blade. At some point, Castiel stopped pressing those curved nails into him and switched to a silver blade, Dean's silver blade.
He's whimpering and begging and he wants more. It's everything Hell is, and everything it isn't.
Hell is the sting of the blade. The whispers of affection. The lies. The neverending fire burning through his body, his mind, his soul. The way he'd needed the pain, in the end, needed it to feel real, needed it to stop Alastair in his tracks with that one word, yes.
Hell isn't Castiel. It isn't the way he mouths at the blood trickling down Dean's neck. It isn't the way he presses a thigh between Dean's legs and rocks forward, rocks and rocks as he presses that blade against Dean's cheek, caresses him with it. It isn't that song.
And yet, Dean thinks this is worse than any Hell Alastair could have conjured up for thim.
...he'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy...
"Have you had enough, Dean?" Castiel drops the knife and leans forward, tipping Dean's head up.
He thinks maybe he has. He can't speak through the taste of copper cloying in his mouth. He lifts his gaze, tries to focus on those wrong eyes and nods his head minutely. Castiel tilts his head to the side.
"Yes," Dean manages, voice rough, hoarse, the result of screaming and screaming. The copper leaks from his lips.
Castiel nods, lips quirking in a mockery of a smile. He presses his forehead to Dean's, slick with sweat and blood, drapes his arm over Dean's shoulders. "Good boy. You've been so good. Taken your punishment beautifully..."
He leans closer, licking the blood from Dean's lips with a rough tongue, rough like sandpaper and skin is coming off with each broad stripe of wet. Dean thinks he might scream.
"But I'm not done."
...he'll appear out of nowhere but he ain't what he seems...
Light spills into the room. Castiel looks up sharply and smiles, lips displaying smug satisfaction. He steps around the back of the chair and drapes his arms over Dean's shoulders, a heavy weight that almost grounds Dean, but he's flying too high already.
"I wondered how long it would take you to find him." There's amusement in Castiel's voice that Dean has never heard before. He lifts his head and his breath is gone.
"Too long," Castiel replies, voice rough with some emotion Dean can't place, and all Dean can think is how wrong he was, is. The thing standing behind him isn't Castiel, could never be Castiel, everything is too wrong.
The stained red hand. The too rough voice. The eyes.
Dean stares at Castiel, the real Castiel, before dropping his head, disbelief, shame, bleeding from his eyes more fervently then the blood draining from his chest. Because how could he ever think that Castiel would do this to him?
"That's right, Dean," the thing behind murmurs, stroking a hand through Dean's hair. "That's right. You thought it was him this whole time, thought your angel had taken to torture, you didn't even question it. Your self loathing has been delicious."
Dean doesn't move.
"I suppose it's time to let you go."
The weight on his shoulders lifts and Dean knows the thing wearing Castiel's face is gone.
"Dean."
He can't bring himself to look up.
"Dean," Castiel murmurs, and he's in front of him, grasping his chin with firm fingers. Firm, human fingers.
Dean looks into Castiel's eyes, the too blue. Closes his own and clenches his teeth painfully. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I thought he was you, I thought..."
Castiel says nothing.
...he'll reach deep into the hole, heal your shrinking soul...
Author: That would be me.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1154
Warnings: Torture
Pairings: Dean/Fake!Castiel, Dean/Castiel
Author's Notes: Inspired by this painting and this song.
...on a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man in a dusty black coat with a red right hand...
The song has been playing on a loop for hours. It's an endless stream of bass and rough voice belting out lyrics and he can't take it anymore. It's in his head, worming its way through the cracks and breaks in his psyche and it's going to drive him insane.
He drops his head back, staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Something warm and wet trickles down his cheek, making tracks in the blood already caked onto his skin.
"No, no, no. Don't you do that, Dean."
There's a hand on his cheek, brushing the blood away. His eyes slide shut. Stinging pain in his cheek and his head snaps to the side. He lets it. He squeezes his eyes shut and his head snaps to the other side, stinging in the other cheek.
...he's a god, he's a man, he's a ghost, he's a guru...
"Turn it off," Dean begs, looking up at the thing. The thing that's wearing Castiel's face. But it's all wrong, all so wrong. The eyes are wrong.
"Turn what off?" it asks, and the voice is so Castiel, rough, with a lilt of confusion. It brushes its hand over Dean's face again, the touch too gentle, too loving, and that hurts more than being slapped had.
"The music. Please," he moans, flinches away from the hand.
It cocks its head and Dean shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, Castiel is looking at him in confusion. "But I like this song, Dean. So... fitting."
"Cas, please..." His voice barely a whisper.
"Please what, Dean?" Castiel leans forward, presses that hand, the one that's stained red, has the fingernails like claws, to his cheek. "You only have to ask. I'll give you whatever you want."
"Let me go," Dean chokes out. "Please."
Castiel tuts, shaking his head and draws one of those fingernails over his cheek, the pain bright and sharp. "I'll let you go eventually. You know I will. Don't you trust me?"
Dean bites back a sob. "Yes," he moans. Because he does. He trusts Castiel explicitly, trusts him with his life, his brother's life, with the world. Castiel wouldn't hurt him without a reason to. Dean has done something very bad. That's the only explanation.
..you'll see him in your nightmares, you'll see him in your dreams...
"I love you, Dean. You know that, right?"
Dean tries to breathe through the pain in his chest. He's sucking in air and coughing it back up in wet, thick globs of blood.
"I love you very much. That's why I have to do this."
His chest aches again, Castiel's wrong, wrong fingers pressing into the skin, forcing their way through that layer of nerves that are screaming for release from this torture. Dean doesn't make a noise.
"This is the way it has to be."
...you're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan designed and directed by his red right hand...
At some point, Dean forgets why he's trying so hard to be quiet. Every single touch is electric, every whisper of skin, every sharp press of the blade. At some point, Castiel stopped pressing those curved nails into him and switched to a silver blade, Dean's silver blade.
He's whimpering and begging and he wants more. It's everything Hell is, and everything it isn't.
Hell is the sting of the blade. The whispers of affection. The lies. The neverending fire burning through his body, his mind, his soul. The way he'd needed the pain, in the end, needed it to feel real, needed it to stop Alastair in his tracks with that one word, yes.
Hell isn't Castiel. It isn't the way he mouths at the blood trickling down Dean's neck. It isn't the way he presses a thigh between Dean's legs and rocks forward, rocks and rocks as he presses that blade against Dean's cheek, caresses him with it. It isn't that song.
And yet, Dean thinks this is worse than any Hell Alastair could have conjured up for thim.
...he'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy...
"Have you had enough, Dean?" Castiel drops the knife and leans forward, tipping Dean's head up.
He thinks maybe he has. He can't speak through the taste of copper cloying in his mouth. He lifts his gaze, tries to focus on those wrong eyes and nods his head minutely. Castiel tilts his head to the side.
"Yes," Dean manages, voice rough, hoarse, the result of screaming and screaming. The copper leaks from his lips.
Castiel nods, lips quirking in a mockery of a smile. He presses his forehead to Dean's, slick with sweat and blood, drapes his arm over Dean's shoulders. "Good boy. You've been so good. Taken your punishment beautifully..."
He leans closer, licking the blood from Dean's lips with a rough tongue, rough like sandpaper and skin is coming off with each broad stripe of wet. Dean thinks he might scream.
"But I'm not done."
...he'll appear out of nowhere but he ain't what he seems...
Light spills into the room. Castiel looks up sharply and smiles, lips displaying smug satisfaction. He steps around the back of the chair and drapes his arms over Dean's shoulders, a heavy weight that almost grounds Dean, but he's flying too high already.
"I wondered how long it would take you to find him." There's amusement in Castiel's voice that Dean has never heard before. He lifts his head and his breath is gone.
"Too long," Castiel replies, voice rough with some emotion Dean can't place, and all Dean can think is how wrong he was, is. The thing standing behind him isn't Castiel, could never be Castiel, everything is too wrong.
The stained red hand. The too rough voice. The eyes.
Dean stares at Castiel, the real Castiel, before dropping his head, disbelief, shame, bleeding from his eyes more fervently then the blood draining from his chest. Because how could he ever think that Castiel would do this to him?
"That's right, Dean," the thing behind murmurs, stroking a hand through Dean's hair. "That's right. You thought it was him this whole time, thought your angel had taken to torture, you didn't even question it. Your self loathing has been delicious."
Dean doesn't move.
"I suppose it's time to let you go."
The weight on his shoulders lifts and Dean knows the thing wearing Castiel's face is gone.
"Dean."
He can't bring himself to look up.
"Dean," Castiel murmurs, and he's in front of him, grasping his chin with firm fingers. Firm, human fingers.
Dean looks into Castiel's eyes, the too blue. Closes his own and clenches his teeth painfully. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I thought he was you, I thought..."
Castiel says nothing.
...he'll reach deep into the hole, heal your shrinking soul...