30 Days of Hell - Bleed
Title: Bleed
Author: yourrighteye
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Rated R overall
Wordcount: 677
Warnings: AU from "No Rest for the Wicked", graphic torture, gore, death
Spoilers: Major spoilers up to and including 'All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 1'
Disclaimer: All characters represented in this fic are not mine and are only being played with for my own enjoyment. So, no profit is being made from coming up with inventive ways to torture Dean! Yay! (I don't know what I was thinking, honestly).
Summary: A knife is cutting slowly, methodically into him, carefully slicing his chest open and trailing down his stomach, his navel.
A/N: Okay, so I wrote this for Mini-Nano. And I did one every day for most of the month. But half of them really sucked and I decided not to post until now, because I suck. They'll be coming up sporadically as I polish and rewrite them, and then I will have a shiny, shiny masterpost. *glee* They do not have to be read chronologically, because they have not been written chronologically.
Bleed
A knife is cutting slowly, methodically into him, carefully slicing his chest open and trailing down his stomach, his navel. The touch is oddly gentle, and somehow he feels no pain, just feels the wetness of the blood beginning to congeal at the wound.
He has been here long enough, however, to know that it will not last.
He has been blindfolded, a welcome change from before, when his eyelids were cut and he was forced to watch each and every one of his nails pared off, slowly, agonizingly, and then keep watching as he was chained and vultures swooped from nowhere, and ripped his flesh, and eventually his limbs from his body. At the time, he didn't think it could get any worse, but now, as he feels liquid pool beneath him, still without any feeling of pain, he finds himself waiting, praying for the agony to come. He knows how to deal with pain. They want him to scream, to beg, to cry until he can't make another sound. It never stops, no matter what he does, but he knows what they want, and that he can give to them.
The only thing he doesn't give them is his will, because of course, that's the only thing that matters.
A light touch, and then something is in him, pushing into the slit cut into his belly, exploring his insides. The sensation is vaguely uncomfortable, but still, not painful. Not yet. He fights the urge to squirm. No pain. This is good. He would have given anything for this when vultures had been ripping away his flesh and bone.
A tug. Something is pulling free from within him, leaving an emptiness inside that makes him want to curl in on himself, to hold in what's left. He doesn't move. He can't.
Then, something pressing at his lips. Wet, rancid, and suddenly a force drives it into his mouth and he chokes involuntarily, bites down and feels the thin membrane of whatever it is break, and something is flooding his mouth, pouring down his throat, and then finally, finally sensation is returning but it's not from the gash cut into him, it's in his mouth, burning like fire, and he'd be screaming if he could but he can only force out a choked groan, tears forming, and it feels like the inside of his mouth is burning away, and the burn is spreading everywhere, making him writhe and twist and spasm helplessly.
Then, it's as if a new force bites into him and his insides are being ripped away, and something is over his mouth, forcing open his jaw and now he knows, it's his own stomach that his teeth are clenched on, the acids that he's swallowing, and he gags, reflexively, but nothing comes up because nothing can come up, and fuck, the things now being shoved into him...it's got nowhere to go, and it's pouring out of him, and he suddenly feels a familiar slide of his own intestines trailing over his chest, being pushed into him again.
His grunts are growing hoarse, his pain rising beyond sound, and he's waiting, waiting for himself to bleed out but he knows it won't happen. You don't bleed out in Hell. You can't. Just like you can never knock yourself out to get away from it all.
He. Is eating. His own insides.
Through his blindfold, in his mind's eye he can see it. Fuck if he wants to, but he can, and fuck. He can't. He can't get away.
And then the blindfold is gone.
The light is too bright. A dark shape is above him, and it's lowering, and when he sees it he tries, instinctively, to recoil.
Thrumming a steady pulse over him is the scarlet red of his own heart.
When it, too, is shoved into his mouth and his jaw is forced to clench, he is almost relieved to feel the burn of blood spurting down his throat with each pulse.
Perhaps there is a way to die in Hell, after all.
A knife is cutting slowly, methodically into him, carefully slicing his chest open and trailing down his stomach, his navel. The touch is oddly gentle, and somehow he feels no pain, just feels the wetness of the blood beginning to congeal at the wound.
He has been here long enough, however, to know that it will not last.
He has been blindfolded, a welcome change from before, when his eyelids were cut and he was forced to watch each and every one of his nails pared off, slowly, agonizingly, and then keep watching as he was chained and vultures swooped from nowhere, and ripped his flesh, and eventually his limbs from his body. At the time, he didn't think it could get any worse, but now, as he feels liquid pool beneath him, still without any feeling of pain, he finds himself waiting, praying for the agony to come. He knows how to deal with pain. They want him to scream, to beg, to cry until he can't make another sound. It never stops, no matter what he does, but he knows what they want, and that he can give to them.
The only thing he doesn't give them is his will, because of course, that's the only thing that matters.
A light touch, and then something is in him, pushing into the slit cut into his belly, exploring his insides. The sensation is vaguely uncomfortable, but still, not painful. Not yet. He fights the urge to squirm. No pain. This is good. He would have given anything for this when vultures had been ripping away his flesh and bone.
A tug. Something is pulling free from within him, leaving an emptiness inside that makes him want to curl in on himself, to hold in what's left. He doesn't move. He can't.
Then, something pressing at his lips. Wet, rancid, and suddenly a force drives it into his mouth and he chokes involuntarily, bites down and feels the thin membrane of whatever it is break, and something is flooding his mouth, pouring down his throat, and then finally, finally sensation is returning but it's not from the gash cut into him, it's in his mouth, burning like fire, and he'd be screaming if he could but he can only force out a choked groan, tears forming, and it feels like the inside of his mouth is burning away, and the burn is spreading everywhere, making him writhe and twist and spasm helplessly.
Then, it's as if a new force bites into him and his insides are being ripped away, and something is over his mouth, forcing open his jaw and now he knows, it's his own stomach that his teeth are clenched on, the acids that he's swallowing, and he gags, reflexively, but nothing comes up because nothing can come up, and fuck, the things now being shoved into him...it's got nowhere to go, and it's pouring out of him, and he suddenly feels a familiar slide of his own intestines trailing over his chest, being pushed into him again.
His grunts are growing hoarse, his pain rising beyond sound, and he's waiting, waiting for himself to bleed out but he knows it won't happen. You don't bleed out in Hell. You can't. Just like you can never knock yourself out to get away from it all.
He. Is eating. His own insides.
Through his blindfold, in his mind's eye he can see it. Fuck if he wants to, but he can, and fuck. He can't. He can't get away.
And then the blindfold is gone.
The light is too bright. A dark shape is above him, and it's lowering, and when he sees it he tries, instinctively, to recoil.
Thrumming a steady pulse over him is the scarlet red of his own heart.
When it, too, is shoved into his mouth and his jaw is forced to clench, he is almost relieved to feel the burn of blood spurting down his throat with each pulse.
Perhaps there is a way to die in Hell, after all.
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