Title: Some People Paint part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 *Completed*
Rating: R - Gen - hurt!Dean - hurt!Sam
Spoilers: General (for all aired episodes)
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: (early S4) Dean POV. A hunt goes wrong and the Winchesters become the next victims of a demented doll collector.
It was a cloth dripping with chloroform that put him under again.
This time when he woke he found one wrist cinched tight with rope with no slack from a ring bolt embedded into the table. With his free hand he explored what had been done to him. All the hair besides his eyebrows and what was on his head had been shaved. The sky outside the window had turned dark with nightfall, the air even colder as it whispered across his naked skin.
His stomach lurched when he heaved himself upwards, at least able to sit up on one elbow to see the rest of the room. There were more dolls cluttering the floors, a threadbare sofa pushed against the cold fireplace and a few stuffed in the hearth itself. Several of them had abnormally large proportions, lifelike in their stiff postures in chairs and on the flight of steps that spiraled to a second floor. There was one particularly large doll glittering metallic next to the rusty radiator. It had been half buried in smaller dolls less than half its size with its face almost obscured by their tattered dresses and curls of shiny hair.
It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at was his brother. Dean blinked, trying to focus the distance. It was Sam slumped awkwardly with a bed sheet covering him up to his waist, but Dean could see bare skin at the tops of his undone jeans. Both wrists were tied above his head and tight around his throat before looping back through the radiator that reached half way to the ceiling. And while Dean’s skin remained unmarked, the beast had already gotten to Sam.
“S-Sam?” Dean rasped. “You hear me?”
Everything on his brother’s upper body had been matted with gold, including his hair. Dean briefly wondered about the selection of that particular color. It reminded him too much of the demon they’d killed. Yellow Eyes had pupils that churned like molten metal, and Dean wondered if somehow the beast had seen the same tint in Sam’s eyes while it forced him down onto one of these tables.
“Hey!” Dean hoarse voice was as loud as he could make it. “Rise and shine!”
Sam jerked awake but he didn’t open his eyes.
As Sam turned his head the weak candlelight glinted on something on his face. Dean’s mouth went dry as realized it was some kind of packing tape. Two perfect circles of clear plastic had been glued over Sam’s eyes to seal them shut. And although Sam had been painted a solid gold there were parts of him that had been left alone. The clean band around his eyes and either side of his face made his natural skin look like a mask. Yanking at his trapped wrist, Dean fell back weakly onto the table, the effort to sit up making his head spin and the room tilt sickening from side to side.
“Dean?” Sam asked. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.” Didn’t hurt to lie to the guy considering he couldn’t even see. “Where did that thing go?”
Dean glanced back at the steps and hoped the thing required a night’s sleep just like anyone else. He also attempted not to ponder what kind of dolls it might snuggle up to keep it some company in bed. But the gruesome thoughts went away as he realized something about Sam‘s appearance was bothering him. “Why aren’t you all dressed up like the others?” he asked “Why do you still have skin showing?”
“I didn’t think to ask,” Sam muttered. “Maybe I’m a work in progress.”
“No luck gettin’ free then, huh?”
“There’s rope and some chain,” Sam wrenched at his hands. “Nothin’ around to pick with.”
Nothing Sam could see but Dean could see just fine for the both of them. He scanned the area all around Sam and the dolls that covered every square inch of the place. One of them caught his attention almost right away. It was a small ornate doll that had been augmented with jewelry.
“On your left Sam,” Dean told him. “It’s up against your knee. One of this bastard’s toys is wearing some earrings.”
“Sounds great,“ Sam twisted at his hands. “How am I supposed to get to it?”
“Move your knee, real slow…“ Dean noticed that his brother was panting again even though he was sitting still. It was that heavy metallic paint, smothering his pores and suffocating him nice and slow. “Try to knock the thing into your lap.”
Sam took a deep breath and attempted to do just that. And to Dean’s dazed disbelief it actually worked. But the doll and her metal jewelry might has well been on the other side of the moon. Sam’s hands were lashed securely over his head and Dean could see he’d already twisted them raw and bleeding trying to work his way loose.
“I-I’m real tired Dean,” Sam admitted with some poorly hidden shame. “…hard to stay awake.”
“Don’t worry, “ Dean said. “We'll figure it out."
Sam might have been a work in progress but whatever work the beast had performed was doing its slow and horrible work. The thought of the things hands on his brother made him sick and swiftly turned his frustration into anger.
His brother was silent.
Dean forced himself to sit up again and saw that his brother was slumped back in the pile of dolls again, the only evidence that he was still alive was the slow rise and fall of his bare chest.
That didn’t leave him much to do but examine the objects arranged neatly on the work table next him.
Brushes were tools of the trade of course. They ranged from the large type a guy could take to the side of a house, down to the smallest and most delicate sable brushes with fragile handles of etched ivory. There were other more worrisome things. There were metal spades of all sizes that were used for smoothing plaster or evening out spackle. Unmarked jars and tins smelled vaguely like the materials used for restoring corpses in funeral homes.
He blinked uncertainly when he spotted a black object sitting almost buried with the brushes. It was little less than half a foot long and several inches in circumference. Dean let out a shuddering breath when he realized what it was.
Although Dean hadn’t thought to check on the bodies they had found, the coroner’s report had included the presence of one the things placed within each an every corpse that had ended up in the morgue. It was a tool used by morticians to keep the contents of the intestines from any leaking during the small window of time in which the body was displayed in a coffin for viewing. It wasn’t meant to be used on a living person although it had been manufactured with screw-like threads to ease insertion. Dean tried real hard not to think about what part of the body that happened to be.
Footsteps distracted him.
The beast was coming slowly down the stairs, adjusting and up righting any of its collection it thought were out of place. It paused over Sam, checking his pulse and smoothing one of its long white hands carefully over his cheek as to not mar the gold it had painstakingly applied. Satisfied that Sam was still subdued, it straightened with a sickening crackle of its spine and regarded Dean attentively.
“My turn, huh?” Dean swallowed. “Don’t rush on my account.”
Its long hands lingered over its tools before it leaned down to reveal the palette it had chosen for its newest doll. Dean stared at about a dozen cans of spray paint. He thought of the girl they’d found, ebony skin shining like she’d been waxed and polished before the collector had settled down to do all the heinous detail that had made her even more startling.
The beast’s hand paused over the black threaded plug that was supposed to used on cadavers.
“T-That’s really not necessary,” Dean quickly said. “I’d be totally cool with it if we just skipped that part-”
It shared that grotesque smile with him again. Dean wasn’t sure but he thought it might have yawned immediately after wards, the gape of flesh widening to reveal a gray tongue and right down its gleaming raw esophagus. He tried to turn his face away as the chloroform was pressed over his nose and mouth again, but it wasn’t held long enough to render him unconscious. The effect was a dizzying half sleep that left him just aware enough of what was going to happen but too weakened to do anything to stop it.
“No,” Dean groaned weakly as his knee was lifted and legs parted. “You mother fuc-ah!”
“Stop…fuck….you son of a bitch…”
It was enough that hot tears gathered at the corner of his eyes, his breath coming in short gasps of pain. The plug felt much wider than it had looked, pushing into his body and filling it, the steady hand easing it in being very mindful of how gentle the process required. Dean squeezed his eyes shut when he realized that there was nothing he could do but wait for it to be over. His hands trembled as he grasped the table as he was slowly skewered, inch by impossible inch until it finally stopped.
Fingers tested the thing firmly wedged between his legs, maddeningly lingering to check that it had been inserted properly. He writhed on the intrusion deep in his body, spreading him and making him feel even more exposed than he already was.
Dean blinked his eyes open when suddenly a respiratory mask was slipped over his face. It was the filter kind that the professionals used if there was going to be some toxic aerosol used indoors without adequate ventilation. The noisy rattle of a spray paint can brought him immediately back into further focus. He winced when he felt the first pass of the paint spray cross coldly along his thigh. Trying not to move around too much, he stilled when it was briskly followed by a damp wash cloth. Dean dimly approved of the old technique that avoided unsightly streaking.
And it looked like his base coat was going to be flat white.
Turning his head, he saw other spray bottles or various colors sitting with all the other tools meant to transform him into something else. Heavy lacquers. Acrylic sealants. Pots of cadaver makeup sitting in an old wooden tray.
“S-Sam?” His voice was muffled by the mask but he tried anyway. “It’s gonna be fine, Sam.”
The spray came again and again, coating him liberally down his legs and working up along his torso. If anyone asked Dean his opinion he would have said that white was a pretty boring choice considering the subject. But with a wave of nausea , he was fairly positive that the base coat was just the start to the masterpiece.
“You hear me, Sam?” he breathed. “W-We’re getting out of here.”
A hand pressed over his eyes as the spray began to coat his throat and face. Choking on the fumes, Dean tried to stay as still as he could, unwilling to experience the consequences for messing up the painstaking process. Because he had a pretty good idea that this was going to take a while.
And like any good artist, the details and embellishments usually came at the very last.