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.
“You are very unattractive,” it said. “You are also much too old.”
Dean stilled at the first words that had come dripping from the thing’s mouth. And what had been said wasn’t entirely unexpected. He was, after all, dealing with a creature that appraised true form and sought its own version of warped beauty anywhere it could be stolen. Wondering if he should have told the guy what his canvas had looked like before the hellfire makeover, he decided instead to be proud of the unaesthetics of fresh scars and scabbed wounds.
“Do not be afraid,” it told him resolutely. “I can fix.”
Dean hissed when a cold glob of spackle burned on his skinned knees, spread evenly to be sure to cover all imperfections.
“It is better when they are young,” it nodded. “It is better when they are fresh.”
Moving was getting harder and harder to do.
Dean began to really notice it after the creature had finished applying a sticky lacquer that gave the white a pleasant glossy shine. As it dried he found that even lifting his arm required effort. As he was slowly being encased in his own skin, he had nothing but the limited range of his vision to watch for what was going to come next. The wide brush dripping with thick sealant was put aside for a much smaller instrument.
He tensed when his stiff hand was eagerly lifted.
Each finger was fused together until it was impossible to even make a fist. After a few hours, the artist had propped him up on his side for easier access to his shoulders. It gave him a perfect view of the shiny black polish on the nails of his hands.
“Y-You sure about all the black and white?” Dean asked. “I’ve always thought of myself as more of an autumn.”
It paused to study the tray of paints before dabbing a brush into a pot of pearly silver. The air left Dean’s lungs as he was slammed onto his stomach, his body shuddering as the slick feel of the brush ran along his spine in a perfect line. Dean wasn’t sure what was making him more dizzy, the stifling fumes of the spray paint still hanging in the air or the feel of meticulous strokes being applied perpendicular to his spine. The brush continued down the subtle cant of his sides and over his ass. The brush moved onto his hips, his legs and finally feathered with a delicate precision over his ankles and feet.
“Halloween’s two weeks away you know,” Dean muttered into the table. “But I doubt you’re the kind of guy that leaves a carved pumpkin at the door.” The strength in its withered frame worried him, the long wiry skeleton laced with muscle was imbued with something that made it more powerful than nature should have allowed. “Think of the bright side?” he tried a grin. “An ugly fucker like you won’t even need a mask--”
A long bony finger pressed against Dean’s lips and the slit of its mouth twisted into something that Dean guessed wasn’t mirth.
“Shhhhhhhhhh,” foam gathered at the corners of its lips. “No more noises.”
Dean had been pushed onto his back again, giving him nothing to look at but the holes of his keeper’s eye sockets. He had witnessed this thing’s patience, indulgence and even compassion. But this time it was anger. After a brief search through the pile of equipment, the beast produced a dented metal tube with a cap crusted to its top. As soon as Dean realized what the stuff was, he humiliated himself by making a small sound of fear at the back of his throat. There weren’t too many uses for a tube of super glue on a human body and Dean had no doubt that his handler had something special in mind.
As long fingers fumbled the top off of the glue, Dean decided to go for a distraction tactic.
“What about my brother?” he demanded. “What’s wrong with him? W-Why isn’t he talking anymore.”
The word seemed to confuse the monster, but after a moment of consideration the bewilderment shifted into a grotesque display of pleasure. “You have many brothers now,” it proudly swept out its frail arms. “I have given you brothers and sisters that will stay with you forever and ever.”
Dean braced himself when the hands gripped his knees, sealed with the paint and lacquer, it made a sickening noise as his thighs were painfully parted. The feather light of the small brushes moved more carefully between his legs. He clenched his jaw as his flesh was lifted and examined before another shade of silver was selected. Dean started breathing again as the brush moved up his belly and then to his chest. Through the haze of his thoughts he began to speculate what he might look like. Every decorated body they’d found either out in the woods or in the brightly lit morgues had all had a bizarre amount of details and none of them had been the same. He wondered if this was the position he was meant to stay in, or maybe later his bones would be broken and contorted into the pose the beast preferred.
He tried to stop his hands from trembling.
A small brush coated in black moved around his eyes, creating large circles that reached over his brows and met at his cheekbones. The strokes then came over his mouth in what Dean could only guess were something like stripes, beginning above his lip and ending at his chin. It was very repetitive, being retouched, over and over and over again… With a slow exhale Dean realized he somehow managed to drift off.
When he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was the small tube of glue.
“This part is most unpleasant,” it lisped. “But I assure you it will be quick.”
He tried to fight it when the cold hands worked into his jaw to open his mouth. Before he could bite those fingers off something had been wedged in there to prevent him. Dean groaned around the mouthpiece when he saw the glue being squirted liberally on a latex finger. The beast worked quickly, no doubt aware of the quick drying time of the industrial adhesive. The sharp taste of the chemical flooded across his tongue as it was coated on his back teeth and the tops of his front. The wedge was promptly removed and his jaw clamped shut again by those freakishly strong hands. Dean could feel the stuff solidifying even as he tried to grind his teeth to keep it from getting a decent hold. He was so distracted he barely noticed another swipe of the glue being rubbed liberally along his upper and lower lip.
“You are almost completed.”
Fear flared and deteriorated into pure panic. He couldn’t open his mouth. He could even raise his arm. The thing leaning over him sensed his distress and affectionately rested a hand on his forehead. The crooning noise came again, gurgling from its phlegm filled throat and whispering from its wet lips. Without another word, it pushed small balls of the spackle into each of Dean’s ears and smoothed them until all Dean could hear was the frantic thud of his heart and the wheeze of his dwindling breath.
And then Dean’s vision began to tunnel.
In a desperate effort to make a move before he was completely gone he heard a strange crackling noise. With a wave of nausea he realized it was his own body, trapped in layers of paint and hardened like set fiberglass. With the last of his strength, he turned his head to see if he could catch sight of his brother.
The corner Sam had been seated in was empty.
But it seemed another large table by the window was in use. Dean stared at the dull glitter of the gold paint in the firelight, thankful that Sam’s jeans were still on and that maybe it meant that he was still far from ‘completed‘. Making as much noise as he could, Dean made a muted plea for Sam to look in his direction. And Sam did hear him, slowly turning his head to blindly search for the source of the sound. Desperate to reach him in any way he could, he started to repeat Sam, name in his head, hoping against hope that somehow his brother’s freakish freak brain might pick it up….
Sam. Sammy. Sam, please help me. I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. I can’t-
Sam sat up.
The clear plastic tape over his brother’s eyes hadn’t been removed but it had been changed, decorated with orange, red and yellow of flames that seeped down his cheeks in the shapes of scythes. Dean was startled when the hearth burst forth in a crack and hiss of scorching heat. The creature had started a fire, unconcerned with the dolls he had stacked in there in lieu of wood. As the light grew brighter, Dean couldn’t tell if the fire covering Sam’s eyes had actually been the act of a brush and hand. Watching the shadows slip and slide Sam’s face, he began to wonder if maybe the marks were real. As the blaze in the hearth grew, the flames appeared to be living, breathing and surging from Sam’s eye sockets with each strong heave of his chest. It didn’t occur to him until then that his brother shouldn’t have been able to sit up and get to his feet.
Sam stood for a moment before leaning down and picking up the fire poker on the floor.
The monster feeding the hearth didn’t notice. It was much too delighted by how the flames hungrily ate up the dolls fine locks of hair and melted their faces into soundless screams.
Sam moved quietly behind it.
Dean winced at the obscene sound it let out when the poker sank into its back and with a twist of Sam’s wrist, emerged from its chest. The horrible screams continued as it fell forward and pitched into the inferno, sending smoking embers scattering across the floor as it thrashed and cried in a strange high pitched wail.
Dean eyes fell closed.
Hell had been a lot like this.
And when he woke up he had no doubt in his mind that it would start all over again.