A/N: Probably I'll still end up writing more for this episode, but I just wanted to get this little whimsy of mine out of the way, because the thought that we saw Dean having hell flashbacks won't let me go.
Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes.
Warnings: Horror. Violence. Pastiche. Probably won't make sense to anyone else.
A New Animal
Black milk, mother's milk, you crave it.
Show me, he says, and you do.
You knife and cut and carve. You pile up limbs, skyscraping high, and measure the blood by the gallon. He pets your head and you smile, proud.
Black milk, mother's milk, you crave it, you spill it.
Show me, he says and whistles, stabbing you, and you still smile, and the blade in your hand is steady.
Black milk, mother's milk, you crave it, you spill it, you drink it.
Show me, he says and whistles, and you dance.
Black milk, mother's milk, you crave it, you spill it, you drink it, you breathe it.
Show me, he says, and you look up and shovel a grave right underneath the stars.
Black milk, mother's milk, you crave it, you spill it, you drink it, you breathe it, you paint it on the walls.
Show me, he says, and you step back to reveal your good work, a castle of limbs and a moat of blood, but it's not there, and the room is black.
And your mother may be dead, but you'll never hunger again.
The room is black and you step back and you stumble, and there's your castle and your moat, right there, spread out beneath you and around you, and it's all yours, a cradle darker than a grave, carved out of your flesh and bone and spine, walled in with your fingernails, your toes, your eyes, engulfed in your blood, and your burning soul keeps it warm and dry.
You throw your head back and laugh. Except your head is lying two feet away and all you have left is the jawbone in your fingerless hand and the scar on your sinewless arm.
Nice, grasshopper, he says and hums a lullaby and rocks you to sleep.
oo0oo
You blink and your brother's right there, holding your face, and that's wrong, isn't it.
Because you don't have a face anymore.