Reprisals chpt 8

"Don't you touch him! So help me God don't you touch him you son of a bitch!" Dean growled feeling his body clench and steel as some sleeping beast within him strove to waken.

Again, and once more still, the chain struck. Blood vined what was left of Sam's shirt and his green puppy eyes dug deep between his shoulder and his neck, unable to touch his brothers'.

Nails splintered folding back, and angry shafts of wood infested his fingertips. His mouth ran away with him, "What's the matter huh? I'm not good enough for ya? Lemme guess I'm just too much man! You gotta pick on the kids huh? Easy pickin's? Come on take it home to me you son of a bitch! Let's see what you got!" I swear to God Sammy I won't let it hurt you anymore… I swear I won't… he thought, his inner eyes transfixed on the cement sealant gray wall, examining carefully the face of a boy, about eight or nine, on his knees in his tightie-whities, one hand behind his head the other inside his underwear, his back arched in a mimic of what was supposed to be a suggestive pose even as tears zebra striped his face, his expression begged for help that he knew would never come. He'd looked so much like Sam that Dean had almost grabbed the pictures off the wall, he'd almost piled them… but then he'd realized, there was probably a parent somewhere who would need to know what had happened to their child, and the one on the wall wasn't Sam, couldn't ever have been Sam, and by God, never would be Sam so long as Dean lived.

The air stilled. What scant illumination there'd been, enabling Dean to watch the show ceased.

Blind once again was worse than watching his brother beaten, with light he could revenge every blow and balance the scales, in darkness he could only imagine. But what he could imagine…

Obscure sounds; chains rattling, weight on dirt dragged, an odd wheeze or grunt stabbed deep, each sound a shard of crystal tearing through him.

He felt a flicker of cold at his ear, "…he's so sweet…" then on the other side, "…he's crying..." and around again with a chuckle, "…he hates that you brought him here…" and again, "…it's your fault…" in the faintest of whispers.

Dean swallowed hard, turning in place, his hands reaching out in the darkness, trying to catch a corporeal moment, "Dude… you're making me dizzy…come on! …think you're so bad? come on, bring on! Let's see what you got…" he challenged sneering.

Around again, " I know what you keep hidden..." back around yet again, as Dean finally stood still and let it circle him, it chuckled, "I know the secrets that you keep…"

Dean smirked, "Yeah I remember that song too, why don't you join the 21st century huh mullet-boy? There's some pretty decent music out there all things considered…"

He barked and keened sandpaper, startled by the acidic cold that tore across his chest and around his abdomen, a line the width of a single finger that left a trail of hot fluidity behind. He touched himself and stuck his finger into his mouth, the taste of cold was all he recognized.

"Sam? Talk to me Sam!" he called ignoring the laughter beside him.

"He hates you right now…" it taunted, stroking through his clothing, across the small of his back, the obscenity of its touch forcing his hips forward until he had no choice but to clutch at the door, his bleeding fingers grasping on either side of the slit he'd watched his brothers' torment through.

His faith was rewarded with the faintest of grunts and a choking sound that reminded him of a lung full of blood, yeah, he knew that feeling.

"Sammy?" he called again as his body careened forward and his entire spine seemed to contract like an overstretched rubber band with the stripping of another line of cold.

"Dea…" bloody coughing erupted from some other cell in the pit, a groan of agony and a sigh to loose to be completely cognizant sailed through the air.

"Just hang on Sam… I'm gonna get us out…oooaaahhhouch! Hey you freakin' freak!" he shouted startled feeling that same line of icy cruelty slide into his jeans. He turned quickly, planting his back at the door and held his hands out in front of him. He could feel his face scowling, "I thought this was gonna be some kind of torture fest!" he called angrily wondering if ghosts had pride. "Come on! where's the whips and chains now huh!" he challenged wondering in his depths which would truly be worse. Yeah, whips and chains baby… bring 'em on… I'll definitely take that to the alternative… he nodded to himself wondering where and when the next 'moment' would come from.

--

As hours passed in pervasive blackness Dean's alertness faltered. He'd hauled an intelligible grunt from Sam, no more than his name before the sound of deep even, if labored, breathing became part of the rhythm of darkness.

The spirit of Edward J. Simons seemed to be holding off for the time being, perhaps and most likely considering what Dean knew about psychopathy and its associated behaviors, simply milking the circumstances for every ounce of torment it could. If they didn't find a way to act soon, or break free somehow, Dean wasn't sure how long they'd last when all was said and done.

He pulled out his lighter after a period of waiting for something that didn't seem to be coming and decided to risk the fuel for another look around the cell.

There's gotta be fresh air coming from somewhere or this place would've smelled like a tomb, he thought moving slowly around the tiny room from bottom to top, watching the little yellow flame intensely, hoping silently for some sign of movement while straining his ears to their limit, listening for perhaps that tell tale whistle, like the one he'd heard in that asylum that spoke of an opening.

With hope fading quickly as time passed he turned his attention to the door.

Ribbons of his own blood adorned the wood and despite the myriad splinters he could feel throbbing within his fingertips he could see no scarring of the wood itself.

He pushed with his shoulder watching the braces and hinges for movement but wasn't sure if what he saw was real or flame-shadow.

He stooped, hoping he'd seen that little motion in the bottom brace and drew in a sharp breath almost slamming his knees to the ground as something jagged bit at his abdomen.

"Damnit!' he gasped pulling his shirt up and looking down. He groaned. Across his belly was a stripe about the width of a finger of white and red raised skin that swung upward and under his t-shirt, exactly the same path that ghost bastard had run its ethereal, evil little finger on him.

"Aww son of a bitch!" he ground out and hiked the shirt up higher. He couldn't believe his eyes. He'd felt the burning sensation but failed to associate it with anything he knew while worrying the darkness about his brother.

A shape that could only be a palm print had blistered over his heart. He couldn't stop himself and poked it. Fluid rushed back to the spot his finger left and for a short time, by the dim yellow flame the activity mesmerized him.

After a few more pokes and a flicker from the lighter he started to feel the flesh burning again with the irritation.

"Brilliant dumbass… first you get us shut up here in the hands of a psycho freaking ghost that makes Momma psycho freak look like goddamned 'Stacey's Mom'… and now you're wasting fuel playing with yourself!" he chided angrily and bent once more to examine the brace.

As he did so the horizontal strip across his belly split open spilling water and blood along his jeans.

"Oooh man!" he gasped infuriated, "I am Sooo gonna salt and burn this son of a bitch!" as the pain multiplied.

Why is he here Dean? Why isn't he back in Missouri? Why did you need to come here so badly? What did you really hope to gain? Forgiveness? From who? the questions circled round his mind as his body rested, his hands blistered and bloody, fingers locked around the loop of the ceiling ring that now rested in them as he lay slumped in the corner, exhausted. Testing the rings had been a stroke of luck, he'd forgotten they were there at all until he tried once more to feel for a chink in the ceiling, something he could use or scrape at to try and get them out of there. He'd slid off the walls and his fingers had brushed the ring during his fall. He'd noticed it wasn't as tight as it could have been and gone to work on it at once.

--

There was weight in his chest, not much but enough to tell him it was there. His whole body was on fire on the outside while it seemed he could feel the movement of the very air within. His throat tickled and he breathed out hard, a wad of something metallic hit his tongue. He tried to spit, even working his tongue hurt. Breathing hurt, his heart beat hurt.

Dean? I can't feel you… are you there? he wondered and tried to breathe deeper. His body wanted to kill him, it was trying to as it rejected his effort to give it more air. His belly clutched at his spine and his throat fought the cough even as his lungs threw blood and flesh into his mouth.

"Fight Sam… fight it!" he heard in Dean's voice and could not tell if it came from inside or out. "C..can't...oh God… hurts…" he breathed feeling his eyes sting as his fingers dug into the dirt on the stone floor. In the center of his mind he saw his brothers' eyes, those mint meltaway green eyes fill and spill tears through the crack in the door. He could feel the hate in his brother, the self loathing that seared him. Dean blamed himself for this, for the torture Sam had already experienced, for the breaking of his bones and flesh, and for putting his most prized possession at risk. In that instant Sam felt something he never recalled feeling before.

The scream was out of him before he could identify the sensation. His body was prone, his face pressed into the ground feeling a burning imprint on the up-side as the pressure increased on both his head and body. The outline was clear, the weight was about right and as his ribs ground, his lungs protested and his diaphragm spasmed, he choked, his breath stopping halfway up his throat in shock before racking him with coughs he swore would break more ribs.

"Did 'ja miss me?" he felt blow coldly in his ear as the outer cup burned with what he would have sworn was the stroke of a tongue. "Ahhh sweet young Samuel… oh the ways to play with someone like you…"

Sam felt thunder in his head as his belly shuddered and a burning cold trail wormed its way up the back of what was left of his shirt, tracing the agonized flesh tears made by the chain. His body jerked, arching into the source of the stabbing icicle that penetrated him from the small of his back through to his belly button, his spine bowing, his nerves aflame. The agony of destruction tearing through him as cold, wet, heat slithered around the back of his neck and sunk its teeth into his shoulder from behind.

"Oooh yes… scream for me…" he heard even as Dean's voice penetrated his awareness screaming to leave him alone.

Dean stop…you're giving it what it wants… and its killing me to get it… he thought and wondered where that revelation came from as darkness took him gentle hostage, holding him back from his pain while his big brother suffered alone.

--

"Nnnggghhhaaaaaahh! Nooo! Sammy! Sammy No! Please Stop it! Don't you touch him! Don't you touch him you SonnovaBITCH!" he screamed into the darkness, his body in paroxysm from the first utterance in hours. He'd thought, he'd hoped… he knew he heard Sam say something… he said… 'hurts' "Oh God Sammy! hold on… I'm coming!"

"Are you now?" cold spoke at his ear and he swung with everything he had, cutting across its ephemeral countenance with the arrow shaped anchor of the ceiling ring.

The face of Edward J. Simons recoiled and sneered then dove forward, its hand grasping his throat, squeezing furiously as it pressed him against the wall, cutting his air off entirely simply because it desired it. There was more at stake here than either of these boys could ever imagine and there was no way Eddy Jay was going to bypass this opportunity…

It pressed the air out of Dean by the throat, raising liquid nitrogen blisters into the deep layers of his skin, not just settling for the surface this time, and closed the space between them. This pissant little mortal thinks it knows pain? I have worlds to teach you boy and I don't have to go far for the materials… Nodding to itself it pinned Dean with its eyes and took a step closer. Nose to nose, chest to chest, and hips to hips, the spirit that was once Edward Jacob Simons forced its way into the body that lived.

--

"Dean…?" Sam grunted from his cell across the pit, the absence of pain a blessing he found it hard to take at face value.

He'd heard his brother scream, protesting Sam's pain, and Sam heard something else, a promise of torment in return. Dean hurt it… he's on to something… yaaay Dean… do it brother… if anyone can… you can… I believe in you… he tried to smile but tilting the corners of his mouth hurt so he decided he'd do it later. Dean was going to kick this things ass and Sam was going to be once more beholden, but he didn't care. Dean was always there for him and always would be, some things in life were constant.

--

The path to darkness is seldom trodden with uncompromising knowledge. Possibly it was Confucious who said "The journey of a thousand miles begins with but a single step," what was never specified was whether that journey was toward enlightenment or darkness, but as all the wise, from the learned, to the babes fresh into this world, the educated and the ignorant; light or dark, either one is a simple choice with countless rungs along the way to lead from one path to the other and back again. Evil is the chosen refusal to see that there is any other way.

--

Feel me inside of you…feel my bliss… the words echoed in his head as his arm slashed violently at the empty air before him. His eyes watered and reddened and his face torqued in denial, fighting the mélange of emotions as they rose of their own accord.

"Nnnooo! Nnuh… nuho!" he grunted. The ceiling ring fell to the ground ringing out a bell-ish sound. His hands pressed to his temples, his knees faltered, his fingers drilled into his ears to shut out the crying but sealed it inside instead. His heart beat like a thoroughbred and his breath stormed. His muscles clenched and his teeth cut through layers of the inside of his mouth.

Their cries, their pleading, their promises not to tell came to him, filled him and made his belly jump with glee. A handful of dozens of faces that belonged here, that had died here, and several handfuls more that had died in a small unkempt hovel in Lakeview Oregon passed through him. Their cries filled his ears, their tears fed him and as the hours of screaming torment passed, while night gave way to morning in the world outside he began to feed, first with reluctance, and slowly as the plate of anguish found itself endlessly full before him, eventually with abandon.

Please…

You know what I'm asking for.

Visceral reactions? Yes, No? enough? not?

Thanks.

sifi