Disclaimer: I do not own any right to Supernatural, or any of the characters appearing in this story. The original concept is due to Eric Kripke and the rights to it are owned by The CW Network. This is written just for fun and I do not make any profit out of it. Algea are really part of Greek mythology, first mentioned by Esiode.
Spoilers warning: It contains a big spoiler for the ending of season 3, but nothing more than that.
Possible triggers: There is going to be some violence at the upper edge of what they show in the canon, but not extremely graphic. Some swearing (it's SPN after all).
Dean stared at the cut he just made on his brother's chest as it slowly revealed itself in a bloody red line. His hand was so sweaty and shaky that he feared the knife would just slip through his fingers. Lupe seemed happy and for a moment he hoped she was satisfied.
"Keep going cute pie. I want more blood."
Dean felt the taste of bile in his throat. He swallowed it away. He believed neither Lupe nor Ania would be happy about him throwing up in their playground.
He looked up at Sam, they had one of their silent conversations perfectioned over here of hunting. With his eyes, he asked again for Sam's permission or maybe he was asking for his forgiveness. He wasn't sure himself this time. The pain was not entirely gone from his brother's face but Sam agreed nevertheless. This time Dean sliced the skin following the upper left rib. Muscle memory from all the times he did it in Hell started to take over. The gesture felt almost natural. He loathed himself for that.
As the two lines edged in blood, Dean started to see the familiar pattern. Flashbacks where he had fun doing that exact thing came to mind. Dean pushed them aside. Sam was his canvas now. There was no way he was going to enjoy it.
Dean bid his time.
"I will tell you when to stop," Lupe said.
He looked up, and now the pain was visible in Sam's expression and Dean felt it, he felt the weight of what he was doing. Sam nodded again.
Dean swallowed hard, closed his eyes for a moment, and then brought the blade to the flesh. If anyone else would have done it to Sam he would have killed them without hesitation. He wasn't entirely sure he was going to make an exception for himself. The familiar movement gave him some sense of comfort and Dean let it cross him because without it he wasn't sure he could keep going.
"It's your nature," Alastair's voice told him in his mind. He heard it so clearly that for a moment he thought the demon was in the room with them.
No. He rebelled.
He bid his time again and tried to reason with the sisters.
"I believe it's…" he started but Lupe brought a finger to her lips and nodded toward the kids.
This time he didn't look up at Sam. He wasn't sure he could keep following Lupe's order if he saw the pain he was inflicting on his little brother. He knew what Sam's choice would be, he would have made the same choice if the roles were reversed. Everything would be easier if the roles were reversed, Sam would not be as weak as he was in that moment.
Just one more cut he kept repeating himself.
Sam was a good soldier, not emitting a sound. That sentence had a bitter irony, Sam used to accuse him of being a good soldier every time they fought with their father. What would his father think of him if he could see him now with a bloody blade in his hands?
Lupe seemed pleased but not yet appealed.
Every time Lupe asked him to cut again part of him died.
His hands knew what to do even if his mind was fighting it.
Those movements when the blade slid on the skin were the only thing that made sense, the only thing he was in control of.
He couldn't look Sam in the eyes anymore, he just looked at the body, at his canvas.
"Shall I call Matt?" The goddess taunted him once he was looking at her desperate to see the end of it.
Just one more cut.
With every cut, his hold on the blade became more natural. The blade slid with more ease.
The pattern slowly came to life: beautiful red blood on white skin.
"You are an artist, Dean," Alastair's voice echoed in his head.
Just one more cut.
It's just a pattern.
Just one more cut.
There was some distant voice faded in the background, painfilled screams. He could not think about it. He learned that the hard way.
"Focus on the pattern, enjoy the power you have on your victim." Alastair's voice calmed him down. No, he knew he should not enjoy the power, he didn't remember why. He just needed to keep going with the pattern.
The pattern
Just one more cut, just one more line.
Far away voices. Painfilled screams.
The blade felt like it belonged to his body.
The pattern was perfect.
Alastair was pleased.
No. Alastair was not there. Or was he?
Red blood on white skin.
Every drop of blood was a sign of his power.
Red blood on white skin.
A masterpiece.
"Dean. Please, Dean, stop."
Hearing his name brought him violently out of the zone. He took a step back as he saw Sam. And he saw the mess of blood that crossed his brother's chest. And he saw the intricate webs of cuts that marred the sides.
Sam was crying in pain.
No, he couldn't have done that. No.
Dean saw his own hands covered in blood. Sammy's blood. The knife was still firmly in his grasp.
Sam sobbed between shallow gasps.
"Dean, please wait."
Dean took another step back. He howled at the top of his lungs.
Pain. Despair. Guilt. Shame.
He let go of the blade and fell on his knees retching.
"That's enough" one of the sisters announced, he couldn't care less which one. She sounded drunk. That was bloody enough he agreed.
"What a night! That last bit…." The other slurred.
"Take him down!" He demanded feebly without raising his eyes from the floor, all energy drained from his body.
"Maybe later." Lupe mused.
"Please, take him down, please."
"I don't think so, I like it. You did a masterpiece."
His stomach churned again at that last word.
He felt a hand run down his spine and slap his ass.
"It's time for dessert."