It's arriving in a wave of violence, it's arriving with a loving embrace

[forthedog]

Everything is fine. Everything should be fine, so everything is fine. That's what he's been telling himself. But it gets a little harder on the nights he wakes up tasting wet copper. Gets even harder when he understands that they aren't bad dreams.

This has always been about letting a dark part of himself out to play, going somewhere he really can't, not with anyone else, not with anyone willing. In that much, he supposes, there's always been an element of tension relieved, of release in the most primal sense. But now he's finding a new level of reassurance in the steady, even blows that pound a deep flush into Dean's upper back, the rhythm of the crop, the way it soothes. They're close to blood, though he hasn't gone anywhere near as hard as that first night and doesn't plan to, and tonight he thinks it might soothe him even more if he saw some.

In fact, yes.

He lays the crop down and picks up the knife, fingering the blade. It looks like a tongue of flame in the dim light, and for just a moment he's back there, deep in it, the pure dark and ash and the bloody fire and the simplicity of killing, and he's dragged face to face with how appealing it all is.

God, you are so fucked up.

Well. Yeah.

Comments

[always_enduphere]

wax all rhapsodic.

i shape the words with relish, watch the corner of mike's mouth.

"Could you blame me?" i ask. "A demon's formative years are among his most delightful."

the bed isn't soft, but i cast myself onto it in an easy sprawl, hand casually possessive over the hilt of the knife. "You're well into yours."

[forthedog]

Okay, so apparently talking is happening now. Which means dying isn't, at least not immediately. This, he can work with. And he'd struggle, or at least try to make a show of struggling, but he's not sure there's a point. He's not going anywhere. Not yet.

Best case scenario, he lives and somehow he gets this thing to let Dean go. And he's enough of a realist to know how utterly miniscule the chances of that are.

"You're saying that like it should bug me." He sighs, tilts his head to one side, allows himself to affect mild boredom. "Look, what the fuck do you want?"

[always_enduphere]

"To talk," i say, borrowing some of dean's old brightness. poor bastard probably hasn't sounded like this since he was fifteen. "Haven't had a real, face to face conversation in ages, and no, our chat by the bonfire doesn't count, you were tripping balls. But I did enjoy what you were selling."

pick up the knife, twist it in the dim light. he loves doing that.

"Ever considered just." i shrug. "Doing that on the regular?"

[forthedog]

"It was you." He almost laughs again, simply because it makes so much fucking sense. Not just that it happened but the way it happened, so much darkness rushing in so quickly. Maybe it had been regular acid or maybe somehow a demonic concoction, but either way he suspects intent has something to do with things in a place like this.

But then he's watching the knife move. Because suddenly everything that's happened is beginning to take on elements of worrying coherence.

"I used to." His gaze flicks back to Dean's face again, and those eyes that aren't Dean's at all. "Wasn't great for my social life."