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16 April 2009 @ 09:01 am
Drabble series: Under  
Title: Under
Author: Vesta
Category: Not Nice/Some Kind of Evil
Rating: R for disturbing imagery
Characters: The Gentlemen Winchester
Feedback: Yes, please
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't own, making no money.
Summary: There is something not right. It's there, just out off sight, until it's too late. And when it's too late...
Wordcount: In total 1350

Note: This verse was born one day when I felt particularely hateful. I felt like that nine times more after. The drabbles range from 100 to 250 words each. They are presented in order of event.

In the beginning

He didn't think, in the beginning. Didn't think about why they always met after dark. In cold basements, abandoned barns, the lack of light hiding their faces.
Didn't think about why they never ate together, they weren't hungry. He heard the whispers about people gone missing. He didn't connect the lost ones with their route. North, always North. To the dark, the cold.

A lonely house, he didn't think about the barred windows or the bolt on the basement door. He didn't think until he fell forward, down the stairs. Not until he heard the first soft swoosh of metal on leather.

He tried to think when they held him down, let their hard hands trail over him. A sharp nip over his wrist, breaking the thin skin. Another on his lip, releasing a slow trickle of crimson.

Their eyes shone in the dark, catlike and wild. It was so cold, the floor, but their touches burned him like wildfire. Consuming. Their kisses were icy, lips still soft. They smelled of old secrets, buried under years of pain. Tasted of screams and tears neverending.

They wanted what he had always had but never given. Now, when they could, they took.


The first one itched.
The second one stung.
The third one burned.
The fourth one hurt like hell
The fifth one told about never stopping
The sixth one made him cry
The seventh one had him screaming
The eighth one took his eyes
The ninth one took his tongue
The tenth made him grateful because he could sleep after

He couldn't see the sun but felt its heat stroke his skin. The air smelt stale and blood and he was so glad he couldn't see. Glad he couldn't scream. The broken glass under his feet splintered and exploded into his already bleeding soles, spreading small fires of pain into his burning veins.
He would never get out. He was trapped here. Under. He could hear them move up above. They would soon come again, they had promised. They liked to see him bleed and tell him how pretty he was with the crimson stains covering his body. He tried to fight them off and they laughed. Maybe they would give him his eyes back one day so he could see for himself.
He didn't want that. He didn't want to see. Didn't want to see what his children had become.


They tread softly on bare feet. He doesn't notice them behind him until the first feather-light touch tickles his naked back. They lull him, shush him. Stroke the bruised skin under his empty eyes so very tenderly.
"If you only could see." Whispers in his ear. "If you only could speak."
He holds his breath.
"Don't be sad. We'll make you see again."
He knows they will, make him see what his children has become. What they have made him into. See the marks that bind him below for always, with them.
"Don't cry, Dad, we'll take care of you."


Beneath the surface, there he can rest. Beneath the veil, there to cover his new eyes, he can't see. They smile, blindingly, razor sharp. He tries to sink away. Hide where it is quiet and dark. Where he can't hear the soft chuckles and the sweet words, whispered, rolling like smooth silk from between red lips and white teeth.

He presses his hands against the damp concrete, feels the splintered glass pierce his skin. They always lick him where he bleeds. Maybe they will cut their pretty tongues on the glass in his hands. Make them bleed. Let him drink.


The rough bricks scrape his face raw, make the world spin sickening crazy when the hand on the back of his head slams him against it again and again.

"Don't you ever say no to us!"

He'd answer if he could, but his mouth is bleeding, tongue dangling half-bitten, pain screaming through him. He doesn't know where it begins or where it ends. Maybe at his throat, where his skin is the thinnest, where their teeth bite through like knives through butter. They said no pain but they lied, like he knew they would. He tries to say no again.

Bitter Sweet

It's bittersweet, burning the stump of his tongue. He's given it, little by little. He knows what it can do, gave him his eyes back. Will give him his tongue. So they can use him all the better. Let him lick the sparse drops they give, make him last as long as they want. And they want. Everything. His tears, blood and spit His soul and his unconditional surrender. They hurt him till he gives, then they hurt him again. The old love for them sparks to life, he has always loved them and he always will. No matter what.


'Please' comes so easy. He can feel it slither in his mouth, tasting of ashes and bile. He doesn't care, too hungry, too starved. They gave and then took it away.

'Beg' they say. 'Ask for it. Just ask.' Their hands are so gentle when they touch him, not the blinding splinters of agony anymore. He can feel his love resound in them. See the end of the tunnel. He doesn't cry anymore, doesn't say no. Wants too much, picks a shard of glass, cuts his palms bleeding. Offers them to drink. 'Please'.

They eat, like nursing babies. His again.


It's cold in the darkness. Numb fingers scrabble over wet concrete. He can't feel the sting anymore. Knows he should try to stop the dripping from his wrists but his arms won't move.

The last daylight slices a piece out off the shadows under the grimy window. Not enough to reach him, just teasing, brightness making him blind.

They are there, he can sense them. Running in what's left of his blood, his heart. Waiting for him.

The light flitters away, leaving the darkness untouched but not still. There is a whisper of dry leaves, dead breath. The shadows move.


Last breath and the first.

The shadows twirl, fills him up where the too bright moonlight has burned him empty.

Dry tears burn behind his eyes. They have waited for him. Patiently. Silently.
Took him so long to understand, not used to be shown the way.
Like bitter smoke and tar they surround him when he opens his arms.

"Dad". Patiently. Longingly.

They give It to him. It squirms under his hands, pulse beating under his tongue. Feels it resonate through his body, make his dry throat convulse. After, they lick the stains off his lips, share.

"Dad". Finally. Together.


So wrong. There is no end to the wrongness. It looks at him with pleading eyes, cries a little. He doesn't listen, doesn't see. Has to do this. Has to get strong.

They are there, watching him from the shadows. Always the shadows, making them move and echo with strange whispers. The tears still burn behind his eyes, he knows what he has to do. After this, his last meal. He kisses It carefully on the forehead, listens to the whimpers before he sinks his teeth deep. Makes it quick. Doesn't play with his food like his pretty boys do. Doesn't hunt it like they do. Sleek and smooth. Beautiful. Smiling razor-sharp smiles.

Dead man's blood. They don't notice until too late. Trust him. The sharp brittle moonlight shows him the way to the yard, to the chains. His heart aches when he binds them to the railing. The sun, when it comes, will set the yard on fire. Set them on fire. As it began, it will end.

He waits. Always loved the sun. The same colour as Mary's hair, as the fire that took her. Will take them now. They wake, sluggishly. Sees. Knows. Begs. He doesn't listen.

Says "I love you. Too much to let us be this." When they cry, their tears are red.

"Dad, please. Don't."

He smiles when the sun ripples its heat through the air. The roar of the fire drowns their screams. He looks at them, never wavers, until he can't anymore.

This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

The Doors
Current Mood: irritated
Andrea: Spike - blow me awaylupina78 on April 16th, 2009 07:47 am (UTC)
Wow..dark and deeply emotional, me thinks. And it´s very well written, just like you always do.
Thanks for it!:)
Vesta: twobiggelois on April 17th, 2009 02:31 pm (UTC)
Every time I've added a piece to this I've been in the worst of moods. As in 'don't come near me, I'll kill you'.
Excellent way to blow steam.

Thank you! You say the sweetest things!
Andrea: J2 Renegadeslupina78 on April 17th, 2009 04:09 pm (UTC)
It doesn´t matter in which mood you are, as long as there´s passion included, it only can be successful. Of course it influences your stories, but that isn´t a bad thing at all!

hehe..it´s a very good way to blow steam!

Awww...I tell nothing but the truth, darling! :)


Vesta: twobiggelois on April 19th, 2009 07:47 am (UTC)
Oh, it's the best way to blow steam. No coppers coming after me for it :)
Thank you, you're saying sweet things again. Makes my ego swell :)

Call Me Psycho Troll!ala_tariel on April 16th, 2009 03:48 pm (UTC)
Vesta, this series is very, very dark. *shivers*

*saves the story*
Vesta: twobiggelois on April 17th, 2009 02:32 pm (UTC)
Reflects my mood when I wrote the parts. I did this instead of hurting real people. I'm clever that way :)
Thank you!
johnnyjoshjohnnyjosh on April 16th, 2009 04:29 pm (UTC)
Wow o.o...so dark, very emotional, I loved this.
Vesta: twobiggelois on April 17th, 2009 02:37 pm (UTC)
Thank you! How I felt when I wrote the parts shows in the text. I needed to be nasty to someone. Such a relief, and no coppers chasing me for it :)
vesuvianite on April 18th, 2009 01:39 pm (UTC)
You're right. This was dark, but so very well done. It practically gave me shivers.
Vesta: twobiggelois on April 19th, 2009 08:01 am (UTC)
Thank you! I'm glad you think it worked. Shivers? That is excellent :)