Work Text:
the beast and the burden
hear it
runnin' in the night
hear you
weepin' in the night
tear down wall one
wall two
the beast ate the stars and it will eat
you
It is in here with him.
Here, it's a hole way down deep. Under the ground. It smells of earth. Or it did, once. When he first got here. He thinks. Now, the smell is – it's probably worse than he knows. Sweeter than death.
The walls are uneven. Sharp, in some places. He's cut his fingers on them a few times. Or maybe it wasn't the walls. Maybe it was the monster, the Beast. It's in here with him. It hurts him. It cries and screams and weeps in the night, scratches at the walls at dusk and dawn. It breathes foul and ice cold down his neck, scratches his skin and bites his fingers. He tries to stay away from it, has felt around in the dark for a corner, but the room is round. He's walked and crawled in it for hours, felt every inch until his fingertips were scraped raw. No door. But there is a way inside, he has seen it.
It's where the Singer comes from.
The Singer sometimes comes to him, and when he takes him outside, there is light, sometimes there is not. The light is blinding and painful, but the dark is worse. It makes him stronger, makes the pain seem sweet and free. But when the Singer takes him back here, after a while he will feel worse for it.
He hates the Singer. So much, it makes him taste bile and blood. But the Song, it is command. He is here, because he is here to obey. Pain, then numbness, then ecstasy, then pain again. The longer the Singer stays away and leaves him here, the worse the pain gets. He yearns for the clearing of his mind that the Song brings, for the Bone in his hand to bring relief to the hunger that plagues and claws at him. But the Beast is here too, and it's bad. It bathes in blood and it's disgusting. It scares him to death, but he never dies.
He wishes he could remember his name.
>
Sometimes he dreams.
It's not really sleep – he never lies down anymore, just leans his body against a wall, the one that he thinks is farthest away from the Beast. His legs tremble often from the strain of standing upright all the time, but he doesn't always notice.
He leans his head against the wall, and maybe his eyes fall shut, maybe they don't. He startles out of the dreams, with his heart pounding and his hands shaking, but he clings to what he sees with desperation.
In one, there was a shower of bright white lights down a dark blue sky. It looked beautiful. When he woke, his face was wet. He doesn't know why. Doesn't know what it means.
In another, there were two figures on a bridge. He'd walked away from them. Their faces are blank. It makes him so angry, he smashes a fist against the stone when he wakes. It hurts. He doesn't care. For one, wild moment, he almost wishes the Beast would come to him and he could beat his fists against it. Could be bitten by its needle rotting teeth and swallowed whole and just forget and be gone from here.
Other times, he cowers against the wall in terror of the Beast, of whatever is outside. He is helpless. There is no weapon here. There is no nothing in here. The ground is bare, the ceiling too far to reach. Maybe there is none. Maybe the dark is endless up above.
If the Beast ever decides it's over for him, it could tear all the flesh from his bones. It could eat his heart in front of him. And the Song – he has tried fighting it. He must be too weak. And he is ashamed – the Bone, when the Singer gives it to him, it has its own Song. It drowns out all the fear, it takes from him the pain. He wants it. He aches for it.
But every time they come back here, the Singer takes it from him. It hurts and tears like getting his arm ripped off.
He shouldn't want it but he does.
>
The Singer comes to get him.
It must be weeks since the last time. Maybe longer. He is so hungry, his legs can barely keep him upright. He blinks into the light.
The Singer sings, “Come”, and he limps over. There are two others with him, they have sharp teeth. They grab him by the arms and walk him away and down some corridor. The light is so blinding, it stings and tears his eyes, and they drag him roughly along when he stumbles. When it's been a longer time, like now, they take him to a white room with a smooth floor and hose him down with ice cold water. It hurts and leaves him shaking, but it tones down the fever in his bones at least for a little while. If it helps with the smell, he wouldn't know.
Now, they shove him under the spray and then step back, awaiting the next Song. He closes his eyes and turns his head away. The look on their faces makes him fear in his heart, and their teeth make him angry. But he is not allowed to attack anyone. Not here, not yet. He can't even move away. Has to take the pounding sting of the water until he is completely soaked, and the weight of his clothes is almost too much for his unsteady legs. But he couldn't fall down if he wanted to. He is not allowed.
The Singer is singing something, but the water is getting in his ears, and it is not a command anyway. “ – trust you yet, we could give you better quarters. Might just take more time.”
The words make no sense. It's okay though. It wasn't a Song. Nothing happened, he is not supposed to do something. But the words reverberate strangely in his head, while the water is turned off and the ones with the sharp teeth grab him under the arms again and escort him out and through the corridor. Quarter. No quarter. They hold no quarter. They ask no quarter. The pain, the pain without quarter.
It makes no sense. It's not a Song. He has no idea what it is.
>
The light is just disappearing when he is taken outside.
It's good, because it hurts his eyes less, but bad, because that means night, and nights are bad. He gets one glimpse of the sky painted orange and fire, then he is shoved into the back of the car. The black leather there is ruined from him sitting there for hours in his water logged clothes, or covered in dirt and blood. It's separated from the front by a heavy grid.
He sits down and fits his hands over the edge of the seat, where it's torn open and soft with sharp edges that bite into his skin.
One of the teeth sits down beside him, the other at the front, next to the driver's seat.
The car starts. They don't always drive. Sometimes, the Singer throws something at them, color in the heavy air, and they're somewhere else. It's confusing and makes him feel sick. He doesn't like it.
He stares at the windows. They're black and he can't look outside. But he still checks every time again, just to make sure. But no. They're still black. He drops his gaze and looks at his feet instead. He feels sad, he thinks.
The Singer sings, “I know, I know – you must be hungry, right? I'm really sorry it's been such a long time. They were really close, at that job in Oklahoma. Couldn't let you see them, you understand that, right? Better keep you focused. No confusion.”
There is an expectant pause.
He feels his throat constrict and snaps his head up, echoes back, “No confusion.” His voice is raspy and speaking hurts. It sounds strange. A shiver races down his spine.
The Singer nods. “Very good.”
For the moment, nothing else is sung. He drops his gaze to his feet again. He is wearing shoes. He thinks they were brown once, but now they're black with blood and piss and filth. No matter how long they have him stand under the ice water, it never fully washes off. The people, and the things, and the somethings he's sent to with the Bone, sometimes they flinch and quiver just from seeing him like this, from smelling him like this. Maybe that's what the Singer wants.
If it's part of the Song, he will obey it.
>
Finally, they stop.
The teeth who sat beside him, motionless during the entire drive, drags him out and stands him up outside of the car. Spots dance in his vision for a moment, then it clears. It's dark, so it's actually easier to see.
The Singer steps out of the car and ah – the Bone. His eyes want to drink in the sight of it immediately, but the Singer doesn't like that. “Eyes to the front,” that was one of the first Songs. He got punished for it often, and it's mostly trained out of him now, but it's still a task. Sometimes, when his head is clearer, he thinks the Bone might be stronger than the Singer. It's him that's too weak still.
When the Bone is with him, it feels like the high note of its Song drowns out all other singing.
But for now, the Singer is weighing the Bone in one hand, “It's been a while. Just to make sure.”
The Singer's other hand comes up to rest on his forehead, and he wants to flinch away, to fall to his knees, to scream – but the Song starts, and one by one, what thoughts he's had are torn away from him. The satin blue of the sky dims to gray, the air turns to ash. Pain is distant, fear is dulled. He's still shaking with cold, out in the night in his drenched clothing, but it doesn't matter anymore. His heart eases. He can stare ahead now and not blink.
The Song eases off and the Singer steps back, smiling proudly.
“Atta boy.”
At last, the Bone is pressed into his hand. Instantly, strength rushes through him, steadying his legs, deepening his breath. The teeth no longer need to hold him upright and step away from him.
Through the high and higher note in the air, in his head, he sees the Singer nod and then his legs are free. He turns and he walks off into the night.
The singing is beautiful. He feels so light, so calm. He smiles.
>
He is here to kill.
Both Songs like that. The howl and terror of both of them in his ears, in his head, almost choked him with his own vomit at the beginning. It's better, now. His body is trained now to go with it, to move where they want him. To let the rush wash through and over him, to invite it in his heart and veins. To let it fill the empty caverns in his chest and stomach, the places that ache and clench and seize with needles and acid when he is without Song for too long.
For a moment, it rises in his mind, ramble on and now's the time, the time is now, to sing my – , and then it's gone again.
He shakes his head in irritation. No confusion.
And then he's there.
>
The apartment block is run-down, the paint peeling and revealing ugly stains. It smells damp and like dying leaves. The parking lot is almost empty, the concrete cracked in places.
But he can feel them.
It's six of them, down in the basement. There's no thrum and pump of heartbeat, but it still echoes within him, the flame of their lives.
The Bone quivers. It hungers for them, and he hungers with it.
The stairs down the basement are damaged, covered under dirt and trash. But his feet make no sound. It makes him grin in satisfaction. It's not like he has to be quiet, not anymore. He doesn't need the element of surprise to win a fight. But it's worth it, the patience. Worth it, when they turn around and he is just there, outta thin air and breathing down their neck.
In the end, they all smell like fear. Spurred on by Song and Song, he couldn't stop if he wanted to. And he never wants to. That's right, he never wants to. There is no wanting to stop, not anymore. Why would he ever want to stop? He can't remember. It doesn't matter. No confusion.
His feet hit the ground floor. Softly now, take your time.
He swings his head around, listens. The high note in the air climbs higher.
There.
At the end of the long corridor to his right, there is a red door. Through it, and there's another set of stairs, leading even deeper down. The farther down he goes, the stronger the smell of cold bagged blood gets.
The fever is boiling under his skin. The wall, when he touches it with a hand, curious, in walking, feels colder than the ice water.
There's another door at the end. It's all scratched steel and death bolts. But they didn't even fully close it. His smirk gets wider. He sets the tip of the Bone against the door, pushes it inward slowly. It makes a high-pitched, creaking sound.
The noise might have set his teeth on edge once. Now, he enjoys how it cuts through the air like a blade. They must know now, what has come for them.
The door is open wide.
He walks inside, slowly, looks around. The room is spacious and flat and full of teeth. Just like the Song said. He swirls the Bone and stands still, let's them come in closer. They hiss and yell at him, white teeth bare and brutal in their angry faces. Half of them hang back, but three rush at him at once.
The first, he cuts his head clean off in one sure swipe. The body crashes to the ground with a thunder of bones and a lightning of spraying blood. He laughs. Then sinks the Bone deep into the heart of the next one, rips it out through the side, then rams it through the throat. The third, he lets slam into him, lets its teeth sink into his shoulder. The pain only makes the Bone more ravenous, it sinks into the third teeth's stomach, then cuts all the way up and splits its head in two.
He's covered in blood now, the Bone is too. There's another sound. He might still be laughing, he doesn't really know. He's choking a bit, there's blood in his mouth. Maybe he's bit his tongue. Why would he do that? Can't be. Makes no sense. No confusion.
The remaining three are clustered around another door in the back. They're terrified, but they can't leave. The door is barricaded from the outside. They are trapped in here, with him.
“Sorry,” he thinks, mockingly, “but two of you still gotta go.” He'd like to say it, too, but he is almost never allowed to speak, and never outside.
He walks up to them, and then almost falters for a step when there's a buzzing in his head. The Singer always watches him, and now, he is taking too long. His time is almost up.
One of the teeth takes the opportunity and attacks him. He ducks to the side and takes its head clean off. Same with the other one. Quick, efficient. The Bone's humming in displeasure, but bathed in blood it doesn't protest very loud.
The last one hisses at him from its place wretched between the door and some heavy wooden boxes. It has its teeth bared, but fluid streaming down its face. He reaches down and it claws at him. He ignores the pain, just lifts the thing up by its clothes. It's tiny, but strong. He doesn't know why, but the Song tells him it wants it. The thing is still scratching up his arms. He knocks it out with a punch to the head and it collapses, slumps against him. The Bone doesn't understand. It still wants to eat.
But the other Song wants this thing alive. Replacement, it whispers.
He heaves it over his shoulder. The blood soaked into his clothes and trickling from the gouges on his arms makes drip drop drip on the cold floors when he walks, up the stairs, out into the darkest night. The Bone has been sated a bit, but it still whines, high and lonesome when they get out. He feels the hollow feeling in his stomach already spread out again, acid and endless yearning.
The Song pulls him forward, and forward, until he's standing right next to the car's trunk. One of the teeth comes forward to take the smaller one from his shoulder. He wants to push it back and snarl, but the Singer is right there, and he can't move. It leaves him shaking, seething and reeling with anger and ecstasy.
“Now, now. Where's our manners? That's the reason we needed a replacement in the first place, isn't that right? Be a good boy.”
The Singer holds out a hand. “There now. Give it back.” He doesn't want to. The anger is choking him, stealing his breath. The fear. If he gives it, the strength will leave, the calm and the quiet will leave. And the sick will come back, the weak, and the screaming and the fear, the fear in the dark.
But the Singer's Song is stronger yet. His will surges up once, briefly, a drop in an ocean of poison rain, and it is drowned again. Obey. He can obey. It's right, it's easy.
“Good boy.”
His hand gives the Bone to the Singer. The second it's taken from him, he falls to his knees, shaky and feverish. His stomach heaves, but all that comes up is some sickly smelling water. He spits it onto the brown leaves, dry heaves for another moment until he's grabbed under the armpits by the two teeth and hauled back into the back of the car. This time, both of them stay there with him, one to his right, one to his left.
In the middle of the seat, he has nothing to lean against. So he slumps forward, eyes slipping shut, curls over his chest. His heart is beating weakly, and erratically. There's still sick dropping from his lips. The Singer makes a disgusted sound from the front, but no Song commands him to shut his mouth and snap his head up. He was good.
There's something wet and hot behind his eyes. He shuts them tight, keeps it in.
He was good.
>
There's the ice water again. And then he's shoved back into the dark.
The scratches on his arms burn more insistent now. Immediately, panic creeps up his legs. The Beast will smell the blood. It will come near and not let him sleep, and bite his neck again, and make him feel like he is dying here alone.
Instinctively, he backs away towards where the door was, but he's met with nothing but solid stone. One of his feet bumps against something soft. He freezes in fear, but whatever it is doesn't move.
He kneels down, feels around with his hands. At first, he is confused at what it is. Then he understands. This, it's a bottle of water. Plastic. That's why it's smooth, but light. The other is a plastic plate of food. He thinks it smells like meat.
Hes's been given food and water other than the Bone before. He thinks there was even a lot of it, in the beginning. Now, he sinks down on the ground beside it. His hands hover over it, but he hesitates. He yearns for it, for something to fill the hole in his chest and stomach. And if he can hold it down, there will be more of it. But if he holds it down, the time will be longer until he's taken out of here again. If he yaks it out, it's faster that the Singer comes again. Other times, like the last time, he will leave him in here anyway.
He shouldn't. He's not even sure it's what he's hungry for. But the food is warm. And it's cold here, so cold in here. He'd like to feel warm. Just for a moment.
He eats it all, so fast, it sends him coughing. He drinks some water, it makes it easier. After, he backs away from the spot he'd been kneeling as fast as he can. It's not very fast. His legs are still unsteady and he's nauseous, now. But he's a bit warmer.
In the dark, he feels his way around, pressed to the wall, until he finds a slight niche to lean against. He closes his eyes, tries to calm down his breathing. Presses himself against the unforgiving stone and attempts to make himself as small as possible. He pushes up the tattered sleeve of his left arm, has to swallow down a hiss as his fingers bump against the cuts and bruises. Wounds on his right arm often heal very quickly, but that doesn't happen anywhere else.
His right arm. When he found the burn on the inside of his forearm, he'd been confused. He's barely ever seen it by light of day, hasn't been allowed to, but he's traced its shape in the dark, a few times. Not since a long time. He doesn't like how it makes him feel. Colder, dirtier in a whole different way.
The shape reminded him of the Bone. Which makes no sense. He belongs; he is not something that has belongings. Or maybe it means he belongs to the Bone. But he also belongs to the Singer, and the Singer is the one who gives and takes the Bone.
Maybe he is not supposed to know. Maybe it is something of before.
Before he was here. He thinks there was a before. But every time he tries to search his mind for it, he runs against a white wall, and it hurts him.
He slumps further against the wall, exhausted. The rough fabric of his wet clothes shaves against his skin. Sometimes, when his clothing gets too torn up, the Singer mends it with his colors. Once, somewhere at the beginning, the Singer had looked at him with a scrunched nose, eyed the roughness of his cheeks. “You have a pretty face, actually. Let's keep it that way, shall we?” Some colors were thrown, and his hair had stayed short, and his cheeks only lightly stubbled since.
His skin feels dirty and hot, when he touches it there.
A pretty face. He wouldn't know. He has no idea what he looks like.
He is, pointlessly, searching his mind for it, when the Beast finds him.
It's his fault. He hadn't payed enough attention, hadn't made himself small enough, breathed flatly enough. The Beast slams into his back with a weight like a brick wall, and he cries out in pain when its razor claws sink into the flesh and muscle of his shoulders. He is forced down to his knees by it, unable to withstand its strength.
It bites his neck and laughs into his ears. Its claws are many and so long, they curve around his shoulders and poke into his chest, right above his heart. The weight of it presses his ribcage together, steals his breath.
Poison, he thinks, senselessly. Poison. The Beast presses him further down, curls him over. He chokes and throws up all over his feet.
His nose and eyes burn when it's done. His fingers dig into where the Beast's claws gripped his shoulders. He whips his head around. The Beast is gone.
>
The next few times he's taken outside, it's always demons.
The Song tells him, promises him. And demons are good. Demons make the Bone ecstatic. The rush takes him higher, makes all the pain and fear just vanish. Finally, he feels free.
Being without the Bone, after, is torture. And yet, he can't but give in, the promise of being calm and sure and without pain making him helpless against the Songs. And he hungers. The more demons the Bone eats, the more it wants.
“Soon,” the Singer sings, “you will be ready for the Big Boss.”
He doesn't know what that means. Doesn't care. Maybe it has something to do with what many of the demons seem to scream at him. But he has never been allowed to hear what any monster says to him. Anything but hisses and screams is just white noise to his ears. When he fights them, plunges the Bone into their hearts and watches them burn from the inside out, he feels so sure. Joyful at finally getting to deal out some pain, instead of going out of his mind with having to endure it. And the demons feel much weaker against him, now. Killing them, it's almost too easy.
Their bodies fall to his feet, one, two. He doesn't need the earth anymore. He never slips in their blood, even when it floods high and soaks his skin. They can throw themselves at him now, all at once, and it don't make no difference. He might as well be made of stone.
He isn't, though. And oh, it's the whole point – his heart beats wild, every bone is stretched past breaking. It feels like dying and like more than alive.
When nothing moves anymore, he will surface from the absence of his mind. And feel so clear. Panting, hard between his legs and trembling all over from the Bone's high note rushing through every muscle, demanding more, more. He thinks he can see the note in the air, the way it quivers and whines, and climbs higher, ever higher.
In the hole, in the dark, he is shaking all the time now. Without the Bone clearing him, holding him up, he is weaker than ever. The Beast finds him every time now. It hurts him. He curls up against the wall as tight as he can, but it finds him, sets his skin on fire. The smell is so bad, he keeps vomiting up whatever is left in his stomach. In those moments, he yearns for the Bone to make it all go away, and at the same time he never wants it pressed into his hand again. Wishes desperately that the next time, his fingers won't curl around it and hold it tight. The Bone, it makes him do terrible things. It makes him want terrible things.
Alone in the dark, he always sees all their faces behind his eyes. He doesn't want to see them, wants to forget, but he shouldn't. He's killed them. He has to remember. Why, why is killing all he does?
He whimpers, pressed against the stone wall in the dark, tears streaming down his cheeks, while the Beast sinks its claws into the veins of his right arm.
The people on the bridge. Why can't he see their faces? Why can't he remember?
He hums something to distract himself. It's only three notes, in repetition. He thinks it's a melody someone other than the Singer sang to him once. Humming it makes him sad, but sometimes it calms him a bit. He hums it, again, again.
Without warning, the Beast sinks its remaining claws into his heart. The note gets stuck in his throat and he screams.
>
It's sunrise for once.
So early, he can still spot some stars above. The air is very cold, but the sky is pink and gold at the horizon. He thinks, it's beautiful.
“You are ready. And finally, I have found her. I bet you've been waiting for that for a long time, haven't you?”
He blinks at the Singer, uncomprehending. He is just so tired. Freezing, in his wet clothing. But maybe it's more than that. He realizes, he is afraid. Terrified.
The Singer sighs. “Fried your brain a bit, haven't we? It's fine. This is a big fish. Gotta be sure it all goes the way we want, don't we?”
A hand is raised – he wants to shy away from it desperately. Knows what's coming. But he wants to lean forward into it too, wants the warmth, the calm. He doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to drown. He is so confused. He feels sick. So sick.
There is nothing for it. He is frozen in place, his muscles too weak to move, and the command is holding him in place. He couldn't move his head away if he tried. He is not supposed to try. He is obey. Obey. He wants to –
The Singer's palm touches his forehead and the thought is torn away from him, the feeling too. He feels lightheaded when the hand goes away. He whines in the back of his throat. Order. He needs an order; he needs – the Singer presses the Bone into his hand. At once, fire crawls up his legs and settles low in his gut. A power floods through him that feels too immense to be contained by his skin. It seems to roll from him like heat waves. His mind is not only calm and quiet now, it is sharp and clear.
The Singer pets his cheek. “There, there. Much better now, aren't we?”
Two teeth and two dogs are with them this time. But no car. That means the colors. He dislikes them, dislikes the teeth and the dogs too. But the Songs keep him calm. He doesn't care about all of it. He feels too good. So good.
The Singer steps back, there's a brief flare of blue and green, and then they move. A short moment of disorientation, and then his feet hit concrete. He is not yet allowed to walk, but he can move his head.
They're at the back of a giant, hulking building. It looks like a hotel. The parking lot is almost empty of cars. There's no light behind any of the windows. They're pitch black. It feels familiar, what he can feel moving beyond them. He is allowed to smile. He smiles.
The Singer steps closer to him, runs the flat of a palm slowly down his chest. He wants to move away from the touch, but can't. “Let's do this in style, shall we?” The Singer steps away from him, and he looks down on himself. His clothes are still worn and dirtied, but it's all black now.
The teeth and the dogs move to encircle the Singer. The Song gets louder, and he can feel the Bone quiver in his hold, angry at the command and impatient for what's to come.
The Singer jerks his head towards the building, smiling, his Song husky and full of anticipation.
“Sick'em!”
>
Inside, it's utterly silent.
The floors are all empty. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound. There are dead leaves on the red carpet, brown smears on the pearl white walls. There are some bodies, dried-out, long dead. Four levels up there are torn up poker cards strewn over the floor. Six levels up, there's an empty black helmet but no body. Then nothing for the next three.
It's on the fourteenth, that the Bone gets excited.
He gets up the stairs, turns left into the hallway. And there they are – demons. The hallway is cramped full of them. They stare at him, not with surprise, but with expectancy.
He steps forward and it starts.
They all rush at him at once, and he laughs, and the Bone sings through the air. He barely looks at them while he cuts them down. There is something waiting for him at the end of this hallway, he can feel, feel it. There's wet sounds of the demons' blood hitting the walls, soaking into the red floor. They cry out, and gasp, and snarl in anger. He plows through them, and not even their sheer numbers can hold him back, only slow him down. They tear at him, beat at him, but was is pain?
Nothing, to him. He feels elated, intoxicated. Let's them come in close, to better feel the Bone sink between their ribs, steal the life from them and give them death.
Absently, he notices fear in some of their eyes, but pushed along by the Songs he doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow down.
The last one, he slams up against the wall and stares into its eyes as he pushes the Bone slowly into its guts. The fire in its eyes flares up and then dies out, disappears. He lets the body fall to the floor and turns away, already hungry again.
At the end of the hallway, there's a tree-green door. It has black dust all over it, like it's been partly burned.
It's halfway open.
He walks towards it, the Songs so loud now they almost drown out the sounds of his own footsteps.
He stops in front of the door. Listens to the Songs, let's them rush through him, urge him on. With the tip of the Bone, he nudges the door further open. Behind, there's a long and wide room, its walls white and pristine. There are paintings on the walls. He steps inside. The paintings are black and green and red and yellow. Animals, and humans, and things that are neither. The frames are gold and ornate and heavy. He looks away from them, focuses on the end of the room. From the corners of his vision, he thinks he sees painted eyes follow his every move.
He feels like in a fever. His breathing is loud in his ears, and there's this beat. It takes him a moment to understand that it's his own heart. His hand grips the Bone tighter. His vision narrows down to a tunnel, and his mind slips away until there's nothing left but the Song and the beat. A drum in his head, pushing him forward.
At the end of the room, there's a couch of deep red satin. In front of it a low black wooden table. On it are three cut-off heads, faces with their rolled-up eyes turned towards him. The one in middle is covered in writhing snakes, but then he blinks, and it's only curls of hair.
On the couch is a demon.
She holds a glass with see-through liquid and some green fruit delicately with two fingers. She's smiling at him. Her hair is a cascade of red.
She's saying something. Her mouth is so wide. He's not allowed to hear her, of course. Pays it no attention, just keeps walking towards her. She narrows her eyes at him, her mouth turns down. She says something else, puts the drink on the table, stands up. Her eyes flicker briefly down to the Bone, then back up to his face.
The demon smirks, then flicks her hand in his direction. Something slams into him, with a force that's like hitting a wall running. But the Bone only sings higher, and he grits his teeth, pushes on. She does it again. He can hear the floor underneath him crack. Again. The paintings left and right to him begin to melt, black tar consuming the white walls. Again. The paintings crash to the floor with a sound like thunder. The demon is angry now. She's giving off heat waves like a volcano. Distantly, he can feel some of his ribs break under the force slamming into him. She's backing away now, but he is faster, the Bone a roar in his ears.
He grips the demon by its clothes, slams it up against one of the last remaining paintings. Sizzling hot paint splashes against his skin, burning it, but he barely feels it. Give me, the Bone sings, give me. The demon is screaming now, but he hears none of it. Only the Songs, and the stillness. He is obey. He pushes the Bone through her middle, then up, up, splits her head in two. She is aflame. He has done it.
But he cannot stop.
Her body sinks to the ground, but before it hits the floor the Bone makes a sweeping motion through the air and cuts horizontally through her torso. The pieces hit the carpet in a mess of red and black. The high note in his ears is so loud, it's splitting his skull. He has sunken to his knees beside her, and his fists are beating the mess of her face, again, again. He can't breathe. Can't stop.
Finally, the Bone quietens down, and instead there's the pounding of his heart in his head. And the other Song, commanding him to come back outside. He is confused. He wants to obey. He can't move his legs. He stares down at his hands, which are shaking and soaked in blood to the wrists. His breathing gets faster and faster. The command gets more insistent, sears through his head like a knife. He presses his eyes closed while his hands continue to shake.
He gets dragged out of the building by the teeth and the dogs in the end. They come and heave him up by the armpits and then just haul him down the hallways, his feet trailing uselessly against the floor.
Despite that, the Singer looks pleased to see him, licks his lips. “Got a little greedy there towards the end, didn't we? No worries. You can sleep that off now.”
Then the command to hand over the Bone, and he feels relieved to get it away from himself. As soon as it leaves his hand, his vision goes black and he feels himself falling down.
>
After the red-haired demon, the Beast stays very close to him.
It leans against his back constantly, presses down against his shoulders and forces his face closer to the floor. His heart beats so fast sometimes he passes out, then startles awake out of dreams that aren't dreams. He's shaking all the time. A few times, there is food for him, but he never eats it, feels nauseous at the very smell of it. Instead, he drinks the water. It soothes his fevered insides, if only for a moment.
A long time seems to pass until the Singer comes for him again. He has him hosed down, like always, and then they're outside. The Singer is smiling, pleased. “Sorry for the delay. Your next kill is a notoriously hard to find someone that has been been getting in my way a lot lately. But I got them now.” No car, again. The command comes to accept the Bone and he obeys. The rush is as sweet as the last time, and at once he feels clear and relaxed, the anxiety and hurt swept away like they never existed. He breathes deep.
“That's my boy!” The Singers takes a step back again. “Let's hear that voice, shall we?” A picture of someone human looking is held up. “You will kill this person. No hesitation. Quick. Merciless. No confusion. Understood?”
He is allowed to speak. It's been a long time, but the answer comes to him, clear and easy.
“Understood. No confusion.”
Speaking is hard and hurts his throat. He hopes he won't have to do it again.
The Singer smiles. “Good doggy.”
>
The night is dark but early, and there are some humans in the streets.
They don't seem to see them. He follows them with his eyes, wants to go after them. But the Song keeps him in his place at the Singer's side. There are no teeth with them this time but two dogs. They stand motionless left and right to the Singer, eyes staring ahead without blinking. He is better. He is allowed to move his eyes, his head. He is the one that is send out alone, trusted to obey.
The Singer claps him on the shoulder, then nods to the fire escape at the side of the tiny apartment building. “Have fun.”
He gets up the stairs without making a sound. The fourth and highest floor is the one he wants. The room behind the window is dark. He wraps the Bone's handle up in his shirtsleeve, punches a hole through the glass. There's already sounds and movement inside when he forces the window open, jumps inside and lands stealthily on his feet. His kill has a handgun and is backing up fast towards the door, but he is faster. It is ridiculously easy.
He barrels into her and throws her to the ground, a knee to her chest enough to pin her down. She's screaming, but he is not allowed to hear. It doesn't matter. He is obey. He raises the Bone.
She freezes underneath him, then her mouth forms a single word. She is staring at him, her eyes wide and white. She is terrified. Her mouth forms the word again, and then another one. It looks like what the Singer's mouth looked when he punished him in the beginning, when there was 'No.'
His kill reaches out a hand towards his face, and he recoils, heart beating wild and almost in a panic, though that can't make sense. He grips her arm with his other hand and breaks it. She seems to scream, cradles the arm close. She's still staring. And then he understands. The Beast. It must be here with him, at his back. He can feel it now, too, its claws in his veins, its weight on his back, on his shoulders. Has it been here the whole time? Has he never noticed before?
On instinct, he flinches, curls his shoulders over his chest protectively. He whips his head around, ready and not ready to stare into the white abyss of its needle white teeth, its black-red eyes, and he finds –
nothing.
There is nothing, behind him. Nothing, on his back. Nothing, sitting on his shoulders.
He turns back around, stares down at his kill. She's staring back. Staring at him.
The Beast. It's him.
He staggers to his feet, away from her. She's still looking at him, her mouth forming that one word. He wants her to stop looking at him. He wants to get away from here. He wants –
A sharp pain tears through his head, his guts. He sways, is almost forced down to his knees by the agony of it. When his vision comes back to him, his focus going in and out, his kill has come closer to him, her broken arm pressed close to her chest. She's reaching for him again, and he is terrified.
He scrambles through the window and down the stairs. Halfway to ground level, he is gripped by the dogs and dragged the last of the way down by force. The colors fly at him before his feet have even found purchase on the ground, and they move, and then they're back.
He lets the Bone fall down to the ground before he's even commanded to give it back. The dogs let go of his arms and immediately his knees hit the ground hard. The Singer's voice is angry, but there's nothing except ringing in his ears and pain behind his eyes. He's vomiting, and it looks black through the tears in his vision and burns in his nose and throat. It blocks his air and he feels panic fill his chest. A stab of pain that's like hot iron zaps through his guts, and his bladder lets go, soaking his jeans. Through the haze of pain and sickness, he feels the back of his neck and his cheeks heat with something he hasn't been able to feel in a long time.
Shame.
And an anger that burns even hotter than the black disease he's still spitting onto the leaves.
>
After the failed kill, he gets very sick.
Unable to stand anymore, he leans up against one of the walls, barely moves around. Breathes flatly. He still sometimes vomits up the black stuff, but he can feel there's still some of it left in him. Doesn't know how to force it out. Why did he ever let this get inside of him?
He has a fever again, but it's not like the other ones. Not like the ones that took him high and made him feel like he was burning up with energy. This one makes him weak and shaky. He is drenched in sweat and then freezing from one moment to the next. He actually sleeps now, but he has strange and frightening dreams. He sees a man lying on a white bed, and another man getting stabbed through the chest. And he sees his last, failed, kill in his dreams. But she looks different, the room she's in looks different. She's smiling, laughing.
Now that he knows the Beast isn't really here, he almost feels more lonely for it. Sometimes, when he startles out of some of his dreams, he still thinks he feels its razors and its weight at his back. But if he himself is the Beast – then yes, of course it's here. It's been here the whole time.
When he can draw the breath for it, he hums the three notes to himself. He thinks he once had a picture of the person who sang this to him. He wishes desperately to get the chance to see it again.
Finally, the Singer has two teeth drag him out of the hole. The light feels like it blinds him. After the cold water, he's shaking so hard they have to yank him up and walk him to the room he's supposed to get to. There, the Singer is waiting for him. To the side, there's a strange bed with wheels. It's bare and very white. He doesn't like it.
The Singer assesses him for a moment, eyes cold. Then gestures at the bed, “Down.”
He swallows, fear climbing up his throat. But he is still too weak to disobey. The teeth let him go, and he staggers and limps towards the bed. He lies down, his heart hammering away. Feels his cheeks heat further at the way the Singer's face scrunches up in disgust when he steps close to him. The Singer is wearing white gloves, and he can't help the shiver when they touch the skin of his wrist. His right arm is stretched out and strapped with leather bounds to a pad at the side of the bed. His shirtsleeve is rucked up, so that the burn on the inside of his arm is visible. He hasn't seen it in a long time.
It's burning red and angry. The veins around it crawl black like snakes, all the way down to his wrist and up towards his shoulder.
The Singer stares at it critically for a moment, then turns to the side and picks up a scalpel. He fights to stay still and pliant, even while panic climbs up his throat. A stretch of skin on his right arm is pulled taught, and a long cut is made. It's all he can do not to hiss and make a fist with his hand. He can feel the blood run down his arm, can hear it drop onto the floor. He stares at the cut. It's his right arm. But the cut doesn't heal.
The Singer sighs, straps off the gloves. “Seems like you need some more 'recovery' time.”
He lies still while the leather straps are removed from his arm, but his mind is racing. If he's put back in the hole and left there, he is only going to grow even weaker. The punishments are going to come back, and the emptiness, and the commands. He has to get the Singer to take him outside again, and soon.
His arm is free, and the Singer motions for the teeth standing motionless beside the door to pick him up again. He reaches out a shaking hand and tugs lightly at the Singer's white coat. The Singer stops, stares down at him in surprise. But that could turn into anger and suspicion if he isn't careful. He takes a breath, opens his mouth and coughs to clear his throat. His voice still sounds scratchy and wretched when he forces out, “I can – be good. Need to k-kill. No confusion.”
He lets his hand fall away, tries to keep his face blank and his body still. The Singer is watching him, hesitating.
Finally, there's a chuckle, and a hand patting his side. “How about something nice and easy then, hm? You'll be a good boy and we can do that.”
>
It takes what feels like several days until the Singer comes for him again. He sleeps fitfully, and the fever never quite leaves. Sometimes, he can feel the black stuff churn around in his insides. There's food for him several times, but he knows now that it's a test. He is desperately hungry for it, but he has to convince the Singer that he's hungry for something else.
Instead, he tries frantically to stitch over the fractures in his mind. He needs to be as strong as possible if he wants to override the commands he'll be given. He steers clear away from the wounds he can feel festering, the gaps in his mind that he fears might cost him the last of his sanity if he prods at them now. He tries to focus on the things he'd already begun to remember – the scenes he's seen in his dreams, at least the ones that he doesn't hope were nightmares.
The man on the bed, and the other man that was stabbed – they were the ones on the bridge. He can see their faces now. He still can't remember their names.
On the bridge, before he walked away – they were angry with him. He had done something, something terrible. Is that why he is here? Is this his punishment?
He grits his teeth against the thought, fights back his tears. He has to find these people, has to ask. To do that, he has to get away from here.
His arm burns, aches. He tries not to move it, not to touch it. The bridge. One of the men, he was taller, brown hair falling into his face. He feels like he was supposed to protect this one. He must have failed, and that's why they were angry with him.
The other one was standing farther away from him. Strangely, he feels like that man used to protect him.
He curls into himself against the wall, presses his left hand over his heart. He can't think about what will happen if he survives disobeying, and finds them again, and they don't want him anymore.
He closes his eyes, and hums the notes, and clings to the bridge.
>
The Singer comes for him, and light floods the dark he's crouched in. He tells himself that it will be the last time.
His legs are unsteady, but he forces them forward. He can't appear weak now. He keeps his shoulders straight and his expression blank when he's pushed under the water, walks doggedly down the hallways. And finally, outside.
It's morning, bright and blue. He takes hope from it, tries not to let it show.
The Singer is smiling at him, benevolent. It's turning his guts, even while the Singer's Song forces him forward. His skin is crawling with anxiety, but he manages to keep his gaze on the Singer. Either way, it's gonna be over soon.
The Singer pats his cheek. “Now, let's see if we have learned from our mistakes. Down!”
He sinks to his knees. Closes his eyes. “Good boy.”
The hand is put on his forehead and he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, his heart beating away in terror.
The grip on his mind is instant and brutal, intrusive. He knows he needs to let it in to sever his link with it, but he can feel his resolve waning, his thoughts dissolving, the pain blinding –
The people on the bridge. He knows them. Their names –
The grips gets more insistent. He can't help the gasp, his hands turning into fists.
“Now, be a good doggy.”
The bridge. Sam and Cas.
His eyes fly open, and through the thunderstorm in his head, he forces out a single word.
“No.”
The Singer freezes against him, and he puts all the force he has in himself to throw him out of his head. He is not obey. He is –
He gets a hold of the Singer's hand before it can draw away from him, stares him right in the eyes. The Singer's – Magnus' – eyes widen in fear. He pushes upwards, snags the Bone – the First Blade – out of his hands.
“My name,” – he growls, “is Dean.”
He is shaking, can barely keep his vision focused, but he surges forward with all of his strength and buries the Blade in Magnus' chest.
Blood gurgles up Magnus' throat, runs sideways out of his mouth. His eyes turn skyward and he collapses.
Dean staggers backwards, tries to remain standing but then crashes to the ground. His head is swimming, images and sounds and memories rushing at him faster than he can handle. His arm is pure agony. Gritting his teeth, he crawls forward and retrieves the Blade from Magnus' chest with his left hand. He forces himself onto his knees, panting and barely able to see. But he holds the Blade with both of his hands, and he concentrates again, concentrates on the 'No', and breaks the Blade clean through.
The burn – the Mark of Cain – on his arm roars up like someone just cut into his own bones, and more black forces its way up his throat. Distantly, he hears screaming, and then nothing more.