This is a deleted scene from a story vie_dangerouse and I wrote last March, "My Body is a Cage." We omitted it because it was too long and didn't nicely fit into our fic's timeline; it also introduced some themes we didn't particularly follow up on in subsequent scenes.
Title: off suit
Genre: character study, hurt/comfort, angst
Word Count: ~400
You wondered, once, what it would be like. Sharing your skin with some yellow-eyed sonuvabitch. While you were wondering, your brother carried you out of that shed. Your father, dragging one leg and still jittery with drugs, with demon smoke, with pain, carried you too.
All we need to do is make it to the door, Dean. We'll be okay. Just to the driveway, and we'll be good. Just a little further, to the car--that's Sam. For the first time in your life, your father has no orders for his little soldier. Instead he says, "Keep talking to him, Sam" and he says nothing, nothing at all to you. He wipes the blood from your lips, but you can't feel him. You're just a bundle of nerves in your chest where your heart should be, screaming with the aftershock of the demon's touch. It's like your blood's still leaping into his hands, begging to be let. By the time Sam says, "Just to the hospital. We'll find a hospital. We'll be-- you'll be--" you're already seeing the prophetic light. Heaven, if that's what it is, looks like a Peterbilt.
White floods the open sliver left by your drooping eyelids, metal moans, your insides rattle like poker chips (2-7 offsuit--you go all in you don't have a choice now you're really fucked----------)
When you wake up, you roll your eyes. Just a dream, then. Nightmare? hardly. Though sometimes, you think, your stupidity is horrifying. You know better than that.
Possession's a bitch: Meatsuits become monsters. Worse, you become a monster no one can trace. You do things no righteous man could ever manage, and you do them well. Your mouth whispers, "Trust me" and your hands are warm. Your insides are a black and caseous mess, and your lungs are filled with smoke.
It's all about economy, really; there are so many places a human never uses. Empty capacities for violence, cruelty. Vacancies with color television and a continental breakfast. Demons just fill in the blanks.
It will never happen to you, though. It has nothing to do with the brand on your chest, scarred over in places and fading in others. It's this simple: If a demon ever tried, there wouldn't be nearly room enough.
You wonder, one day, what would come out of your mouth if you tried to speak. Really speak. Would there be smoke?
You hope that Heaven smacks you going ninety before you ever have to find out.