soncnica | But The Storm Is A-Coming 'Cross The Hills Tonight 4/7

Title: But The Storm Is A-Coming 'Cross The Hills Tonight 4/7
Author: soncnica
Rating: R, G, idk
Genre/Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Wordcount: cca 1.900 this chapter
Summary: Jared is King Dean Morgan’s knight. He is the one the King calls for whenever torture or punishment has to be done and Jared’s expertise is whipping. Jensen is his next victim. Or is he?
Warnings: Gore, blood, whipping and all that goes along with that, mystery, magic, abuse of history and knighthood, angst?, NO character death, NO disfigurement, hurt!Jensen, h/c.
Disclaimer: I seriously only own the grammar/spelling mistakes. Everything else is NOT MINE! ALL IS FICTION. The title comes from a song called A bar in Amsterdam from the band KatzenJammer and does not belong to me.
A/N: I just wanted to write Jared whipping Jensen, is that so bad? Don’t answer that. And well, this is what I came up with. If you decide to read this story, just trust me, I know exactly where I’m going with this. Thank you! And yeah the story is finished and it has around 7 chapters, I'll try to post every few days.
Beta: The ever awesome

marlowe78</lj>.

CHAPTER 4

The handle of the whip was light in his hand, he thought it would be heavy; it was an object with which he’d cause pain, cause blood to boil out of the skin, it was an object that would push things in motion… but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt familiar like no other thing did, it was soothing as nothing else was, his hands were made for this, formed to cradle the whip like air cradles a bird.
His hands weren’t made for his sword, he found that out some time ago; his sword always felt too heavy and too long, but he was still good with it. Better than anyone he’d ever met. But this whip… this whip was his, unique, special, one that he himself brought to the castle.
One that King Dean Morgan knew nothing about, one that only Louis knew of but the man would never tell.

The sun was hot, the heat melting his skin and turning his hair into a wet mess… there was no wind, there was nothing that would chase away the smell of dead animals and rotten fruits and the rancid breaths of people who were waiting for him to start.

He gripped the whip tighter, checked its lash, checked that it was as smooth as it could be, checked his sword and its position, checked his mind… and breathed out.

The crowd was all murmurs and soft words now, and Jared knew that it was because it didn’t want to miss one crack the lash would make in the air, just before it would hit Jensen’s back.

Sick people, they were. Sick in their heads, sick in their minds, sick all over. Sick to go pray in Churches so corrupted, it made his teeth rot just thinking about it. Sick to find joy in watching other people beg for mercy and bleed until their death.

Sick.

But so was he, because help him God, he did enjoy this. Whip in his hand and a bare back to paint. Those cracks that could be heard in the air just before the lash hit skin… he loved it. He had been trained for it. Trained to be the best at this, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t flinch when a man screamed and a piece of flesh fell off his back.

But he couldn’t show what he felt to anyone. That’s what nights were for. Shaking and sweating in his bed, the sounds of crackcrackcrack in his head sometimes so loud he screamed just to shut them up.

He shook his head. No more of that from now on. From now on, he had other things to do. A better life to go to, a life that was meant for him from the start. A life where all of this… would be forgiven.

He looked at Jensen first, how his back rose up and down like he had just run a hundred miles, shaky shoulders and hands gripping the rope tight.

Hold on Jensen, just hold on.

Then he looked at his King who waved his hand and nodded once, giving a clear sign to start.

You’re going down King, you son of a bitch.

He nodded, looked back at the sun illuminated skin, drew back his hand and made the whip fly through the hot air with such speed that the lash was invisible in the sunlight.

Crack.

Jensen screamed even with the shirt tucked into his mouth, and Jared was sure that it was more from shock than pain. He hoped it was like that, because if it was pain, then Jensen would pass out sooner than would be… commendable.
He knew that the first lick of the whip on tensed skin doesn’t really hurt… it feels more like touching snow for too long… an icy pain that spreads all over you and leaves you breathless until the next lick of the whip.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Four quick strokes in and Jensen’s back was already red, but there was no blood yet. It just looked like a cat, big cat, had scratched him and left claw marks on his back.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Three more and blood started to bubble up to the surface, spilling out from the welts, running slowly down to the waistband of Jensen’s brown pants.

Crack.

Crack.

Blood started to drip onto the ground from places where the wounds were deeper; big drops of red liquid, a small stream running from a deep wound on his left shoulder blade.

Blood hit the ground. Spilling onto the sand. Jared was sure he felt the land tremble and shake; everything aligning into its place.

He released a breath he never knew he held… it was peace that enveloped him.

He could do this. He could finish this. He would finish this. For the sake of ‘em all.

Crack.

Ten strokes and Jensen’s back wasn’t pale anymore anywhere, his shoulders shaking, arms trembling, hands gripping the rope above his head that hung unmoving between his shoulders, but not a sound escaped his throat. Not even a whimper.

Good man, Jared through and cracked the whip twenty more times in quick succession, wanting to get over with this as soon as possible, because there was no way – this needing to be done or not - that he’d be able to stare at that perfect, freckled skin being torn to shreds for much longer.

Things were starting to fall into place… and he needed to finish this.
Now.

Crack.

And Jensen screamed when a piece of flesh got torn away and flew right off his back when Jared raised his whip back to get momentum for another stroke.

The symbols carved into the whip’s handle were burning at Jared’s palm, telling him itsalrightitsalrightitsalright you can do this, you can do this, you have to do this, you have to do this the runes pure magic flowing into his palm, up his arm and into his mind, reminding him that this wasn’t just anyone, that this was Jensen.

That this was his best friend.
That this was the hero that the old songs sung about, the songs written by poets who walked this land long before King Dean Morgan was a thought in his parent’s head.

That this was Jensen Ackles, the hero who would save them all. The hero whose blood needed to be spilled on the land by a man born of magic.

Crack.

And Jensen’s body sagged down, chest colliding with the stone fast and hard, a small grunt spilling from his lips. His body slid down the pillar like all strings had been cut. Knees giving in, shoulders stretching, back bleeding, torn to pieces.

Jensen… no…

He swallowed down the anger he felt at Jensen, because of the man giving up this soon. It was too soon, he thought that Jensen knew better, hid better in his head.
He sighed and put the whip slowly back on a wooden desk that had been placed at his right side. It was full of bird crap and in any other circumstances he’d tell Louis to get his job done better next time… but there would be no next time. Not anymore.

He took long steps towards Jensen, picking up a bucket of cold water along the way. He had poured water in the bucket himself and he knew that the water was clean and cool, that nothing in it would hurt Jensen in any way. He knew that no one tampered with it, that everyone avoided things that were his, because they didn’t want his anger be directed towards them.

They avoided him like plague.

He stopped before Jensen, his feet sinking into the sand surrounding the pillar and he could feel it hot and moving beneath his shoes. The land was woken up by the purity of Jensen’s blood. The land was becoming alive. Finally the dark ages would come to an end.

Finally.

Jensen’s back was a horrible display of blood and flesh, some places a small flash of bone could be seen and they still had thirty-eight strokes to go.

He breathed and ignored the sight. There was nothing he could do about it right then, absolutely nothing.

He raised the bucket high up…

‘m sorry…

… and poured the water over his friend’s head in a fast move, crashing onto Jensen’s sweaty hair like a waterfall, cascading down his front. He tried to avoid hitting Jensen’s back and he mostly succeeded, but there was still some of the water that hit the open skin, making Jensen wail.

Jared wanted to cut his ears off, because the sound was pure pain.

‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry…

But he couldn’t stop now, he couldn’t make the King suspicious, he couldn’t risk this falling apart just because of how he felt.

How he wished he could be in Jensen’s place. How he wished the magic in him would be stronger. How he wished the magic in the whip would make the whip stop touching Jensen’s skin… he wished for many things.

So he yelled: “Wake up!” because that was the only thing he could do.

Jensen groaned and blinked his eyes open when Jared gripped him by his hair and raised him up back into position, whispering: “Easy, easy, you’re doing great, just breathe.”

“Get on your feet!” he tugged at the hair, making Jensen stand up again, “Up!”

The crowd loved it, loved how he showed who the man with the power was, showed them how to take a person apart completely so that he wouldn’t be able to get back together again.

He let go of the man’s drenched hair: “Keep your head up!!” and walked back to his whip, the symbols on the handle glowing dark blue for his eyes only and he thought I know, I know.

Crack.

The symbols soothed him with it is going to be alright.

Jensen’s back wasn’t a back anymore, not really the way a human’s back was supposed to look like. It was flayed, red, fire red; heat was coming off of it in waves, like it sometimes did off of the land when the sun was angry to the extreme.

The pants that hung low on his hips were soaked with piss and blood that was already starting to harden in the heat of the afternoon sun. The sand around the pillar was splattered with tiny and big drops of blood and some flesh that had fallen down… and that was gonna be left there for the birds and the mice and the dogs to devour.

There was still a piece of flesh hanging on a loose thread from Jensen’s back and when Jared cracked the whip once more, that, too fell down to the ground.

The crowd went insane, people jumping up and down to see better, mothers trying to hide the eyes of their children, but the kids kept on pushing away those persistent hands let me see, mommy, let me see, could be heard from Jared’s left.

But his eyes were on his friend; nothing else existed but Jensen. His friend who screamed and screamed and screamed until he started choking and puked all over himself again, nothing but air and spit running from his mouth, and gagging noises that almost made Jared spin around and crack the whip in King Dean Morgan’s direction.

Crack.

Last one.

The very last one.

Sixty strokes.

And then a flaming arrow hit the top wooden part of the pillar, hitting the dragon right in its chest and the crowd started screaming a different tune.

CHAPTER 3 _II_ CHAPTER 5

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But The Storm Is A-Coming 'Cross The Hills Tonight 4/7

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