fic: MMOM #22: In a World of Untrue Things (Alastair/Dean, Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel)
Title: In a World of Untrue Things
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Alastair/Dean, Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Some wee!Dean in Hell and Alastair.
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Sam, Dean, Alastair and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 1350
Notes: I need more pairings slashes. Dean/everyone. Cut-line from Songs:Ohia. (Finally, my favorite Jensen-y song ends up in a fic.)
On his 12,000th day in Hell, Dean spent it like he had spent so many other days - smoking, torture, sex, and nothing to do.
Alastair and Dean were sharing a cigarette. Days like this (or was it weeks?) Alastair would sit for hours and touch a hot match to each of Dean’s freckles, starting with his arms. He would blow on the tiny shining welts, leaning over Dean as he lay on his back.
Dean would stare at the emptiness and imagine it was night. They loved to make him young, through he grew to be 50, 60, 70 here. Dean didn’t care anymore that none of it was true. No one and nothing was good. Blood was the best, only release. Alastair was right, he was right in what he said.
Alastair was the only true thing in this place.
And Dean had never felt so much attention. Alastair could touch him so deep - places no one else had even thought to look. Places they hadn’t looked at all.
Alastair had spent 30 years looking - his lifetime, once over again. He made him young, and new, and thoughtless. He traced new paths across his body with his finger, his teeth, his cock. He would bend Dean over on his back, the blood rushing to his chest and face - red, needing - and hold the back of each pale white thigh in each of his hands, press down, and press in and in and in.
He would watch, and he would make Dean watch, as he squeezed himself into his tight hole. It didn’t matter how long or how much or what Dean could or couldn’t take. It was Hell, and there were no limits to anything, and the only thing that felt good was the bleeding, and Dean’s bleeding under Alastair was the best kind.
It was slow bleeding, the kind that started with a burn. The burn would turn sweet after awhile, and there was always time with Alastair.
Alastair who was like a giant in Hell, his tall pale body, his bones poking against his flesh, like some inbred king. Alastair with so much strength and power he could hold his hand above Dean’s chest and immobilize him with a thought, spread Dean open and fill him up with his come, his hand, his microscope, his telescope.
Alastair who would choke him until he passed out, one hand wrapped around a neck that might as well have been a bird’s. He would still be there when Dean woke up with nerves severed, wounds cauterized, already bleeding and ready for more.
Alastair who would hold his neck while Dean pulled on his sex, like he had done so many years ago on this familiar boy’s body, and slowly lift him up off the floor and back again, up and back, his back against the cold wall, his legs splayed out in front of him, his head rolling like a ball against Alastair’s hand.
Alastair who would do the same with Dean sitting on his sex, gripping and holding and pulling on the boy’s neck, like an extension of his cock, the boy’s whole body wrapped around him tight as he lifted him up and up. Alastair arching his back and curling upwards, using his whole body weight to thrust his cock and squeeze into Dean. Until the blood was just right. Until Dean burst a vessel in his eye and stared into the black with a glassy redness. Until Dean stopped breathing and Alastair gripped his neck hard and pushed his body down over and over again.
Alastair came to him every day, and he was so true.
Even when Alastair returned to him, a captive of the angels. When Alastair held him by the throat, over that broken devil’s trap, surrounded by magic and lies, Dean felt the truth of the moment. It was a fate he deserved.
Then Castiel was there to save him from his fate again. And Sam.
Sam had limits and boundaries and rules for everything. Sam wanted him just so, the right way, the most perfect way. Because this world needed it.
Sam wanted control; he needed Dean to give it to him in order to survive. Dean who was good at giving everything he had to Sam. Because Sam had been the one true thing, his whole world.
Sam wanted him more when he was missing the blood. Sam fucked him hard, Dean’s face pressing deep in the pillow. Sam was no longer gentle. Dean noticed. He noticed these things.
Sam had wanted him the most when he was dead. Sometimes Dean thought he could feel the physical separation his brother had created in his absence, a corner of his mind forever safe from Dean where he imagined a perfect world despite the cost. A place where Dean was forever there and waiting for him. A kind of faith.
Sam was truer to this world than he was. Sam could have gotten away once. He had tried, anyway. Dean could travel to the edges of Heaven and Hell and he would never get away.
The world was full of magic, and the magic was against them.
Sam held his hands against Dean’s throat and squeezed, and he’d wanted to let go then, once and for all. Let the magic take him, like it had already taken his family, and be done.
Sam knew the truth; he remembered who they were. There would be no end, and Sam would always come back, because Dean would always come for him.
Not even the angels could keep him away.
In the Heaven room, Dean is sucking on Castiel’s sex so hard the angel cries out. Every mirror in the room breaks, but Dean does not stop. His ears begin to bleed, but Dean does not stop.
He wants to hang on to Castiel forever. He never wanted to lose another thing, and sometimes Castiel already felt lost to him.
His immortal guardian angel, so fragile sometimes, so flawed. And when had he known anything different? There is no perfection in Heaven, Hell, or on earth. His expectations, built on deceit, built on the veils of the world being stripped away one by one, were never quite enough to prepare him. There was always further to fall.
He thinks of this, every time he looks at Castiel. Angels fall so easily, living in that state of denial they call faith. They can manipulate the world like the workings of a clock and yet be utterly lost inside of it if they have any sense of what the world really was.
Castiel knew the world better than he thought. Dean understood that feeling well. The more he knew, the less he wanted to. That’s what it was like with Castiel - learning the truth that will leave you forever free and forever alone, as if they were one and the same.
They moved in fits and starts, wings tied, hands tied, rough barks and no master. Theirs was a forever back and forth between knowing better and not wanting to know at all. Between righteousness and ignorance. Like an extension of Alastair, or of Sam - the one true thing that lies to you the best.
They only made sense when they were reaching through each other’s bodies, searching for a truth they never would have believed in, in a world they were absolutely alone in.
And Alastair had asked him, “Is there a reason I should not have you?” Alastair, blowing smoke against his long, long fingers and kissing the world away like a magician.
The loneliest magician in Hell, the demon with flawless taste.
And like the time Sam had asked him, “Will you promise me you’ll kill me?” Sam, drunk on the motel room floor, sweating and desperate. The brother he had been racing towards death with their whole lives.
And like the time Castiel had asked him, “Do you have faith, Dean?” Castiel, knowing where every second with Dean was going to lead him.
Dean had no answer besides being there.
The End
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Alastair/Dean, Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Some wee!Dean in Hell and Alastair.
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Sam, Dean, Alastair and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 1350
Notes: I need more pairings slashes. Dean/everyone. Cut-line from Songs:Ohia. (Finally, my favorite Jensen-y song ends up in a fic.)
On his 12,000th day in Hell, Dean spent it like he had spent so many other days - smoking, torture, sex, and nothing to do.
Alastair and Dean were sharing a cigarette. Days like this (or was it weeks?) Alastair would sit for hours and touch a hot match to each of Dean’s freckles, starting with his arms. He would blow on the tiny shining welts, leaning over Dean as he lay on his back.
Dean would stare at the emptiness and imagine it was night. They loved to make him young, through he grew to be 50, 60, 70 here. Dean didn’t care anymore that none of it was true. No one and nothing was good. Blood was the best, only release. Alastair was right, he was right in what he said.
Alastair was the only true thing in this place.
And Dean had never felt so much attention. Alastair could touch him so deep - places no one else had even thought to look. Places they hadn’t looked at all.
Alastair had spent 30 years looking - his lifetime, once over again. He made him young, and new, and thoughtless. He traced new paths across his body with his finger, his teeth, his cock. He would bend Dean over on his back, the blood rushing to his chest and face - red, needing - and hold the back of each pale white thigh in each of his hands, press down, and press in and in and in.
He would watch, and he would make Dean watch, as he squeezed himself into his tight hole. It didn’t matter how long or how much or what Dean could or couldn’t take. It was Hell, and there were no limits to anything, and the only thing that felt good was the bleeding, and Dean’s bleeding under Alastair was the best kind.
It was slow bleeding, the kind that started with a burn. The burn would turn sweet after awhile, and there was always time with Alastair.
Alastair who was like a giant in Hell, his tall pale body, his bones poking against his flesh, like some inbred king. Alastair with so much strength and power he could hold his hand above Dean’s chest and immobilize him with a thought, spread Dean open and fill him up with his come, his hand, his microscope, his telescope.
Alastair who would choke him until he passed out, one hand wrapped around a neck that might as well have been a bird’s. He would still be there when Dean woke up with nerves severed, wounds cauterized, already bleeding and ready for more.
Alastair who would hold his neck while Dean pulled on his sex, like he had done so many years ago on this familiar boy’s body, and slowly lift him up off the floor and back again, up and back, his back against the cold wall, his legs splayed out in front of him, his head rolling like a ball against Alastair’s hand.
Alastair who would do the same with Dean sitting on his sex, gripping and holding and pulling on the boy’s neck, like an extension of his cock, the boy’s whole body wrapped around him tight as he lifted him up and up. Alastair arching his back and curling upwards, using his whole body weight to thrust his cock and squeeze into Dean. Until the blood was just right. Until Dean burst a vessel in his eye and stared into the black with a glassy redness. Until Dean stopped breathing and Alastair gripped his neck hard and pushed his body down over and over again.
Alastair came to him every day, and he was so true.
Even when Alastair returned to him, a captive of the angels. When Alastair held him by the throat, over that broken devil’s trap, surrounded by magic and lies, Dean felt the truth of the moment. It was a fate he deserved.
Then Castiel was there to save him from his fate again. And Sam.
Sam had limits and boundaries and rules for everything. Sam wanted him just so, the right way, the most perfect way. Because this world needed it.
Sam wanted control; he needed Dean to give it to him in order to survive. Dean who was good at giving everything he had to Sam. Because Sam had been the one true thing, his whole world.
Sam wanted him more when he was missing the blood. Sam fucked him hard, Dean’s face pressing deep in the pillow. Sam was no longer gentle. Dean noticed. He noticed these things.
Sam had wanted him the most when he was dead. Sometimes Dean thought he could feel the physical separation his brother had created in his absence, a corner of his mind forever safe from Dean where he imagined a perfect world despite the cost. A place where Dean was forever there and waiting for him. A kind of faith.
Sam was truer to this world than he was. Sam could have gotten away once. He had tried, anyway. Dean could travel to the edges of Heaven and Hell and he would never get away.
The world was full of magic, and the magic was against them.
Sam held his hands against Dean’s throat and squeezed, and he’d wanted to let go then, once and for all. Let the magic take him, like it had already taken his family, and be done.
Sam knew the truth; he remembered who they were. There would be no end, and Sam would always come back, because Dean would always come for him.
Not even the angels could keep him away.
In the Heaven room, Dean is sucking on Castiel’s sex so hard the angel cries out. Every mirror in the room breaks, but Dean does not stop. His ears begin to bleed, but Dean does not stop.
He wants to hang on to Castiel forever. He never wanted to lose another thing, and sometimes Castiel already felt lost to him.
His immortal guardian angel, so fragile sometimes, so flawed. And when had he known anything different? There is no perfection in Heaven, Hell, or on earth. His expectations, built on deceit, built on the veils of the world being stripped away one by one, were never quite enough to prepare him. There was always further to fall.
He thinks of this, every time he looks at Castiel. Angels fall so easily, living in that state of denial they call faith. They can manipulate the world like the workings of a clock and yet be utterly lost inside of it if they have any sense of what the world really was.
Castiel knew the world better than he thought. Dean understood that feeling well. The more he knew, the less he wanted to. That’s what it was like with Castiel - learning the truth that will leave you forever free and forever alone, as if they were one and the same.
They moved in fits and starts, wings tied, hands tied, rough barks and no master. Theirs was a forever back and forth between knowing better and not wanting to know at all. Between righteousness and ignorance. Like an extension of Alastair, or of Sam - the one true thing that lies to you the best.
They only made sense when they were reaching through each other’s bodies, searching for a truth they never would have believed in, in a world they were absolutely alone in.
And Alastair had asked him, “Is there a reason I should not have you?” Alastair, blowing smoke against his long, long fingers and kissing the world away like a magician.
The loneliest magician in Hell, the demon with flawless taste.
And like the time Sam had asked him, “Will you promise me you’ll kill me?” Sam, drunk on the motel room floor, sweating and desperate. The brother he had been racing towards death with their whole lives.
And like the time Castiel had asked him, “Do you have faith, Dean?” Castiel, knowing where every second with Dean was going to lead him.
Dean had no answer besides being there.
The End