A knot-work of pain
Title: A knot-work of pain
Author: falling_dominos
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Dean/Alistair
Disclaimer: I don't own this lovely couple. That honor goes to Kripke and the CW. Sadly.
Warnings: Scar worship, torture, blood play, hard D/s or Stockholm Syndrome
Notes: Written for the ever lovely, SecondPlatypus and her list of kinks Here that need filling. I saw Scar Worship and thought of my OTP and realized just how much I've missed my little happy couple. This begged to be written so here it is. Just for you Meggles. Enjoy.
Dean never wore a shirt when he worked. Alistair forbid it. Alistair told him that it covered what he'd given his pupil and covering the intricate scar-gifts that criss-crossed Dean's back, chest, and encircled his neck would show that he didn't appreciate them. That he didn't want them. Alistair did not suffer ungratefulness under his tutelage.
"Dean, if you don't want the responsibility, I can always just put you back on the rack..."
Dean always declined the offer to go back on the rack. He always shivered as Alistair traced the knot work of scars with the edge of a blade, or a claw. Everyday he added a little bit more. The pain was nothing compared to what Dean was used to on the rack, so he didn't mind. Seeing the way Alistair's eyes danced along the lines dug into his body with more than just appreciation behind them also gave him power over the demon. No matter what...Alistair's pleasure was a tool Dean could use somehow.
"Never want what you cannot take, because if you do...someone will surely exploit that need. Like me with you, Dean."
The Master's voice echoed inside Dean's brain like he had a speaker implanted there that filled his head with Alistair’s droning voice. It sounded like a mass of flies mixed with snapping bone and a hint of a language that had been dead long before Egypt was ever a bunch of tribes fighting over who got the best plot of land. The protege to the Master did enjoy looking at the scars when they were healed and clean...they marked him special,separate even from the demons who apparently had to wait years to get in with Alistair. It took real desire to scar up in hell, a very distinct amount of will and loyalty were needed. Dean had both in spades.
“Dean, you must be gentle when you work with the wrists, if you sever too deeply, they won't feel it.”
The scarring process had taken days, the tool Alistair used to cut deep channels into Dean's flesh had made the human scream, but never once did he thrash against the tool. He wanted this. Wanted to belong so desperately only to the Master, not to just any demon, but the Master himself. So great was the desire that Alistair hadn't even needed to chain him to the table. His touch brought pain, no matter how gentle, but such was Alistair's burden. He could not give comfort any longer, so he gave Dean something that he could mix with the pain easily. Pride. Self-Worth. Something visual to remind Dean that he meant something here. Meant something to Alistair.
“You did well. I am proud.”
No one even on earth had given his boy that, and if Alistair could ever think of a reason he would willingly leave Hell for, it was to go and round up every last soul that had caused his boy to writhe inside with sorrow or self-loathing and allow Dean to rip them to pieces for all eternity. While Alistair had exploited those weaknesses on the rack to break his boy down, he never once used that against him while he was training. There were punishments if Dean did not perform, and praise if he did. Punishments came in the forms of more training, a day on the rack, or perhaps a day with nothing to do and no where to go. Praise came in the form of words, and brutal body modification so just a little bit more of him belonged only to Alistair.
“You are mine, Dean. Mine. This pain? Embrace it.”
Alistair who knew him best, and who loved him. The scars proved it.
“I know you, inside and out Dean. Now, come here and let me show you.”
The Demon worked around the scars from Dean's human days, the ones that marked him as a hunter in life. In fact, Alistair marked Dean so that these old and faded scars looked more pronounced amongst the coiling mass of depressions that accented Dean's skin, pulling it into channels where blood could flow down his body. Rivers of blood that caught the light and turned his boy into a work of visceral beauty, glorious in his art, surrounded by suffering.
“Beautiful. Depraved.”
At the end of each day of work, after the tools had been cleaned and Dean's artwork added to, Alistair would lovingly lick each depression clean, trailing a wicked, long forked tongue along each scar, the texture like rough grit sandpaper, tearing some of Dean new, mixing his blood with the blood that coated him. Alistair liked that best.
Author: falling_dominos
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Dean/Alistair
Disclaimer: I don't own this lovely couple. That honor goes to Kripke and the CW. Sadly.
Warnings: Scar worship, torture, blood play, hard D/s or Stockholm Syndrome
Notes: Written for the ever lovely, SecondPlatypus and her list of kinks Here that need filling. I saw Scar Worship and thought of my OTP and realized just how much I've missed my little happy couple. This begged to be written so here it is. Just for you Meggles. Enjoy.
Dean never wore a shirt when he worked. Alistair forbid it. Alistair told him that it covered what he'd given his pupil and covering the intricate scar-gifts that criss-crossed Dean's back, chest, and encircled his neck would show that he didn't appreciate them. That he didn't want them. Alistair did not suffer ungratefulness under his tutelage.
"Dean, if you don't want the responsibility, I can always just put you back on the rack..."
Dean always declined the offer to go back on the rack. He always shivered as Alistair traced the knot work of scars with the edge of a blade, or a claw. Everyday he added a little bit more. The pain was nothing compared to what Dean was used to on the rack, so he didn't mind. Seeing the way Alistair's eyes danced along the lines dug into his body with more than just appreciation behind them also gave him power over the demon. No matter what...Alistair's pleasure was a tool Dean could use somehow.
"Never want what you cannot take, because if you do...someone will surely exploit that need. Like me with you, Dean."
The Master's voice echoed inside Dean's brain like he had a speaker implanted there that filled his head with Alistair’s droning voice. It sounded like a mass of flies mixed with snapping bone and a hint of a language that had been dead long before Egypt was ever a bunch of tribes fighting over who got the best plot of land. The protege to the Master did enjoy looking at the scars when they were healed and clean...they marked him special,separate even from the demons who apparently had to wait years to get in with Alistair. It took real desire to scar up in hell, a very distinct amount of will and loyalty were needed. Dean had both in spades.
“Dean, you must be gentle when you work with the wrists, if you sever too deeply, they won't feel it.”
The scarring process had taken days, the tool Alistair used to cut deep channels into Dean's flesh had made the human scream, but never once did he thrash against the tool. He wanted this. Wanted to belong so desperately only to the Master, not to just any demon, but the Master himself. So great was the desire that Alistair hadn't even needed to chain him to the table. His touch brought pain, no matter how gentle, but such was Alistair's burden. He could not give comfort any longer, so he gave Dean something that he could mix with the pain easily. Pride. Self-Worth. Something visual to remind Dean that he meant something here. Meant something to Alistair.
“You did well. I am proud.”
No one even on earth had given his boy that, and if Alistair could ever think of a reason he would willingly leave Hell for, it was to go and round up every last soul that had caused his boy to writhe inside with sorrow or self-loathing and allow Dean to rip them to pieces for all eternity. While Alistair had exploited those weaknesses on the rack to break his boy down, he never once used that against him while he was training. There were punishments if Dean did not perform, and praise if he did. Punishments came in the forms of more training, a day on the rack, or perhaps a day with nothing to do and no where to go. Praise came in the form of words, and brutal body modification so just a little bit more of him belonged only to Alistair.
“You are mine, Dean. Mine. This pain? Embrace it.”
Alistair who knew him best, and who loved him. The scars proved it.
“I know you, inside and out Dean. Now, come here and let me show you.”
The Demon worked around the scars from Dean's human days, the ones that marked him as a hunter in life. In fact, Alistair marked Dean so that these old and faded scars looked more pronounced amongst the coiling mass of depressions that accented Dean's skin, pulling it into channels where blood could flow down his body. Rivers of blood that caught the light and turned his boy into a work of visceral beauty, glorious in his art, surrounded by suffering.
“Beautiful. Depraved.”
At the end of each day of work, after the tools had been cleaned and Dean's artwork added to, Alistair would lovingly lick each depression clean, trailing a wicked, long forked tongue along each scar, the texture like rough grit sandpaper, tearing some of Dean new, mixing his blood with the blood that coated him. Alistair liked that best.