SPNfic: Flattery On This Icy Slope
Title: Flattery On This Icy Slope
Pairings or Characters: Dean's POV. Mild Alistair/Dean but nothing explicit.
Length: ~970 words
Warnings: Hell. Dark themes are a given.
Summary: It's a special day. Alistair decides to celebrate.
Notes: Title taken from Dante's Inferno.
"I've got a present for you, Dean." Alistair's voice crones into his ear. He pools against Dean, shadow slick and cool, arms twining around Dean's chest and tugging him back slightly into the embrace.
Dean doesn't answer. He lets his hand fall in response and the soul quivering in front of him makes an aborted sound of relief as its screams die into whimpering, pathetic little sobs. Dean watches it dispassionately, taking in the rent skin and hitching noises coming from what was left of its throat.
"You know how I hate to interrupt your work," Alistair continues breezily, "but I did think you'd enjoy this."
The spirit flesh is already starting to knit back together again, but he thinks he'll get more of a response if he focuses more on the tendons rather than the muscles when he got back to it. Tiny cuts, like Alistair had shown him so many, many times, enough to strain without snapping, weaken without breaking.
"After all, it is a special day." There's a hint of amusement to Alistair's tone and Dean can't help but to glance upwards at it. He can feel the rush of satisfaction the demon has at being able to provoke a response. That he'd visibly reacted causes something deep inside of him to squirm, but it's too deeply ingrained in him at this point. There have been too many years where Alistair's glee had meant something new and dire for Dean.
There's a flash of silver in front of him and Dean knows his face doesn't change expression, but he can't help the slight flinch at the glint so close to his face. Behind him, Alistair's mood falls full on into smug.
It's a knife. A pretty, shining blade stretches out from a pale handle, ivory and silver coated umber and gold by the light. The blade of it looks wickedly sharp and Dean thinks he could etch his name into bone with something like that.
"It's for you," the demon purrs contently. "It's your anniversary, after all. One year today. I thought we should celebrate."
There are things carved onto the blade. Glyphs that squirm in the firelight, making his eyes ache. If he were still human, still pure, a glimpse probably would have blinded him.
But he's not human. And it's a damned fine blade.
Dean lets the one he'd been holding drop. It sizzles out of existence before it strikes the ground. He reaches instead for this new toy and finds the bone handle warm to the touch, the feel of it melting into his skin, almost melding with him. The sensation creeps up his arm, then into his chest, spreading out even beyond that until his core is practically vibrating with it.
Alistair hums, pleased, and Dean turns his attention back to the soul on the rack. Its gaping, eyeless face had already been partially melted away, the skin of its cheeks ripped open to show the rotting teeth within. That part hadn’t started to heal back up yet, being less crucial than the entrails currently puddled around their feet that were now slowly starting to slick their way back in place.
There are a remarkable amount of nerve endings in the jaw. It was just another thing to consider.
"You're not going to say 'thank you'?" Alistair didn't pout. He was never anywhere near so coy, not even at the beginning when he'd seen Dean's defiance as the best possible of games, back when Dean had been clueless and stupid and had thought he had known what pain was.
There’s a lingering tease in his voice though, a nasty promise that's still chilling. Dean wasn't on the rack anymore, but that didn't mean that he couldn't suffer. Alistair had been keen to disabuse him of that notion early on.
Dean gently edges the blade of the knife along the remaining skin of the soul's throat, trails it down slowly to let it feel the difference in tools. It couldn't see, but it sensed the upgrade readily enough. It began to babble at him in some language whose words Dean didn't understand, but then souls communicating directly with other souls tended to not need the middleman. The meaning of its pleas came across quite clearly.
Alistair's gaze focuses avidly as Dean makes his first incision. It took a moment for the blood to flow, rich and salty smelling over the sulfur. He didn't seem particularly disappointed by Dean's lack of verbalization. It couldn't have exactly came as a surprise; Dean didn't speak much these days.
Alistair had only ever wanted one word from him, anyway. Any others were just vapid amusements. Now that Dean had given him what he wanted, there really wasn't much point in talking.
There’s a flicker of wet heat along the slope of Dean's shoulder and a moment later heated breath brushes across his face. Dean stills his hand momentarily.
"Oh, keep going," the demon says fondly, "I'm sure you'll properly be able to express some form of gratitude eventually."
He roils his hips against Dean's back and the nip of teeth in the meat of Dean's flesh, sharp and piercing, follows a moment later. Dean swallows again and shoves the sensation away.
He'd had a year to get used to how things were now. How they were going to be for the rest of eternity. Thirty one years in total, but the first three decades didn't count. Alistair's clawed hand creeps down across his belly, stroking to find all the parts that still felt achingly vulnerable and exposed, even after so long without attack and Dean could sense the demon's excitement growing, lustful and heated.
He does his best to ignore it. When he reaches out his hand again, his new present gleaming, it doesn't even shake much at all.
Pairings or Characters: Dean's POV. Mild Alistair/Dean but nothing explicit.
Length: ~970 words
Warnings: Hell. Dark themes are a given.
Summary: It's a special day. Alistair decides to celebrate.
Notes: Title taken from Dante's Inferno.
"I've got a present for you, Dean." Alistair's voice crones into his ear. He pools against Dean, shadow slick and cool, arms twining around Dean's chest and tugging him back slightly into the embrace.
Dean doesn't answer. He lets his hand fall in response and the soul quivering in front of him makes an aborted sound of relief as its screams die into whimpering, pathetic little sobs. Dean watches it dispassionately, taking in the rent skin and hitching noises coming from what was left of its throat.
"You know how I hate to interrupt your work," Alistair continues breezily, "but I did think you'd enjoy this."
The spirit flesh is already starting to knit back together again, but he thinks he'll get more of a response if he focuses more on the tendons rather than the muscles when he got back to it. Tiny cuts, like Alistair had shown him so many, many times, enough to strain without snapping, weaken without breaking.
"After all, it is a special day." There's a hint of amusement to Alistair's tone and Dean can't help but to glance upwards at it. He can feel the rush of satisfaction the demon has at being able to provoke a response. That he'd visibly reacted causes something deep inside of him to squirm, but it's too deeply ingrained in him at this point. There have been too many years where Alistair's glee had meant something new and dire for Dean.
There's a flash of silver in front of him and Dean knows his face doesn't change expression, but he can't help the slight flinch at the glint so close to his face. Behind him, Alistair's mood falls full on into smug.
It's a knife. A pretty, shining blade stretches out from a pale handle, ivory and silver coated umber and gold by the light. The blade of it looks wickedly sharp and Dean thinks he could etch his name into bone with something like that.
"It's for you," the demon purrs contently. "It's your anniversary, after all. One year today. I thought we should celebrate."
There are things carved onto the blade. Glyphs that squirm in the firelight, making his eyes ache. If he were still human, still pure, a glimpse probably would have blinded him.
But he's not human. And it's a damned fine blade.
Dean lets the one he'd been holding drop. It sizzles out of existence before it strikes the ground. He reaches instead for this new toy and finds the bone handle warm to the touch, the feel of it melting into his skin, almost melding with him. The sensation creeps up his arm, then into his chest, spreading out even beyond that until his core is practically vibrating with it.
Alistair hums, pleased, and Dean turns his attention back to the soul on the rack. Its gaping, eyeless face had already been partially melted away, the skin of its cheeks ripped open to show the rotting teeth within. That part hadn’t started to heal back up yet, being less crucial than the entrails currently puddled around their feet that were now slowly starting to slick their way back in place.
There are a remarkable amount of nerve endings in the jaw. It was just another thing to consider.
"You're not going to say 'thank you'?" Alistair didn't pout. He was never anywhere near so coy, not even at the beginning when he'd seen Dean's defiance as the best possible of games, back when Dean had been clueless and stupid and had thought he had known what pain was.
There’s a lingering tease in his voice though, a nasty promise that's still chilling. Dean wasn't on the rack anymore, but that didn't mean that he couldn't suffer. Alistair had been keen to disabuse him of that notion early on.
Dean gently edges the blade of the knife along the remaining skin of the soul's throat, trails it down slowly to let it feel the difference in tools. It couldn't see, but it sensed the upgrade readily enough. It began to babble at him in some language whose words Dean didn't understand, but then souls communicating directly with other souls tended to not need the middleman. The meaning of its pleas came across quite clearly.
Alistair's gaze focuses avidly as Dean makes his first incision. It took a moment for the blood to flow, rich and salty smelling over the sulfur. He didn't seem particularly disappointed by Dean's lack of verbalization. It couldn't have exactly came as a surprise; Dean didn't speak much these days.
Alistair had only ever wanted one word from him, anyway. Any others were just vapid amusements. Now that Dean had given him what he wanted, there really wasn't much point in talking.
There’s a flicker of wet heat along the slope of Dean's shoulder and a moment later heated breath brushes across his face. Dean stills his hand momentarily.
"Oh, keep going," the demon says fondly, "I'm sure you'll properly be able to express some form of gratitude eventually."
He roils his hips against Dean's back and the nip of teeth in the meat of Dean's flesh, sharp and piercing, follows a moment later. Dean swallows again and shoves the sensation away.
He'd had a year to get used to how things were now. How they were going to be for the rest of eternity. Thirty one years in total, but the first three decades didn't count. Alistair's clawed hand creeps down across his belly, stroking to find all the parts that still felt achingly vulnerable and exposed, even after so long without attack and Dean could sense the demon's excitement growing, lustful and heated.
He does his best to ignore it. When he reaches out his hand again, his new present gleaming, it doesn't even shake much at all.