Scream, baby. (Sam/Dean, Dean/Alastair, NC-17)
Title: Scream, baby.
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Sam/Dean, Dean/Alastair
Word count: ~1,700
Warnings: bottom!Dean, dub-con, blood play, abuse, hurt!Dean
Summary: The four times Dean felt broken.
One: John - Sam’s ran away to Flagstaff.
He always says sorry. Always.
After his knuckles were bruised and painted red, after he’d drowned himself in whatever alcohol they had in the motel, after he left either Sam or Dean (and sometimes both) on the ground with another contusion forming -- he always apologizes. Mutters out a weak ‘S’rry, I’m s’ s’orry’ as he backs away from them, covering his face like it’s never happened before. But this time, at least Dean knew it was coming.
Sam ran away. Just up and left, leaving Dean to feel the full wrath of their father.
The door slammed shut so quick the windows shook and John marched, so cleanly and Military-like, right until he was chest to chest with Dean. His top lip was curling, and it only did that when he was about to lose it. At his sides, his hands were forming fists -- boulders, that were about to become really familiar with Dean once again.
“You lost him?!” he shouted and his breath reeked of Whiskey from the cabinet and beer from the bar down the street. He barked, “The one thing I told you to do, and you fucked it up!”
And his hands grip Dean’s shoulders and slam him against the wall. He should be worried about the neighboring rooms hearing them, John should. But he’d probably kill anyone who dared to knock on their door in the next fifteen minutes.
Now, Dean was a strong kid. Confident, sometimes too confident. But his father was the only person who could make him feel three years old again and scared stiff. He was the only person that could make Dean’s heart jump in his throat and threaten to suffocate him right then and there.
A heavy fist met his eye and Dean’s head flung to the side. He could feel the sting of the hit, tanning his skin, and the blood clotting and settling under his skin for a pretty shiner in about ten minutes. Instinctively, he put his hands up, caught his father’s wrist, but he didn’t stand a chance.
Let it be known that John -- on any given day -- can kick Dean’s ass forty different ways, and make him scream for mercy in fifty.
Then he’s met by a knockout punch to the stomach that cripples him for a minute, bends him over, and freezes all air in and around his body. He gasps, but it hurts too much, so he holds his breath instead. John catches him again, right on the side of his face and it sends him to the ground, still clutching his abdomen.
And that’s where Dean thinks maybe this is what he deserves. He let Sam get away; God only knows if he’s even alive right now. So maybe all of this is Dean’s fault. Maybe John’s not over-punishing him, but maybe he’s not punishing-him enough. Dean cares about Sam more than anyone, and he just let him slip right through his fingers like water. And now his gone. He’s gone and his is Dean’s fault.
John mumbling something under his breath as he delivers another punch to Dean -- and then two more, and another for just for good measure and it leaves Dean woozy, drunk almost, and seeing dots of black cloud his vision.
He sees John’s feet turning away…
Sees his dad take another drink…
Sees Dad heading back to him…
Sees….nothing…
And it’s then when Dean’s left unconscious that John lifts him, carrying him like a baby, back to the bed that he and Sam share. He surveys the bruises on his body, and guilt rushes over him -- just like it should. He stands, heads to the freezer, and gets the frozen bag of French fries and presses it to the side of Dean’s face.
He knows it doesn’t make up for anything, definitely not this, but he whispers, “’M sorry, son,” into Dean’s hair as he adjusts the bag on Dean’s face, and presses his nose into Dean’s hair.
Two: Sam ; Sam/Dean - 13 hrs pre-Swan Song.
They’re lying next to each other trying to convince themselves, in some twisted way, that everything’s going to be okay. They’re staring at the ceiling, because they can’t bare to look at each other, and it hurts. It hurts too fucking much, because they don’t have much time left.
Tomorrow, in about thirteen hours, Sam’s going to be gone -- down somewhere with the Devil, and he’s doing it all for Dean. Doing it because he can’t let Dean die, even if they means letting himself die. He doesn’t care. Dean before everyone, right?
So he turns himself, Dean does, and makes himself face Sam. And even though it hurts, he traces his jaw line with his finger, shuddering because he doesn’t have much time left to feel how soft his skin is. Sam stiffens, his mouth drops, and he says something too quiet for Dean to hear, but if he had to take a guess, he’d swear it sounded like ‘I love you’.
Dean sits up, positions himself on top of Sam and just stares at him, stares and stares until his outline is branded into the back of his mind. And Sam’s looking every way but into Dean’s eyes because neither of them are sure if they can bear it. Sam’s eyes cloud, tears were thick and heavy, and he doesn’t even bother wiping them away . So Dean does it for him. Slow movements of his thumb that brush over Sam’s cheek and smear the tear into his skin.
Dean leans forward, catches Sam’s mouth with his and sigh right against Sam’s lips. He smears his mouth across Sam’s and then works his way toward his neck where he halts.
“I’m gonna fix this,” Dean promises, and if he believed in God, he’d swear to him. Dean pets the side of Sam’s head, carding through his hair, and under him he could feel Sam shaking. But he nods, believing in Dean like no one’s ever believed before. Dean can’t fix this, he knew that. But Sam can’t allow himself to lose faith in his brother.
Sam’s arms wrap around his back, flattening Dean against himself and their breathing becomes unison. Dean inhaling what Sam exhaled, and he could swear he felt Sam living in him, and in that second he knew just what he felt like to be a hero.
Three: Dark Side of the Mood, Coda.
“Thank you, Sam, I love it,” is what he said. And it was true. Probably the truest thing he’s said to anyone -- ever. It’s was heavy, brass, and it was Dean’s. On a black string about two times the size of his head, and it was Dean’s.
They always said that Heaven is supposed to bring peace, not corruption. Shame that it was the exact opposite for Dean. Heaven had told Dean all the things he didn’t want to hear. Showed him in more ways than one that maybe Sam is happier without him. Heaven showed him that’s he’s alone, always been alone, and will stay alone.
But Dean doesn’t want to be alone.
And when they came back, the first thing he did was reach for the amulet, yanked it off his neck and just stared.
“Dean?” Sam had question, confused sure, but he had to see this coming.
In his hand, Dean looked over the necklace and he had thoughts, flashbacks, of all the times he’d spent with Sam -- good and bad, didn’t matter. And then he thinks that maybe, all those times, all those laughs and tears and togetherness was all one-sided. Dean, not once, wanted to be with anyone but Sam. But apparently, Sam didn’t feel the same.
And when he dropped the amulet in the garbage, taking all those memories with it, he didn’t even blink. He let himself go numb, because the pain he felt was too much to deal with. He heard the clink of it hitting the bottom and the trash can and the crack of his heart. But that didn’t stop him.
All he had -- all that he and Sam had -- was gone.
Four: Dean/Alastair
“Just relax,” he had said and his words crept up Dean’s neck and made him nauseous. His hands slid down his body smearing blood and sweat across his midsection and down his sides. He feels Alastair dig into his thighs and he’s sure he broke skin.
He comes up, hovering over Dean’s face before dropping. And his lips smother Dean’s biting, licking, panting against him. Dean turns away, he always does, but Alastair takes hold of his chin, digs his fingernails into the hinges of Dean’s jaw, and keeps him in place.
“It’ll hurt less if you stop fighting,” Alastair says like he’s saying something simple like ‘Wash your hands before dinner’.
He sits back, knife in hand and runs it over Dean’s skin. Over his arms, across his chest and then down the center of his stomach painfully slow.
“Here?” he says tauntingly in a soft, slow voice and he digs the knife in a little more, but doesn’t cut him. “Or maybe here?”
And Dean’s holding his breath because he knows that one quick inhale and that knife is going straight though his skin like it did yesterday. It doesn’t matter though, Alastair digs the tip in his side, smiles as blood oozes out and the lays his tongue over the area, licking it clean.
Alastair drops the knife, positions himself, and enters Dean forcefully. So quick, his eyes tear up and his loses his breath.
“There, there,” the man mutters, ghosting his hand across Dean’s lips, tracing the lines in his abs and finally settling, gripping the base of his cock and stroking slower and slower until Dean has no choice but to buck into the hand. And Alastair smiles and filthy, satisfied smile.
He leans forward, kissing Dean’s earlobe, and mutters to him, “Good boy; very good boy.”