FIC: Snap
Title: Snap
Author: serotonin_storm
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Character/Pairing: Sam/Dean (unrequited), Dean/demon
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Word Count: 1274 words
Warnings: Extremely graphic violence and rape; Hell.
Summary: "They soothe him; they hush and they coo, and between one blink and the next, they are one. They are Sam."
Hell is a desolate field of the corpses whose bones protrude from rotting flesh at unnatural, jutting angles. It is skewed and twisted. It is a sense of wrongness so visceral that bile rises in your throat, and if you can, you avert your eyes, and you forget.
“Dean,” they whisper as the whips slice across the taunt skin of his back. “Dean,” they hiss, peeling the flesh from his shoulders inch by torturous inch, exposing his muscles, and he writhes on the stone slab, and he sobs violently, and he breaks so many times he doesn't know what's left that could possibly be shattered. But there's always something for them to bend and snap: always one last bone to break.
“Dean,” they soothe, these putrid things who wear their insides out for all to see, dead hearts sitting motionless in their chests. They soothe him; they hush and they coo, and between one blink and the next, they are one.
They are Sam.
Dean moans desperately. He hates this trick. The first time-well, the first time he'd believed, pathetically. Sam had stepped forward, whole and clean and beautiful, and Dean had said, “Fuck, Sammy, took you long enough.” Then demon wearing Sam's visage like a secondhand coat had smiled, reached for him and, as Dean's eyes had closed in relief, gutted him from chest to belly with his brother's hand.
“Dean, shhhh,” it says this time, stroking a hand over Dean's bloody back, and the searing pain there vanishes, lifted away as easily as if it had never been.
Dean lolls his head and tries to look back at it. This is new, unexpected, wrong. He has never been truly without pain since the first moment he'd opened his eyes to Hell. Not even when they heal him, a fresh canvas for them to paint however it amuses them.
“Oh, Dean.” It looks at him with Sam's sad eyes now, and Dean's lips pull back in a savage sneer.
“Use your own fuck-ugly body, you son of a bitch,” he coughs. It laughs as if he's told a wonderful joke and cups his cheek with one large hand, tracing Sam's thumb over his lips lovingly.
“You're so beautiful.”
“Can't exactly say I return the sentiments,” Dean taunts. The demon's grip tightens.
“You don't think I'm beautiful, Dean?” it says, cocking Sam's head.
He shuts his eyes and tries in vain to push his brother from his mind: Sam, throwing his head back in a laugh, eyes scrunched up happily. Sam, gritting his teeth and lunging forward to meet another blow, dripping with sweat. Sam, looking at Dean as if he were the world, instead of another stupid fuck-up who can't seem to get his head on straight.
“No,” he says, and he knows the demon can see the lie as clearly as if it had spewed from beneath his skin like blood gushing forth from a vein.
It says with a smile, “I think you do.”
There is a moment of near silence pierced by a distant wail, and then warm lips press against his. Dean's eyes snap open, and he struggles to get away even as he knows he'll never move an inch. Not unless they want to chase him.
It pulls back, and Dean spits in its face.
Wiping the saliva away with one hand, it scowls down at him, Sam's lips pinched in annoyance. “Why do you have to be like that, Dean?” it demands. “I try to do something nice for you and-I should have figured. I mean, I know how you are.”
“Shut. Up,” Dean hisses.
“You don't have to be so hostile.” It grins, teeth gleaming. “We both know how long you've wanted this. We've both known, ever since that very first moment. The very first time you looked at me and didn't see a brother. We know, don't we, Dean?”
“Sam doesn't know shit!”
“You know me better than that, Dean,” Sam-it says.
It presses forward again, gripping Dean's unscathed body tightly, tongue insistent against the barrier of Dean's lips. It strokes Dean's skin gently, and Dean can't help but sway into the touch, so pleasure starved and aching.
“That's good,” it says, pleased.
Dean jerks back, but it coaxes him forward again, turning him gently so that his back rests against the cold stone. It climbs up and straddles him. Dean turns his face away stubbornly, setting his jaw, but it pays him no mind, peppering kisses below his ear and down his neck, against his jugular.
Its hands slide down his body, touch feather light as it goes ever lower. Dean surges up, back bowed, when it wraps a hand around his limp cock, and he tries not to be sick with how good it feels after years of nothing but agony.
He is pathetic; he is nothing.
“That's it, Dean. There you go.” It strokes him, cruelly slow, and the muscles in Dean's stomach twitch with the effort he makes to keep from moving with it.
“Stop, stop, god, please stop,” he begs, and the demon flinches, Sam's eyes oil black, but never falters in its rhythm.
Dean comes, arching up off the slab, and something inside him that they'd never before managed to touch bleeds with it.
It holds out its hand. “Lick,” it orders. After a pause, Dean takes a finger tentatively into his mouth, eyes trained on the demon's face, and then bites down, a vicious clamp of his teeth. The sharp taste of blood meets his tongue, and the demon swears angrily and whips the hand away, then brings it back down with a crack against Dean's cheek.
“No one likes a biter, Dean.”
“Fuck you,” Dean grunts.
It bares its teeth and yanks Dean's head back by his hair, pulling so violently that a piece of Dean's scalp tears loose in its hand. Dean's body convulses as he screams.
“Yeah, don't think it's gonna happen that way, big brother,” it says, and it laughs at its own joke.
It pins Dean down by his shoulders, rutting against him in harsh jabs of its hips, Dean still sobbing in pain beneath it. It bites down on Dean's neck as it penetrates him, right where it had placed its soft kiss, sinks its teeth in and rips, the blood gushing hotly down Dean's chest, the pain so all-encompassing that Dean feels drowned in it, deprived of air.
“Shhh, shhh,” it sighs, thrusting, digging nails into Dean's chest that should be blunt and yet feel like knives.
It never stops, never arrives at completion, breaking Dean apart piece by piece as it goes, until he's a bloody, skinless thing like the demon would be if it weren't wearing his brother, until he's so pained he can't even move to get away, until he's so weak that he can't even open his mouth to scream.
His brother's skin melts off it as it comes, drips like candle wax to reveal the thing beneath it, the thing buried in Dean. It's laughing, howling, its head thrown back, and it kisses him once more, tasting foully of sulfur, and breaks apart into nothingness, into smoke.
Dean lies there when it's gone, filthy and deformed and broken, his chest rising high with each desperate gasp of air, too far gone to make any noise, unable to even close his eyes. Hell drips with blood all around him, so hot it boils, and he can't look away.
“So, Deano,” comes Alistair's voice, and Dean cannot turn his head to see it, but he'd known always that it had watched. “I have a question.”
Author: serotonin_storm
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Character/Pairing: Sam/Dean (unrequited), Dean/demon
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Word Count: 1274 words
Warnings: Extremely graphic violence and rape; Hell.
Summary: "They soothe him; they hush and they coo, and between one blink and the next, they are one. They are Sam."
Hell is a desolate field of the corpses whose bones protrude from rotting flesh at unnatural, jutting angles. It is skewed and twisted. It is a sense of wrongness so visceral that bile rises in your throat, and if you can, you avert your eyes, and you forget.
“Dean,” they whisper as the whips slice across the taunt skin of his back. “Dean,” they hiss, peeling the flesh from his shoulders inch by torturous inch, exposing his muscles, and he writhes on the stone slab, and he sobs violently, and he breaks so many times he doesn't know what's left that could possibly be shattered. But there's always something for them to bend and snap: always one last bone to break.
“Dean,” they soothe, these putrid things who wear their insides out for all to see, dead hearts sitting motionless in their chests. They soothe him; they hush and they coo, and between one blink and the next, they are one.
They are Sam.
Dean moans desperately. He hates this trick. The first time-well, the first time he'd believed, pathetically. Sam had stepped forward, whole and clean and beautiful, and Dean had said, “Fuck, Sammy, took you long enough.” Then demon wearing Sam's visage like a secondhand coat had smiled, reached for him and, as Dean's eyes had closed in relief, gutted him from chest to belly with his brother's hand.
“Dean, shhhh,” it says this time, stroking a hand over Dean's bloody back, and the searing pain there vanishes, lifted away as easily as if it had never been.
Dean lolls his head and tries to look back at it. This is new, unexpected, wrong. He has never been truly without pain since the first moment he'd opened his eyes to Hell. Not even when they heal him, a fresh canvas for them to paint however it amuses them.
“Oh, Dean.” It looks at him with Sam's sad eyes now, and Dean's lips pull back in a savage sneer.
“Use your own fuck-ugly body, you son of a bitch,” he coughs. It laughs as if he's told a wonderful joke and cups his cheek with one large hand, tracing Sam's thumb over his lips lovingly.
“You're so beautiful.”
“Can't exactly say I return the sentiments,” Dean taunts. The demon's grip tightens.
“You don't think I'm beautiful, Dean?” it says, cocking Sam's head.
He shuts his eyes and tries in vain to push his brother from his mind: Sam, throwing his head back in a laugh, eyes scrunched up happily. Sam, gritting his teeth and lunging forward to meet another blow, dripping with sweat. Sam, looking at Dean as if he were the world, instead of another stupid fuck-up who can't seem to get his head on straight.
“No,” he says, and he knows the demon can see the lie as clearly as if it had spewed from beneath his skin like blood gushing forth from a vein.
It says with a smile, “I think you do.”
There is a moment of near silence pierced by a distant wail, and then warm lips press against his. Dean's eyes snap open, and he struggles to get away even as he knows he'll never move an inch. Not unless they want to chase him.
It pulls back, and Dean spits in its face.
Wiping the saliva away with one hand, it scowls down at him, Sam's lips pinched in annoyance. “Why do you have to be like that, Dean?” it demands. “I try to do something nice for you and-I should have figured. I mean, I know how you are.”
“Shut. Up,” Dean hisses.
“You don't have to be so hostile.” It grins, teeth gleaming. “We both know how long you've wanted this. We've both known, ever since that very first moment. The very first time you looked at me and didn't see a brother. We know, don't we, Dean?”
“Sam doesn't know shit!”
“You know me better than that, Dean,” Sam-it says.
It presses forward again, gripping Dean's unscathed body tightly, tongue insistent against the barrier of Dean's lips. It strokes Dean's skin gently, and Dean can't help but sway into the touch, so pleasure starved and aching.
“That's good,” it says, pleased.
Dean jerks back, but it coaxes him forward again, turning him gently so that his back rests against the cold stone. It climbs up and straddles him. Dean turns his face away stubbornly, setting his jaw, but it pays him no mind, peppering kisses below his ear and down his neck, against his jugular.
Its hands slide down his body, touch feather light as it goes ever lower. Dean surges up, back bowed, when it wraps a hand around his limp cock, and he tries not to be sick with how good it feels after years of nothing but agony.
He is pathetic; he is nothing.
“That's it, Dean. There you go.” It strokes him, cruelly slow, and the muscles in Dean's stomach twitch with the effort he makes to keep from moving with it.
“Stop, stop, god, please stop,” he begs, and the demon flinches, Sam's eyes oil black, but never falters in its rhythm.
Dean comes, arching up off the slab, and something inside him that they'd never before managed to touch bleeds with it.
It holds out its hand. “Lick,” it orders. After a pause, Dean takes a finger tentatively into his mouth, eyes trained on the demon's face, and then bites down, a vicious clamp of his teeth. The sharp taste of blood meets his tongue, and the demon swears angrily and whips the hand away, then brings it back down with a crack against Dean's cheek.
“No one likes a biter, Dean.”
“Fuck you,” Dean grunts.
It bares its teeth and yanks Dean's head back by his hair, pulling so violently that a piece of Dean's scalp tears loose in its hand. Dean's body convulses as he screams.
“Yeah, don't think it's gonna happen that way, big brother,” it says, and it laughs at its own joke.
It pins Dean down by his shoulders, rutting against him in harsh jabs of its hips, Dean still sobbing in pain beneath it. It bites down on Dean's neck as it penetrates him, right where it had placed its soft kiss, sinks its teeth in and rips, the blood gushing hotly down Dean's chest, the pain so all-encompassing that Dean feels drowned in it, deprived of air.
“Shhh, shhh,” it sighs, thrusting, digging nails into Dean's chest that should be blunt and yet feel like knives.
It never stops, never arrives at completion, breaking Dean apart piece by piece as it goes, until he's a bloody, skinless thing like the demon would be if it weren't wearing his brother, until he's so pained he can't even move to get away, until he's so weak that he can't even open his mouth to scream.
His brother's skin melts off it as it comes, drips like candle wax to reveal the thing beneath it, the thing buried in Dean. It's laughing, howling, its head thrown back, and it kisses him once more, tasting foully of sulfur, and breaks apart into nothingness, into smoke.
Dean lies there when it's gone, filthy and deformed and broken, his chest rising high with each desperate gasp of air, too far gone to make any noise, unable to even close his eyes. Hell drips with blood all around him, so hot it boils, and he can't look away.
“So, Deano,” comes Alistair's voice, and Dean cannot turn his head to see it, but he'd known always that it had watched. “I have a question.”