As Time Began to Blur
Title: As Time Began to Blur
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1700
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Just felt like Kripke needed a little help breaking them.
Summary: Dean tries to go back to using sex as his #1 comping mechanism. Too bad he gets flashbacks to hell every time he gets close to scoring.
Dean/OFC, past Alastair/Dean/Meg, Dean/OMCs, Dean/Oktoberfestgirl
How this perfectly harmless plot bunny turned into this fic I'll never know. I tried to force it to be something different, but this thing had sharp teeth and it kinda scared me, so I let it do what it had to do. Fill for 'Unable to Perform' on my angst_bingo card.
Dean comes back from hell pretty damn fucked up. He doesn't need Sam's worried glances and Bobby's careful pats on the back or Ellen sending him texts via Jo's phone, telling him to call anytime to figure out he's turned on the Mr Hyde mojo.
Most of what Dean remembers, his life sort of sucked - pre fourty years of eternal damnation - but he used to get by just fine.
Now he can't even begin to pretend as much.
He tries anyway, because sitting around and moping's for little girls, son.
He doesn't remember who he heard that from, Alastair or Dad.
Maybe it doesn't matter anyway.
Sam says it's worse than those 356 days when Dean had a ticking time bomb glued to his heart and maybe he's right, Dean wouldn't know.
He amps it all up until he's sure he should be feeling something and all it gets him is Sam scowling and shaking his head and whispering with Bobby about repression and PTSD, while fiddling with his cell phone when he thinks Dean doesn't see.
He makes a big show of re-losing his virginity with that Oktoberfest chick in Canonsburg, like that will magically make him feel less empty and hollow (it did the first time 'round.)
She doesn't come and neither does he, but it's nice enough and somehow very fitting for the entire Dawson's Creek, bumbling-first-time theme of the night. She's sweet about it, tells him it's not the worst sex she's ever had and acts like going limp in the middle of a perfectly fine fuck, muttering about firedemonsbloodPAINno isn't weird at all.
They kiss goodbye and Dean tells Sam a twisted, kinky story that would make Dad's old Marine buddies blush like little girl scouts. It's true, too. Sam doesn't need to know it happened thirty-some years ago and Dean wasn't exactly consenting to being tied to anything.
Or maybe he was. Some might consider selling your soul the ultimate form of consent.
The nightmares get worse after that. Somehow the whole being-the-torture-master-of-hell's-personal-sex-toy thing hadn't registered as a traumatic experience before he was balls deep inside a sweet little waitress, but now that he's past that first breakdown it's pretty much the only thing he can think about.
Alastairandmeganddean all tied up together in a thrusting, pulsing ball of lust and pain and more often than not he wakes up moaning with his sheets wet with a mixture of cold sweat and drying cum.
He finds that drinking still helps. Alcohol to numb the pain, to pull a thick veil over the sharp memories with their teeth and claws and screams.
You gonna be like Dad now? Sammy asked him that first time when he was ten and Dean fifteen and Dad was several hundred miles away in Oklahoma. Dean laughed then, drunkenly wrapped an arm around the kid's shoulders and slurred 'course not, S'mmy. Jus' drinkin' for the fun o' it.
Promises are still important, so he drinks in secret. Desperate gulps during bathroom breaks, vodka in Aquafina bottles ("Jeez, Sam, get your own water, Mr Cooties!") or he goes out to hustle some pool and comes back totally hammered, with less cash in his pocket than before but infinitely calmer.
People come up to him in shady corners of shady bars. People. Girls and guys. Something's changed since he's been back. Like somebody from LIGA sent out a memo, stating that that pretty Winchester doesn't much care anymore if the nameless piece of ass he's sharing a bathroom stall with has boobs to offer or balls or all of the above. Been there, done that, he thinks and before long everyone turns into black-eyed gender-less monsters anyway.
It hadn't even occurred to him before the Oktoberfest incident, but now that he's thinking about it, he hasn't jerked off since he climbed out of his grave two months ago.
Of all the things hell managed to burn away, this just seems...petty. To flood Dean's mind with red, burning images of white-hot pain and lust that make his heart freeze up the moment he gets close to having a decent boner.
Downright mean in that way only Alastair can be.
"Buy me a drink?"
Sharp, manicured fingernails press little half moon bruises through Dean's jeans into his thigh.
No, he wants to say.
Why would he spend his (Sam's) hard earned money on some random chick if he's here to drown his stupidloudwon'tevershutup brain in as much liquor as humanly possible?
He waves at the bar tender instead, mouths Long island Ice Tea, pointing a finger at the girl next to him.
Woman, he corrects himself.
"Going with the classics then?" she pushes herself closer until she's all but sitting in his lap, hard, fake tits pressing up against his arm.
She's older than him. Maybe. Dean gets confused sometimes, feels like his young face is being stretched thin over seventy years worth of memories.
"Finish your drink, honey," she coos in a voice that's rough from whiskey and cigarettes. "We should find ourselves a quiet little corner."
Cougars, Sammy, Dean remembers saying that one time he convinced the squirt he'd managed to screw his favorite Chemistry teacher, with that lewd smile that sprawls so easily over his face when he doesn't know what else to do.
She's rockin' the look too. Pink see-through blouse over leopard print spandex, short, white-blonde hair, eyebrows plucked too thin and botoxed all the way up her forehead. She's no Sharon Stone by any means, but the predatory, redbloodMEGshiney come hither look she shoots him suggests she thinks she is. Which is kinda hot. Probably.
"Sorry," Dean mumbles down into his whiskey, his heart already stuttering shamefully in his ever constricting chest. "Sorry, I uh...I gotta get goin'."
He gets up, stumbles off his bar stool, steps left, right, falls over his own feet and suddenly his arms are wrapped around the woman's soft hips.
"Easy now," she breathes into his ear, the husky voice sends a sharp stab of something - notpleasurenotquitefear - right down to Dean's cock.
Barry fuckin' Manilow is playing on the jukebox and suddenly her tongue is fighting its way past Dean's teeth and he doesn't know what to do other than tighten his grip around her waist and open his mouth a little more.
He tried listening to his tapes the other day. Turned them up until the windows were rattling and Sam punched him in the arm because I'm trying to sleep here, what the fuck's wrong with you?
Dean apologized and turned the music back off. Wasn't doing anything other than hurt his ears and remind him of a time when LedZep still mattered anyway.
They manage to stumble out into and alley next to the dark parking lot without really untangling and Dean's heart starts speeding up even more when she starts pushing up his shirt, scratching over his hardening nipples and he expects blood to spray up into his face any second now.
She sucks at his pulse point, scrapes her teeth over the soft skin right below his jaw in that way that used to drive him crazy. She pulls him closer by his belt loops, cups his ass with both her wiry hands and grinds their crotches together, groaning into his mouth, quickly swallowing his little gasps and whimpers with her eager tongue.
Because yes, Dean's fucking whimpering. Small, panicky noises in the back of his throat. He keeps sucking at her lips, one hand tangled in her short hair, slick with too much L'Oreal wax, the other braced on the wall above her head to keep his legs from trembling too much.
He needs to keep going. Has to. They'll do terrible things to him if he can't finish, Alastair and his razors cutting into him, inside him. Dean's knees lock in time with his jaw to stop the panicked trembling. Sharp salty copper floods his senses, when his teeth clamp down on tender flesh - his tongue, her lip - and he gasps again when the taste sends all the blood rushing down.
"Sshh," he hears the megwomangirl whisper. She's cupping his face now, long, hard fingernails scratching up and down his stubbled cheeks and Dean is staring down into her huge, lust-gazed eyes, struggling to not see dark red blood running into milky white. "Sshh, it's okay."
Her husky voice smells of hell fire and Dean growls deep in his throat when the world around him turns red.
He can hear hellhounds barking just around the corner, their teeth bared, saliva dripping from their razor sharp fangs, waiting to be let lose, waiting to rip him apart again.
Fingers fumble for the buttons on his jeans, slip under the elastic waistband of her pants, hips already thrusting in time with his panicked moans.
And suddenly Alastair is behind him, whispering his ear as Dean is pushing inside the helpless soul on the rack before him. Something stabs his lower back, cuts all the way inside his crack - that's it, gonna be a good girl for Daddy, now - Meg's legs wrap around his hips, she's moaning into his other ear, trading dirty, bloody kisses with their master over Dean's shoulder - always such a slut, aren't you Dean-o? - and then they both laugh (Dean laughs with them, because laughing is better than crying) and all he knows is white-hot fear and pain and then his entire body just freezes up.
When his brain catches up with him he's curled up behind an old dumpster, the green glow of the Heineken ad over his head casting a sick light over his still-trembling hands, little Dean once again flaccid and useless between his thighs.
He's alone again, not even close to happy or satisfied or any of the things he remembers sex being. Once upon a time.
A cold autumn breeze makes the litter on the ground around him rustle and swish and Dean shivers in the night air.
He didn't even ask for her name.
His cold fingers fumble again to get his jeans buttoned up as he stumbles to his feet.
The barrel of his gun is cold against the small of his back when he picks it up and secures it in his waistband.
He should talk to Sam about finding them a new case. Maybe killing evil sons of bitches will finally make him feel alive again.
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1700
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Just felt like Kripke needed a little help breaking them.
Summary: Dean tries to go back to using sex as his #1 comping mechanism. Too bad he gets flashbacks to hell every time he gets close to scoring.
Dean/OFC, past Alastair/Dean/Meg, Dean/OMCs, Dean/Oktoberfestgirl
How this perfectly harmless plot bunny turned into this fic I'll never know. I tried to force it to be something different, but this thing had sharp teeth and it kinda scared me, so I let it do what it had to do. Fill for 'Unable to Perform' on my angst_bingo card.
Dean comes back from hell pretty damn fucked up. He doesn't need Sam's worried glances and Bobby's careful pats on the back or Ellen sending him texts via Jo's phone, telling him to call anytime to figure out he's turned on the Mr Hyde mojo.
Most of what Dean remembers, his life sort of sucked - pre fourty years of eternal damnation - but he used to get by just fine.
Now he can't even begin to pretend as much.
He tries anyway, because sitting around and moping's for little girls, son.
He doesn't remember who he heard that from, Alastair or Dad.
Maybe it doesn't matter anyway.
Sam says it's worse than those 356 days when Dean had a ticking time bomb glued to his heart and maybe he's right, Dean wouldn't know.
He amps it all up until he's sure he should be feeling something and all it gets him is Sam scowling and shaking his head and whispering with Bobby about repression and PTSD, while fiddling with his cell phone when he thinks Dean doesn't see.
He makes a big show of re-losing his virginity with that Oktoberfest chick in Canonsburg, like that will magically make him feel less empty and hollow (it did the first time 'round.)
She doesn't come and neither does he, but it's nice enough and somehow very fitting for the entire Dawson's Creek, bumbling-first-time theme of the night. She's sweet about it, tells him it's not the worst sex she's ever had and acts like going limp in the middle of a perfectly fine fuck, muttering about firedemonsbloodPAINno isn't weird at all.
They kiss goodbye and Dean tells Sam a twisted, kinky story that would make Dad's old Marine buddies blush like little girl scouts. It's true, too. Sam doesn't need to know it happened thirty-some years ago and Dean wasn't exactly consenting to being tied to anything.
Or maybe he was. Some might consider selling your soul the ultimate form of consent.
The nightmares get worse after that. Somehow the whole being-the-torture-master-of-hell's-personal-sex-toy thing hadn't registered as a traumatic experience before he was balls deep inside a sweet little waitress, but now that he's past that first breakdown it's pretty much the only thing he can think about.
Alastairandmeganddean all tied up together in a thrusting, pulsing ball of lust and pain and more often than not he wakes up moaning with his sheets wet with a mixture of cold sweat and drying cum.
He finds that drinking still helps. Alcohol to numb the pain, to pull a thick veil over the sharp memories with their teeth and claws and screams.
You gonna be like Dad now? Sammy asked him that first time when he was ten and Dean fifteen and Dad was several hundred miles away in Oklahoma. Dean laughed then, drunkenly wrapped an arm around the kid's shoulders and slurred 'course not, S'mmy. Jus' drinkin' for the fun o' it.
Promises are still important, so he drinks in secret. Desperate gulps during bathroom breaks, vodka in Aquafina bottles ("Jeez, Sam, get your own water, Mr Cooties!") or he goes out to hustle some pool and comes back totally hammered, with less cash in his pocket than before but infinitely calmer.
People come up to him in shady corners of shady bars. People. Girls and guys. Something's changed since he's been back. Like somebody from LIGA sent out a memo, stating that that pretty Winchester doesn't much care anymore if the nameless piece of ass he's sharing a bathroom stall with has boobs to offer or balls or all of the above. Been there, done that, he thinks and before long everyone turns into black-eyed gender-less monsters anyway.
It hadn't even occurred to him before the Oktoberfest incident, but now that he's thinking about it, he hasn't jerked off since he climbed out of his grave two months ago.
Of all the things hell managed to burn away, this just seems...petty. To flood Dean's mind with red, burning images of white-hot pain and lust that make his heart freeze up the moment he gets close to having a decent boner.
Downright mean in that way only Alastair can be.
"Buy me a drink?"
Sharp, manicured fingernails press little half moon bruises through Dean's jeans into his thigh.
No, he wants to say.
Why would he spend his (Sam's) hard earned money on some random chick if he's here to drown his stupidloudwon'tevershutup brain in as much liquor as humanly possible?
He waves at the bar tender instead, mouths Long island Ice Tea, pointing a finger at the girl next to him.
Woman, he corrects himself.
"Going with the classics then?" she pushes herself closer until she's all but sitting in his lap, hard, fake tits pressing up against his arm.
She's older than him. Maybe. Dean gets confused sometimes, feels like his young face is being stretched thin over seventy years worth of memories.
"Finish your drink, honey," she coos in a voice that's rough from whiskey and cigarettes. "We should find ourselves a quiet little corner."
Cougars, Sammy, Dean remembers saying that one time he convinced the squirt he'd managed to screw his favorite Chemistry teacher, with that lewd smile that sprawls so easily over his face when he doesn't know what else to do.
She's rockin' the look too. Pink see-through blouse over leopard print spandex, short, white-blonde hair, eyebrows plucked too thin and botoxed all the way up her forehead. She's no Sharon Stone by any means, but the predatory, redbloodMEGshiney come hither look she shoots him suggests she thinks she is. Which is kinda hot. Probably.
"Sorry," Dean mumbles down into his whiskey, his heart already stuttering shamefully in his ever constricting chest. "Sorry, I uh...I gotta get goin'."
He gets up, stumbles off his bar stool, steps left, right, falls over his own feet and suddenly his arms are wrapped around the woman's soft hips.
"Easy now," she breathes into his ear, the husky voice sends a sharp stab of something - notpleasurenotquitefear - right down to Dean's cock.
Barry fuckin' Manilow is playing on the jukebox and suddenly her tongue is fighting its way past Dean's teeth and he doesn't know what to do other than tighten his grip around her waist and open his mouth a little more.
He tried listening to his tapes the other day. Turned them up until the windows were rattling and Sam punched him in the arm because I'm trying to sleep here, what the fuck's wrong with you?
Dean apologized and turned the music back off. Wasn't doing anything other than hurt his ears and remind him of a time when LedZep still mattered anyway.
They manage to stumble out into and alley next to the dark parking lot without really untangling and Dean's heart starts speeding up even more when she starts pushing up his shirt, scratching over his hardening nipples and he expects blood to spray up into his face any second now.
She sucks at his pulse point, scrapes her teeth over the soft skin right below his jaw in that way that used to drive him crazy. She pulls him closer by his belt loops, cups his ass with both her wiry hands and grinds their crotches together, groaning into his mouth, quickly swallowing his little gasps and whimpers with her eager tongue.
Because yes, Dean's fucking whimpering. Small, panicky noises in the back of his throat. He keeps sucking at her lips, one hand tangled in her short hair, slick with too much L'Oreal wax, the other braced on the wall above her head to keep his legs from trembling too much.
He needs to keep going. Has to. They'll do terrible things to him if he can't finish, Alastair and his razors cutting into him, inside him. Dean's knees lock in time with his jaw to stop the panicked trembling. Sharp salty copper floods his senses, when his teeth clamp down on tender flesh - his tongue, her lip - and he gasps again when the taste sends all the blood rushing down.
"Sshh," he hears the megwomangirl whisper. She's cupping his face now, long, hard fingernails scratching up and down his stubbled cheeks and Dean is staring down into her huge, lust-gazed eyes, struggling to not see dark red blood running into milky white. "Sshh, it's okay."
Her husky voice smells of hell fire and Dean growls deep in his throat when the world around him turns red.
He can hear hellhounds barking just around the corner, their teeth bared, saliva dripping from their razor sharp fangs, waiting to be let lose, waiting to rip him apart again.
Fingers fumble for the buttons on his jeans, slip under the elastic waistband of her pants, hips already thrusting in time with his panicked moans.
And suddenly Alastair is behind him, whispering his ear as Dean is pushing inside the helpless soul on the rack before him. Something stabs his lower back, cuts all the way inside his crack - that's it, gonna be a good girl for Daddy, now - Meg's legs wrap around his hips, she's moaning into his other ear, trading dirty, bloody kisses with their master over Dean's shoulder - always such a slut, aren't you Dean-o? - and then they both laugh (Dean laughs with them, because laughing is better than crying) and all he knows is white-hot fear and pain and then his entire body just freezes up.
When his brain catches up with him he's curled up behind an old dumpster, the green glow of the Heineken ad over his head casting a sick light over his still-trembling hands, little Dean once again flaccid and useless between his thighs.
He's alone again, not even close to happy or satisfied or any of the things he remembers sex being. Once upon a time.
A cold autumn breeze makes the litter on the ground around him rustle and swish and Dean shivers in the night air.
He didn't even ask for her name.
His cold fingers fumble again to get his jeans buttoned up as he stumbles to his feet.
The barrel of his gun is cold against the small of his back when he picks it up and secures it in his waistband.
He should talk to Sam about finding them a new case. Maybe killing evil sons of bitches will finally make him feel alive again.