A Trick and a Treat
Title: A Trick and a Treat (originally posted to deanalistair but I wanted a copy in my own journal. This was my very first fanfic) Original post is here
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence
Length: 797
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Alastair
Disclaimer: The standard.Supernatural belongs to Kripke and the CW.
Summary: Alastair tries a new tactic to break Dean.
“This is the one. Break him, or deal with me.” Lilith was the only soul in hell as creative as Alastair.
It had been one thousand nine hundred and fifty one days. Still, John Winchester’s perfect soldier had never so much as blinked twice before denying Alastair’s nightly offer. Alastair had sliced art into soft, tender flesh, carved bloody sculpture out of hard muscle. He had burned flesh from bone and broken bones into dust. He had played music on nerves braided together into ropes of singing agony.
It was time to change tactics.
“I have a very special offer for you, Dean. This is the only time I’ll make it, so think carefully before you answer. ” Green eyes glared back at him, twin spots of color in a face dripping in gore. “Today only, I’m willing to let you off the rack. All you have to do is hold my knife.”
Hope, relief, disbelief, fear. Emotions flickered through emerald orbs, and Alastair smiled. “I see I have your attention.”
“What’s the catch,” Dean growled.
“No catch. I see the question in your eyes, beautiful boy. Why would I do that? Call it a character study. Hold the knife. No one will touch you until tomorrow. You don’t have to do anything else… unless you want to.”
“You’re going to be disappointed.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m amused by more than blood and fear. What do you say? I won’t ask again.”
“Sign me up.”
Alastair snapped his fingers and Dean collapsed to the floor, released from his bonds. He stood back and watched Dean wrestle for composure. The boy was tough, stubborn, and brutally independent. It was cute, really. The concept of forever still hadn’t sunk in...yet. He still thought he had something to fight for, poor thing. But no one was going to make a deal for this soul, no one was going to open a hell gate so he could slip out. This was it, the grand finale.
He watched Dean pick himself up off the floor, stand on broken legs that slipped in their own congealing blood, watched him straighten a spine that was missing three vertebrae. He had to give it to him, the kid had moxy. With all the patience of eternity, he watched silently as Dean tried not to be one more broken soul in the Grand Inquisitor’s private collection.
He held his breath as Dean turned to the instrument table and picked up the blade. His demon heart pounded as Dean walked to the rack and stared at the woman who had taken his place.
Dean looked at her with passive curiosity as the gouges in his own flesh began to knit and seal. Absently, he traced the line of her jaw with the razor's tip, down her throat, across her collarbone. He leaned closer, listened to her frightened gasp as he slid the blade across her skin, down between her breasts. Gently, almost lovingly, he drew it back up, letting the tip drag across one nipple. She whimpered, and he looked at the flat plane of her stomach where it trembled with her uneven breathing.
Alastair stood in the shadow behind Dean, motionless as a statue. Any motion, any sound might break the spell Dean had allowed his id to wrap itself in. He savored the moment, relishing an anticipation that no soul had aroused in him in a thousand years. This boy, this stubborn, beautiful, willful, righteous boy had him as tightly strung as a virgin in the back seat of a car. It was exquisite.
Dean laid a bloody hand on her abdomen. She let out a sob, and his attention snapped back to her face with a scowl. He leaned down and kissed her with a soft brush of lips, inhaled her scent as he drew away. His hand dropped to his side, knife dangling in loose fingers. He slid the other hand upward from her abdomen to her breast, to her jaw. He cradled her face gently.
He slapped her, hard.
Alastair’s pulse pounded as Dean growled at her. “You deserve to be here, don’t you? You didn’t make any deal to save anyone. You did this to yourself.” She began to cry, great wracking sobs punctuated with mumbled penitence. A drop of blood formed at her lip where she’d been struck. Dean looked at it for a long moment before reaching out and gently wiping it away. His head drooped, and he stared at the floor for a short eternity. Finally, he turned to Alastair, hate and rage burning behind his eyes. Alastair sighed.
“I’ll keep my word, Dean. Put it down.”
“No.”
Alastair’s head snapped up, searching the boy’s eyes. He smiled at what he saw there.
“I want to hear her scream.”
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence
Length: 797
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Alastair
Disclaimer: The standard.Supernatural belongs to Kripke and the CW.
Summary: Alastair tries a new tactic to break Dean.
“This is the one. Break him, or deal with me.” Lilith was the only soul in hell as creative as Alastair.
It had been one thousand nine hundred and fifty one days. Still, John Winchester’s perfect soldier had never so much as blinked twice before denying Alastair’s nightly offer. Alastair had sliced art into soft, tender flesh, carved bloody sculpture out of hard muscle. He had burned flesh from bone and broken bones into dust. He had played music on nerves braided together into ropes of singing agony.
It was time to change tactics.
“I have a very special offer for you, Dean. This is the only time I’ll make it, so think carefully before you answer. ” Green eyes glared back at him, twin spots of color in a face dripping in gore. “Today only, I’m willing to let you off the rack. All you have to do is hold my knife.”
Hope, relief, disbelief, fear. Emotions flickered through emerald orbs, and Alastair smiled. “I see I have your attention.”
“What’s the catch,” Dean growled.
“No catch. I see the question in your eyes, beautiful boy. Why would I do that? Call it a character study. Hold the knife. No one will touch you until tomorrow. You don’t have to do anything else… unless you want to.”
“You’re going to be disappointed.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m amused by more than blood and fear. What do you say? I won’t ask again.”
“Sign me up.”
Alastair snapped his fingers and Dean collapsed to the floor, released from his bonds. He stood back and watched Dean wrestle for composure. The boy was tough, stubborn, and brutally independent. It was cute, really. The concept of forever still hadn’t sunk in...yet. He still thought he had something to fight for, poor thing. But no one was going to make a deal for this soul, no one was going to open a hell gate so he could slip out. This was it, the grand finale.
He watched Dean pick himself up off the floor, stand on broken legs that slipped in their own congealing blood, watched him straighten a spine that was missing three vertebrae. He had to give it to him, the kid had moxy. With all the patience of eternity, he watched silently as Dean tried not to be one more broken soul in the Grand Inquisitor’s private collection.
He held his breath as Dean turned to the instrument table and picked up the blade. His demon heart pounded as Dean walked to the rack and stared at the woman who had taken his place.
Dean looked at her with passive curiosity as the gouges in his own flesh began to knit and seal. Absently, he traced the line of her jaw with the razor's tip, down her throat, across her collarbone. He leaned closer, listened to her frightened gasp as he slid the blade across her skin, down between her breasts. Gently, almost lovingly, he drew it back up, letting the tip drag across one nipple. She whimpered, and he looked at the flat plane of her stomach where it trembled with her uneven breathing.
Alastair stood in the shadow behind Dean, motionless as a statue. Any motion, any sound might break the spell Dean had allowed his id to wrap itself in. He savored the moment, relishing an anticipation that no soul had aroused in him in a thousand years. This boy, this stubborn, beautiful, willful, righteous boy had him as tightly strung as a virgin in the back seat of a car. It was exquisite.
Dean laid a bloody hand on her abdomen. She let out a sob, and his attention snapped back to her face with a scowl. He leaned down and kissed her with a soft brush of lips, inhaled her scent as he drew away. His hand dropped to his side, knife dangling in loose fingers. He slid the other hand upward from her abdomen to her breast, to her jaw. He cradled her face gently.
He slapped her, hard.
Alastair’s pulse pounded as Dean growled at her. “You deserve to be here, don’t you? You didn’t make any deal to save anyone. You did this to yourself.” She began to cry, great wracking sobs punctuated with mumbled penitence. A drop of blood formed at her lip where she’d been struck. Dean looked at it for a long moment before reaching out and gently wiping it away. His head drooped, and he stared at the floor for a short eternity. Finally, he turned to Alastair, hate and rage burning behind his eyes. Alastair sighed.
“I’ll keep my word, Dean. Put it down.”
“No.”
Alastair’s head snapped up, searching the boy’s eyes. He smiled at what he saw there.
“I want to hear her scream.”