Supernatural fic: All The Devils Are Here 3/4 (Dean/Cas bdsm AU)

Mar 05, 2013 16:00

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Title: All The Devils Are Here (3/4)
Rating: R this part? NC-17 all up.
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Meg/Dean d/s, Cesar/Jesse, a bunch of OCs, and the Chief.
Genre: AU, bdsm, established relationship, smut, angst, emotional hurt/comfort
Warnings: sub!Dean, bottom!Dean, top!Cas, dom!Cas, public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, and all the bdsm things ie bondage, spanking, whipping, flogging, toys, etc.
Word Count: 4k this part. 18.3k all up.
Summary: The one where Dean heads to The Pit for some ‘therapy’.
A/N 2020: Okay so I cheated. I originally started this fic sometime around season 8, but when I rewrote it I added a Cesar and Jesse from season 11. I'd just rewatched that episode and loved them, and one of the actors was actually in Queer As Folk, which is what this whole verse was originally inspired by! It had to be done.
Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine, and should never ever be. Quotes are Shakespeare’s. No infringement or offense intended.


[ Chapter 1] [ Chapter 2]

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"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."
-- The Tempest, Act I scene ii
~

It’s been a while since Dean’s been to The Pit. But whether it’s been 4 months or 40 years, Dean thinks it wouldn’t make a difference, he’d probably still be able to find the place with his eyes closed. As it is, he doesn’t raise his head once the whole, long, walk over. Lost in his own head, his feet lead the way, and before he knows it, he’s standing in front of 426 Bleeker St.

If you didn’t know it was there, you’d probably walk right past it. The only thing that marks the spot is a single neon sign that says ‘426’. In fact, the place isn’t actually called The Pit. He’s not even sure what it’s official name is. But everyone who knows it, calls it ‘The Pit’.

It looks for all the world like an abandoned warehouse. It’s a pretty dubious part of town. But if you stop and listen hard enough, you might hear the beat of a bass drum coming from somewhere within, feel the sidewalk pulsing underneath your feet.

Dean pounds his fist on the door. And it’s ridiculously cliché, but a small strip of it slides open at eye-level, the sound of an electric guitar sharpening as it’s released through the opening.

The light shining through the strip is quickly obscured by a large head, and Dean looks up.

“I’m here to see Chief,” he says.

The window slams shut. Dean hears the scrape of metal, the slide of chains and the turning of locks, before the large door swings open and he’s let inside.

“Cerberus.” Dean nods to the large man behind the door. The man eyes him up and down, large chest crossed over with thick arms, tattooed dogs running up and down their length.

“Long time, Dean,” he says, the corners of his lips pursing up into his version of a smile.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, unable to bring himself to return it. “Yeah,” he echoes distractedly, not in the mood for small talk. Cerberus takes the hint, silently leading him across the dimly lit foyer to the next door. As he waits for the man to unhinge it’s heavy lock, Dean sighs, reading the sign that still hangs there above the doorway:

‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’

The door opens, and Dean flinches, unused to the volume of music after so long. It’s guitar heavy, filled with screams that should only come from the dying, but ultimately, it’s familiar. And by the time the door closes behind him, the breath he exhales is a sigh of relief.

He scans the bar for a moment, its PVC and leather clad patrons littering the couches inside, or pressed up against its blood red walls, mostly locked at the lips and halfway ready to take a trip downstairs. At this time of the night, not many people are here to socialize. They mostly know what they’re there for. And the volume of the music tends to discourage conversation anyway. Or at least encourages you to press up real close if you did have something to say. Mostly it was there to mask any other kind of noise, create an illusion of privacy if you found yourself moaning in a dark corner with someone’s hand down your pants.

Dean nods at the bartender, Charon, and he returns the greeting, gesturing at one of the free seats at the bar. There’s a couple playing coins there, and a few other lone drinkers watching the other more involved “conversations” that would usually make for interesting prospects. But that’s not what Dean wants tonight, so he shakes off the invitation. Besides, he’d already sobered up on the walk over, and he doesn’t want to undo that now.

He goes past the bar, through the back exit, around the twisting hallway past the bathrooms, until he sees the next curtained doorway. Parting the heavy red drapes, he steps through into another large room. Chief’s room.

The music isn’t as loud in here, it’s only a distant hum that you almost had to strain to hear. No, the soundtrack to this room is created entirely by Chief himself - the sound of his flogger cutting through the air and its strikes against naked flesh, the cries of his current volunteer at every blow, and the moans and murmurs from those who watch.

It’s easy to see Chief from where Dean stands at the back of the room. The man is elevated on a small platform that serves as a stage, centered right under a light that isn’t really a spotlight, but is the brightest point in the room. From there the light slowly fades out over the seated spectators, blanketing the couches and ottomans in the farthest corners of the room in darkness.

This is a room for tourists, though. And Dean’s seen it all before. Nor does he think Chief’s stageshow of punishment is going to be enough for him tonight, no matter how fresh he is again, being out of the game for so long.

Dean exits through the curtain, back into the hallway, and this time makes the turn for the stairs. The music is louder here again, filling the enclosed, vacant space, and keeps Dean company as he descends to the next level. He hesitates as he steps into the hallway though, unsure of where he wants to go next, of what he wants to do, or what he needs to.

To his right are the private rooms, small bedrooms available for anyone’s use, and from them Dean can hear the sound of whips and gasps and the steady banging of a headboard against one of the walls. To his left is the coatroom, a small service area next to the bathrooms where you can leave behind anything for safekeeping, pick up anything you might need but couldn’t bring with you, or just purchase another drink. Dean leaves his jacket behind and stops to splash some water on his face, steeling himself for what’s next.

Down at the very back, through the coatroom, is another large room, like Chief’s. But in this room, no one puts on a show for you. You’re part of the show.

It’s the free for all. The orgy room. The room with more beds than couches. Where chains hang from the walls and slings hang from the mirrored ceilings. Where people get spanked or fucked over glass tables, while others lie naked, touching themselves, watching from underneath. Where masters bring their pets to perform, to service, and punish, and claim, for all to see.

As Dean enters the room, the music abandons him again, to be replaced by a cacophony of moans and cries. The heat and smell of sex in the air is thick and enveloping, intoxicating. There’s more skin than leather on display at this point of the night, an enticing feast of temptations. But Dean’s spent his fair share of time in this room too, and as he looks around, he still doesn’t feel compelled to join. It’s still not what he’s looking for.

Then, just as he’s decided to leave, his gaze catches on a couple that are just finishing up. The dom, a latin man with a pleasing face, is uncuffing another man, who is just as large as he is, but with baby-faced features that make him strangely attractive. He’s still panting, covered in sweat and come, and Dean can tell from the gentle way his dom towels him off that theirs is a romantic partnership as well.

“Jesse, baby, are you okay?” the latin man asks, cupping the other man’s face in his hands.

“Yeah, Cesar,” Jesse replies, smiling softly at the other man. And something in the man’s expression then hits Dean - so open and trusting and… vulnerable. Dean can’t look away as the two men murmur quietly to each other, close and intimate, completely in their own little world.

It hits him then, that he’s been going about things all wrong. He can keep doing whatever it takes to makes himself feel in control of things, but it won’t change the fact that he isn’t. And he needs to embrace that. He’d spent so long learning how to be strong again, he needs to relearn how to be vulnerable.

He knows where he needs to go now.

Dean turns and leaves the room, finds his was back to the stairs, and heads for the basement.

The music follows him down the stairwell again, but when he reaches the bottom, there is a door beyond which no music passes. He bangs on it three times, and another window slides open, sharp eyes assessing him through it.

“Dean. Been a while.”

“Yeah T. I know,” he replies. ‘T’ is supposedly short for ‘Tartarus’, the name of the abyss beneath Hades where the prisoners received punishment befitting their crimes. Dean doesn't know if that’s the man’s real name or not, but it’s sure as hell appropriate for what Dean came looking for.

“You need a rack?” T asks.

“Nah, not tonight. Actually I was wondering if anyone was free,” he says. And as nonchalant as he tries to play it, there’s still a moment of silence behind the door that speaks of surprise. But moments of surprise don’t last long in places like this, and the conversation is quickly recovered.

“Meg’s just finishing up.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, and almost immediately the window slides shut and the door is being unlocked.

Dean enters, the quiet a relief after the chaos above. But it is by no means silent as he makes his way through the labyrinth hallways, lined with curtained doorways, a muffled cry or a distant shout coming from the semi-private rooms where the Masters work.

They can get away with leaving the rooms only curtained here, because if you were down here in the first place, you were trusted enough to behave with a certain amount of decorum, and most importantly, discretion. You were only let in here by invitation, or by reputation, and once Dean had been invited in, he earned himself enough of a rep to be called a Master himself.

And most Masters like an audience. So the curtains are ultimately for everyone’s benefit. The spectators can come and go as they please, without creating any interruption in a Master’s focus. And if a Master should decide they want privacy, all it took was a velvet rope across the door, and the guests were trusted enough to respect that.

Unfortunately, Megara is the kind of Master who prefers an audience. She likes the sound of her own voice too much, and needs a crowd to play to when her volunteers are too far gone to appreciate it. Dean doesn’t like her much. Of the female Masters that work the rooms down there, he usually would’ve preferred Kali, but her brand of punishment focuses too much on the erotic for what Dean needs at the moment. And he doesn’t want any of the men down there either. The thought of any other man besides Cas touching him right now makes his stomach churn a little, sick with the feeling of betrayal.

Meg will do. He doesn’t like her, but at least she knows what she’s doing.

He follows T through the curtain to Meg’s room, where someone is currently being uncuffed from the rack and helped down. T speaks with the leather-clad Mistress for a second, and her eyes flare with surprise when she sees Dean standing in the doorway, then quickly light up with a dangerous leer.

“Heya Deano! It’s sure been a while. What brings you to my parlour?” she asks gleefully, walking over.

“Cut the chit-chat Meg, you know what I’m here for,” he growls.

“Poor baby, had a bad day?” she smirks. Dean glares at her and she raises an eyebrow at him, finally sensing he means business. “Well then,” she says, her smile a little more professional now, “Let me work those kinks out of your shoulders,” she says, stepping back and gesturing towards the rack.

The rack, as Meg had joked, is a lot like a massage table. It’s a plank-like, padded bed that slides open and bends in the middle if you unlock it, and has a head support that you can put your face through if you lie on your stomach. The difference is that the whole thing is mounted on a large metal frame, which enables the bed to be secured in it’s normal horizontal position, or upright in a vertical position, or any number of positions between. And there are chains. Chains with leather cuffs on the end of them, to secure wrists or ankles to the hooks on the frame in whatever position required. And some chains that Dean’s pretty sure are just there for decoration. Because everything's better with a little bit of metal. And they make nice clanking sounds when things really get going.

One of Meg’s minions has just finished wiping the bed down, and the padding of it gleams in the low light like a beacon, drawing him forward. He pulls off his vest as he approaches it, and ignores the surprised murmurs from the darkened edges of the room, the old regulars who are used to seeing him dole out punishment instead of take it.

He doesn’t care what they think. He’s not there for them. He’s there for him and Cas.

He shucks off his shoes and socks as he sits down on the bed, then undoes his belt and fly before he stretches out, face down. One of Meg’s minions starts cuffing his wrists above his head, and he feels the hands of another minion at his waist, pulling his pants down his legs.

Dean shivers as his skin is exposed to naked air. It’s not cold in the room, even the padding on the bed is still warm, but as the last layers of his clothes come off, he begins to feel a nervous anticipation in his gut, somewhere between thrill and dread. And as his legs are parted, cuffed by the ankles to the frame, it washes over him, like a giant wave released from a dam as the last lock clicks into place, securing him to the rack. He hasn’t been in this position for years. Hasn’t been this vulnerable or exposed, and it sends him into a panic for a moment, struggling against his restraints.

Then the rack starts shifting, chains clanking loudly as it’s shifted to its upright position, and Dean feels his weight shifting, pulling at his arms as his wrists become the main support for his body, and he knows his struggling just adds unnecessary strain, pain that will create its own punishment if continued. He forces himself to breathe, to stop struggling, and when he’s composed himself again Meg’s face appears in front of him through the hole in the mattress.

“Let’s ride,” she smirks, before leaning in and shoving her tongue in Dean’s mouth. Dean grimaces, any last vestiges of panic replaced with utter disgust. He almost wants to spit at her when she finally pulls away, but he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. Besides, it did the trick. He’s in the moment again.

The hell if he’s going to call her ‘Mistress’ though.

“What is that?” he says, smacking his lips as if trying to identify a taste, “Peanut butter?” he snarks, and her smirk vanishes.

“I could gag you, you know,” she threatens him, “But that would be too easy wouldn’t it?” she sneers knowingly. “And I’d much rather beat that sass out of you instead,” she adds, disappearing from view.

Dean grinds his jaw at that. Now that she’s brought it up, he realizes it would have been easier to be gagged, because then he wouldn't have to speak or reply at all. Submitting himself to Meg’s punishment means he has to deal with her verbal diarrhoea as well, and not being a smartmouth in return might be the greater challenge.

As Meg’s footsteps reapproach, Dean hears a whizzing sound in the air, a couple of testing slaps against skin, and he’s pretty sure he knows what tool she’s picked up first. He can almost see it in his head, the smirk on her face as she walks up behind him, riding crop in hand, smacking the small square of leather at the end of it against her palm. It’s a good tool to use on fresh skin. Strike light enough and it’s nothing more than a teasing flick of leather. Strike harder and the entire length of it will act as a cane, leaving a searing line of heat across your skin.

Meg strokes the end of it up the back of his leg, pushing and prodding the meat of his ass with it before she flicks the leather end against him.

“Don’t tease,” he growls.

The next second he feels the heat of her body pressed against his back. “You’re on my time now Deano. And I will decide what you do or do not need,” she hisses into his ear.

Dean grits his teeth again, trying to lean away from her. But then she steps back on her own, and the next strike she reigns on him is a lot closer to what he expected. His eyes fly wide as he hisses in a sharp breath, his muscles clenching in reflex, but it takes a second for the shock to wear off before he actually starts to feel the sting of pain. He almost sighs in relief when he does, but before he can even begin to exhale Meg strikes him again, on the other cheek, just as hard.

“Why are you here, Dean?” she sighs audibly, as if she’s bored. Even as if she’s a little disappointed. As if she hasn’t begun a steady rhythm of blows across his ass. “Have you been a baaaad boy?” she coos ridiculously, adding another strike. “Answer the question!” she screeches suddenly in his ear.

“Yes!” Dean yells, mostly out of surprise, and he can almost see the smirk in her self-satisfied snicker.

She pulls back again, circling him, pausing to run the end of the crop up the back of one of his thighs, thick with muscle and providing a good amount of flesh to mark as well.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Dean,” she remarks, trailing the end of the crop down the back of his other thigh, and Dean can’t help but shiver at the tease of it on his skin, the anticipation of it.

“Bet you’ve found yourself a pet, haven’t you?” she says, and Dean hisses in a small breath again, surprised at how quickly she’d guessed correctly.

“What was that?” she asks mockingly, striking his thigh.

“Yes!” he yells out at the sting.

“Now, now, Dean. Don’t forget to answer,” she sing-songs tauntingly, striking his other thigh.

“Yes!” he snaps, trying to twist around and glare at her.

As if he doesn’t know how this works.

She picks up her rhythm again, trailing her strikes down the backs of his legs. He can already feel that strange numbness tingling in his skin where it’s begun to welt, how much more sensitive the flesh is to the pain of each strike as they continue.

“Boy or girl?” she asks. Then she cackles, “Bet it’s a boy.”

“Yes,” Dean replies, clenching his fists. He doesn’t like how easily she’s reading him, but it is what makes her so good at what she does, so he just grits his teeth and bears it.

“He must really be something to keep you away for so long,” she says, appearing in his line of vision again and leering into his face.

“Yes,” he hisses, glaring at her venomously. She takes the glare with a grin, and nods, as if she's found… whatever it is she was looking for. She circles back around, reigning down the crop again, and Dean begins to growl at some of her blows.

“So why are you here, Dean?” she asks, that earlier boredom in her voice again, laced with disappointment. “Did you have a lovers quarrel?” she jeers, holding her strikes for his answer.

“No,” Dean answers, indignant. She strikes him again, this time using the full length of the crop, and the pain is enough to steal his breath away.

“But something’s wrong, isn’t it?” She does it again, and this time Dean is grateful for it, snarling into his arm to cover up his reluctance to answer. Meg doesn’t care. “Something’s come between you.” She strikes again. “Hasn’t it?” Another. “And you don’t know how to make it better.” Again and again. “You don’t know how to fix it, like any normal person would,” she mocks him, gleefully, “You don’t even know where to begin!”

Dean cries out, unable to hold it in anymore. Unable to care. Not even enough to feel ashamed at how quickly Meg is taking him apart, both physically and mentally.

But then she stops, and suddenly she’s in his face again, cupping his jaw and holding him up so he has to look at her.

“I bet you haven’t told him a thing about you,” she says quietly, and there’s almost something sympathetic in her eyes when she looks at him that makes Dean’s skin crawl and sends his stomach plummeting through his knees. He doesn’t know how, but she knows.

He wants to spit in her face, scream, or claw her eyes out, anything to get her to stop looking at him like that. Then she says, “He was my Master too.”

And everything goes still. Just the two of them there, staring at each other in silence, no one else in the room. Nothing else in the world but the harsh reminder of the ugly past he just can’t seem to escape.

Meg sighs, dropping her eyes and pulling her hand away from his face, leaving his line of vision all together. She offers no other revelations, no other solutions, but to resume the game they have begun.

“You’re afraid to tell this new boy of yours aren’t you?” she sneers, whipping him viciously. And Dean doesn’t even bother trying to pretend he can’t answer, because she obviously knows what’s in his head. She whips him harder anyway, hard enough to make him cry out, hard enough that he couldn’t find the words even if he tried. And again, he’s grateful for it, because it’s exactly what he needs.

“You’re afraid to show him how weak you really are! How much you need him!” she exclaims, not even bothering to make it a question as she lays into him. “I bet you haven’t even told him you love him yet!” she yells, and when Dean sobs then, it’s not because of her whip. “Because you don’t think you deserve-- What is it?” Meg snaps suddenly, pausing mid-strike.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees one of Meg’s cronies rush forward to murmur in Meg’s ear, and whatever the girl says turns Meg’s annoyed frown into the kind of grin that Dean knows can only mean trouble. Meg nods, and the girl turns back to the doorway.

“Wait!” Meg calls out before the girl can get very far. “He got a name?” Meg asks, not looking at the girl, but watching Dean instead.

“Castiel,” the girl replies.

“Cas?” Dean gasps. And Meg is a very good Mistress. Because in that one gasp she catches Dean’s fear, shame, need, and everything else he’s got pent up inside… and does exactly what he’s afraid of.

“Let him in.”

~ tbc

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spn pairing: dean/castiel, genre: bdsm, type: fanfiction, genre: au, destiel is my otp, slash, spn verse: halloween (in bondage), genre: angst, fandom: supernatural, rating: r

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