Lesser of Two Evils
Title: Lesser of Two Evils
Author: tifaching
Pairing: Alastair/Dean, implied future Dean/OMC
Rating: NC/17
Warnings: Explicit sex, torture, mentions of rape.
Word count: 2700
Summary: As long as Alastair's around, Dean's the lesser of two evils. But he's working on that.
A/N: For geckoholic at the spn_j2_xmas exchange with many, many apologies for it being so darned late. I got in some of your prompts: voyeurism, slow prep, pain with pleasure and a few others, most notably the porn. Hope you enjoy!
There’s a monotonous chant coming from across the room, but Dean ignores it. Alastair’s fingers are doing all the talking he needs to pay attention to right now, the clawed tip of one, then another tunneling their way deep into Dean’s ass. Not that his mouth isn’t running also, telling Dean what a good boy he is, how pretty he looks and to spread his fucking legs further apart because if Alastair has to do it himself, Dean better not plan on his hips staying put in their sockets. Dean obliges, canting his hips and widening his stance because there’s at least two more fingers plus a thumb and a cock that’d do a Clydesdale proud needing to get inside too. He’s bent over Alastair’s tool bench, sharp implements of every kind burrowing into his flesh, but they’re not for him so he listens and obeys and goes with the flow.
Digits like desiccated leather over knobbled wood slowly corkscrew in; misshapen knuckles bruising Dean’s insides with every pass. Dean pushes against them, helping Alastair work him open and is rewarded when an agile forked tongue slithers inside, sliding over Dean’s prostate until the table’s a rattling mass of blades and irons as he writhes against it. Wickedly hooked talons snag and tear, loosing Alastair’s favorite lube to run slick and hot, easing the dry burn of his foreplay until his fist, at last, twists easily in and out. Knowing what’s coming, Dean tries to relax, like that’ll make it any easier for Alastair’s cock to press relentlessly into a space no amount prep will ever make ready for it. Alastair straightens, towering over Dean and Dean shivers in anticipation as claws drive into him, shoulder and hip, and he’s flipped onto his back.
Alastair stares down at him, fangs bared at the blood trickling from cuts scattered across skin already crowded with scars; at Dean’s dick, hard and straining against his belly. His questing tongue snakes out to sample the fresh wounds, to wind teasingly around the head of Dean’s cock and then Dean’s bent in half, knees pressed to his shoulders as Alastair bulls his way inside. Punched out cries that might qualify as screams drown out the other sounds in the room as the pressure increases and Dean feels like he’s being split right down the middle when Alastair slams all the way home. The tendons in Dean’s neck cord as he arches his back and barely restrained whimpers whistle through gritted teeth as the demon’s massive phallus comes to rest inside tissue already shredded by the demonic version of prep.
“So good for me, Dean,” Alastair whispers, bending to catch Dean’s gasps beneath reptilian lips. “So tight, still, after all these years.”
Like you don’t make sure of it every time you put me back together, Dean wants to say, but he smothers it under another groan. They need to present a united front right now in more than the obvious way and his ending up back on the rack for insubordination would blow that right out of the water. Alastair’s lips curl away from wickedly pointed teeth as he straightens up and Dean goes tense, gasping as his abused hole tries to clench around the intrusion forcing it wide.
“Yes, I do,” Alastair says pleasantly, circling his hips. He smiles as Dean lets out another cry. “And you love that I do it; don’t try to say you don’t.”
Dean doesn’t try to say it. He doesn’t even dare think it so soon after Alastair picked up on his last stray thought. Because the truth is he might love it just a little. The attention from Alastair, the praise and, if he’s being honest, he’s even learned to love the way the protuberances on the demon’s misshapen dick slide over his prostate. But most of all he loves the pain- because he deserves that, at least, even if he deserves nothing else.
Alastair knows. He didn’t spend thirty years demolishing Dean to his foundations without finding every tiny, destructive time bomb buried in Dean’s psyche. Digging his talons into the meat of Dean’s thighs he begins to thrust, gently at first, but with gradually increasing force.
At the first movement Dean’s head whips side to side as he keens uncontrollably. No matter how easy the demon’s movements are, he’s ripping Dean to shreds and the extra lube that provides doesn’t really improve the situation at all. With a jerk, Alastair lifts Dean’s legs, changes his angle of penetration and growls when Dean screams for a whole different reason. Dean’s hands flail as he tries to grip the table edges but they’re too far out of his reach. As his body slides back and forth across the crowded surface he grabs two knives and slams them through the table top, white knuckling the hilts to hold himself still enough to meet the demon’s frenetic pace.
The pain would be crippling, incapacitating if Dean hadn’t suffered so much worse at Alastair’s hands. As it is, he rides it out, agonized whimpers alternating with groans of an entirely different nature as the demon’s cock ripples endlessly over his sweet spot. Dean’s hips are moving, almost against his will, to meet Alastair’s thrusts and he comes first, biting through his lip as the demon continues his relentless assault. Semen splashes against his stomach and it’s warm, still, after all this time. Alastair could keep this up for days- weeks, but they've got work to do tonight. Dean rocks against the demon, agony in his eyes. It's Alastair's needs they're satisfying here, but Dean's got needs too and he'll do anything that'll get his itch scratched sooner.
"Soon, my boy, soon," Alastair promises, gripping Dean's chin in his claws as he continues his jackhammer thrusts. He smiles and reaches down to cup Dean's cock; already half hard again. Alastair's tied pleasure inextricably to pain for Dean and that won't end for all eternity. True to his word, the demon stills within minutes, spilling deep inside Dean with a cold so sharp it burns. Dean keeps his grip on the knives as Alastair withdraws, shuddering as the frigid ejaculate chills him to his core, waiting for the day he never warms up again; the day he truly belongs.
Dean gives himself only a moment to remember that Alastair doesn’t actually fuck him to pieces anymore before hauling himself to a sitting position and sliding off the table. He’s wide open, blood and come running down his thighs, agony radiating through him but that only feeds his hunger. One more task and then he’s free.
Alastair backs away from the table and Dean follows him, legs steady. How to focus through any level of pain was a lesson taught early and often. The demon stops when he hits the wall, when there’s a clear line of sight from anywhere in the cell. Dean drops to his knees, palms on his thighs, and takes Alastair’s gore coated member into his mouth.
It’s quiet now, only the wet sound of Dean sucking disturbing the air, so when the mumbling from the other side of the room stops and is replaced with a soft grunt of disgust, it’s perfectly audible. Alastair and Dean turn in unison to the man across the room. His eyes are fixed on them because Alastair wouldn’t let him look away, but Dean knows the type. He’d have watched them anyway, glaring disapprovingly the entire time. He flicks his gaze up to Alastair who just smiles.
“Don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you.” The demon groans softly as Dean tongues a particularly sensitive spot. “You are most definitely next on the agenda.” He waves a hand. “Please, don’t let us interrupt. I believe the twenty-third psalm was next, if you keep to your order.”
Dean’s working Alastair hard, need building. This little display is all part of the first lesson for the fresh soul waiting across the cell, but that’s not all it is. Alastair’s the master, Dean the apprentice and that lesson is reinforced every chance the demon gets. Still, he’s not going to make Dean wait much longer. Alastair loves to watch him work. Dean can feel the pride in his teacher’s gaze when he unleashes his anger, his inventiveness, his brutality.
With one final grunt the demon’s flooding Dean’s mouth, and Dean’s swallowing, waiting for permission to free his boiling rage to counteract the ice Alastair has filled him with. He looks up at the demon, everything he’s feeling stark in his eyes and Alastair smiles.
“Have at him, my boy.”
Permission given, Dean lifts his hands from his thighs and flows to his feet, licking Alastair’s release from his lips. He pads across the room toward the man spreadeagled in what Alastair calls “the welcome box”, his fingers itching to reach for a knife or two as he passes the table. A disapproving cough from behind sends him on empty handed; Dean’s a ‘get the job done right away no matter what method you use’ type of guy but Alastair’s gradually teaching him the joys of taking it slow, using a little finesse. It’s hard, but Dean thinks he’s getting the hang of it.
There’s terror in the man’s eyes as he pulls frantically at the chains binding his ankles and wrists but his obvious repulsion at what he’s just witnessed is giving it some stiff competition. Jumbled Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s tumble from his lips, but as Dean draws closer the words change. “Sodomy is an abomination,” he hisses, lips pursed with contempt. “Consorting with demons is a sin against the Lord.”
Dean’s anger rises, threatens to overflow as he bares his teeth, aching to bury them in the other man’s neck. He swallows it back down and barks out a laugh, shuddering at Alastair’s deeper rumble behind him. “I hate to break it to you, pal, but you didn’t exactly get where you are today by following the path of ‘what would Jesus do?’”
The man is middle aged and flabby, pale skin covering the paunch of his belly, a sparse line of fine grey hair down the center of his chest, but Dean learned long ago that physical attractiveness or lack thereof means nothing down here. Alastair’s shown him how to look past whatever exterior is in front of him and dig out the beauty hiding deep inside. One look at the pinched face and small, mean eyes tells him that this is just another coward trying to hide his failings behind religion. Not like he hadn’t met his fair share of those while he was still alive
“Let me guess,” he adds, voice dropping to a growl. “Church every Sunday, grace before every meal, look down on just about everyone and wouldn’t give a dime to a person starving on the street?”
Blue eyes skitter across Dean’s naked body, dart to Alastair and away again. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he avers, voice hardly shaking at all. “He’s testing me.”
“You’ve already failed.” Dean steps closer, runs a hand slick with various bodily fluids down the man’s midsection, grinning as he tries unsuccessfully to pull away. He leans forward until their lips almost touch before sliding around to breathe into his ear. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you put out on the first date. We’re going to get to know each other a lot better first.”
“You?” The man looks startled; eyes Alastair over Dean’s shoulder, not focusing back on Dean until a firm hand grips his chin, holding it still.
Dean’s grin is sharp and flecks of black dance across green in his gaze. “You were expecting someone else?” He laughs at the expression of shock on the other man’s face. “I’m the lesser of two evils,” he says with a shrug. “But I’m working my way up. What I did for him, you’ll do for me. If I want it.” He presses a kiss to his newest project’s forehead, relishing the way the chains rattle as the man flinches away. It had taken a long time for it to sink in, but what Alastair did to him wasn’t about sex. Mostly. It was about power. And now it’s Dean’s power to wield. “You’ll fall on your knees and be grateful for whatever relatively pain free time you get to spend sucking dick. You’ll beg for it.”
“I won’t,” the man grates out in a voice already hoarse. “It’s unnatural. There’s nothing that you can do that will make me.”
Dean doesn’t blame him because, really, if anyone had told him he’d willingly fellate demons in Hell, he’d have had the exact same reaction. Still, here he is, not demon yet, but not remotely human either, swallowing Alastair’s cock on a daily basis. Here they both are. And one of them, at least, has it all in front of him.
“That’s the spirit,” he whispers, circling the man like a hunting cat. “But you will do it. You’ll do a hell of a lot worse before I'm finished with you.”
"Worse," the man says, like the notion of anything being worse than sex with another man is inconceivable. Dean's looking forward to teaching him differently.
"Here," he says, grabbing an axe off the table. "Suppose I told you there's a woman in the next room over; naked, chained, terrified. Sure that all this is a mistake, just like you are. Suppose I told you that you could go free if you'd take this axe and go chop her into little bits. What would you say?"
The man spits and Dean feels a surge of elation. Maybe he’s finally getting out of the remedial torture class and this time Alastair’s given him a soul that will hold out more than a week. Most break within days, if not hours and that’s not teaching him what to do if he’s in it for the long haul. Alastair hadn’t even gotten around to fucking Dean until he’d been in hell a decade and a half and the problem with souls like this holy roller is that as soon as they figure out that giving in will get them a chance to punish what they consider the real sinners they’re off the rack in a heartbeat. Which, of course, is the idea, but damn it, if he’d lasted thirty years there must be millions of souls out there that held out fifty, a hundred, hell, a thousand years.
“One step at a time,” Alastair murmurs from right behind him and Dean nods, turning to choose his tools from the table. “You’re the lesser of millions of evils right now, but I’ve got great faith in you, my boy. With your talent and my tutelage you’ll rise higher than you can imagine.”
Dean flushes, tries to tamp down the warmth he feels at Alastair’s words, but there’s a small smile on his face when he stands in front of his newest assignment. “Well, here we go,” he says voice deceptively mild as he places the blade of his knife at the man’s temple and slices him open to the chin. “I know God is your co-pilot, but he’s going to bail on you, so just say the word when you’re ready to deal.” Screams echo through the chamber as the knife slashes again and again and Dean drinks blood fresh from the open wounds.
Hours pass and by the time Alastair calls a halt to the proceedings, gore splashes underfoot with each step. Dean’s still whirling around the wailing lump of tattered flesh and the demon grips his arm and physically hauls him away.
“Enough,” he snarls, easily evading the knife strike Dean thrusts his way.
Dean drops his weapons, chest heaving with exertion and rage. “No.” he replies, trying to reach the quivering remains past Alastair’s enormous body.
“Yes,” Alastair growls, giving him a shake. “We’ll come back in the morning but right now everyone needs some time to reflect on what just happened. Your new friend here has to process some things and you and I need to head home to discuss a few poor applications of the techniques I taught you.” He runs a hand down Dean’s blood caked chest to fondle the swollen flesh between his legs. “As well as to take care of a few other necessities.”
With a thought from Alastair, the bits of tendon and bone hanging from the chains become whole again, knit into a body, clean and unmarred. Terror permeates the cell and Dean breathes it in like the aroma of cheeseburgers.
“Got something you want to say to me?” he asks, holding up his weaponless hands. The man shakes his head, teeth tightly clamped and Dean gives him an approving smile. “Good,” he whispers, gripping the man’s arm. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Author: tifaching
Pairing: Alastair/Dean, implied future Dean/OMC
Rating: NC/17
Warnings: Explicit sex, torture, mentions of rape.
Word count: 2700
Summary: As long as Alastair's around, Dean's the lesser of two evils. But he's working on that.
A/N: For geckoholic at the spn_j2_xmas exchange with many, many apologies for it being so darned late. I got in some of your prompts: voyeurism, slow prep, pain with pleasure and a few others, most notably the porn. Hope you enjoy!
There’s a monotonous chant coming from across the room, but Dean ignores it. Alastair’s fingers are doing all the talking he needs to pay attention to right now, the clawed tip of one, then another tunneling their way deep into Dean’s ass. Not that his mouth isn’t running also, telling Dean what a good boy he is, how pretty he looks and to spread his fucking legs further apart because if Alastair has to do it himself, Dean better not plan on his hips staying put in their sockets. Dean obliges, canting his hips and widening his stance because there’s at least two more fingers plus a thumb and a cock that’d do a Clydesdale proud needing to get inside too. He’s bent over Alastair’s tool bench, sharp implements of every kind burrowing into his flesh, but they’re not for him so he listens and obeys and goes with the flow.
Digits like desiccated leather over knobbled wood slowly corkscrew in; misshapen knuckles bruising Dean’s insides with every pass. Dean pushes against them, helping Alastair work him open and is rewarded when an agile forked tongue slithers inside, sliding over Dean’s prostate until the table’s a rattling mass of blades and irons as he writhes against it. Wickedly hooked talons snag and tear, loosing Alastair’s favorite lube to run slick and hot, easing the dry burn of his foreplay until his fist, at last, twists easily in and out. Knowing what’s coming, Dean tries to relax, like that’ll make it any easier for Alastair’s cock to press relentlessly into a space no amount prep will ever make ready for it. Alastair straightens, towering over Dean and Dean shivers in anticipation as claws drive into him, shoulder and hip, and he’s flipped onto his back.
Alastair stares down at him, fangs bared at the blood trickling from cuts scattered across skin already crowded with scars; at Dean’s dick, hard and straining against his belly. His questing tongue snakes out to sample the fresh wounds, to wind teasingly around the head of Dean’s cock and then Dean’s bent in half, knees pressed to his shoulders as Alastair bulls his way inside. Punched out cries that might qualify as screams drown out the other sounds in the room as the pressure increases and Dean feels like he’s being split right down the middle when Alastair slams all the way home. The tendons in Dean’s neck cord as he arches his back and barely restrained whimpers whistle through gritted teeth as the demon’s massive phallus comes to rest inside tissue already shredded by the demonic version of prep.
“So good for me, Dean,” Alastair whispers, bending to catch Dean’s gasps beneath reptilian lips. “So tight, still, after all these years.”
Like you don’t make sure of it every time you put me back together, Dean wants to say, but he smothers it under another groan. They need to present a united front right now in more than the obvious way and his ending up back on the rack for insubordination would blow that right out of the water. Alastair’s lips curl away from wickedly pointed teeth as he straightens up and Dean goes tense, gasping as his abused hole tries to clench around the intrusion forcing it wide.
“Yes, I do,” Alastair says pleasantly, circling his hips. He smiles as Dean lets out another cry. “And you love that I do it; don’t try to say you don’t.”
Dean doesn’t try to say it. He doesn’t even dare think it so soon after Alastair picked up on his last stray thought. Because the truth is he might love it just a little. The attention from Alastair, the praise and, if he’s being honest, he’s even learned to love the way the protuberances on the demon’s misshapen dick slide over his prostate. But most of all he loves the pain- because he deserves that, at least, even if he deserves nothing else.
Alastair knows. He didn’t spend thirty years demolishing Dean to his foundations without finding every tiny, destructive time bomb buried in Dean’s psyche. Digging his talons into the meat of Dean’s thighs he begins to thrust, gently at first, but with gradually increasing force.
At the first movement Dean’s head whips side to side as he keens uncontrollably. No matter how easy the demon’s movements are, he’s ripping Dean to shreds and the extra lube that provides doesn’t really improve the situation at all. With a jerk, Alastair lifts Dean’s legs, changes his angle of penetration and growls when Dean screams for a whole different reason. Dean’s hands flail as he tries to grip the table edges but they’re too far out of his reach. As his body slides back and forth across the crowded surface he grabs two knives and slams them through the table top, white knuckling the hilts to hold himself still enough to meet the demon’s frenetic pace.
The pain would be crippling, incapacitating if Dean hadn’t suffered so much worse at Alastair’s hands. As it is, he rides it out, agonized whimpers alternating with groans of an entirely different nature as the demon’s cock ripples endlessly over his sweet spot. Dean’s hips are moving, almost against his will, to meet Alastair’s thrusts and he comes first, biting through his lip as the demon continues his relentless assault. Semen splashes against his stomach and it’s warm, still, after all this time. Alastair could keep this up for days- weeks, but they've got work to do tonight. Dean rocks against the demon, agony in his eyes. It's Alastair's needs they're satisfying here, but Dean's got needs too and he'll do anything that'll get his itch scratched sooner.
"Soon, my boy, soon," Alastair promises, gripping Dean's chin in his claws as he continues his jackhammer thrusts. He smiles and reaches down to cup Dean's cock; already half hard again. Alastair's tied pleasure inextricably to pain for Dean and that won't end for all eternity. True to his word, the demon stills within minutes, spilling deep inside Dean with a cold so sharp it burns. Dean keeps his grip on the knives as Alastair withdraws, shuddering as the frigid ejaculate chills him to his core, waiting for the day he never warms up again; the day he truly belongs.
Dean gives himself only a moment to remember that Alastair doesn’t actually fuck him to pieces anymore before hauling himself to a sitting position and sliding off the table. He’s wide open, blood and come running down his thighs, agony radiating through him but that only feeds his hunger. One more task and then he’s free.
Alastair backs away from the table and Dean follows him, legs steady. How to focus through any level of pain was a lesson taught early and often. The demon stops when he hits the wall, when there’s a clear line of sight from anywhere in the cell. Dean drops to his knees, palms on his thighs, and takes Alastair’s gore coated member into his mouth.
It’s quiet now, only the wet sound of Dean sucking disturbing the air, so when the mumbling from the other side of the room stops and is replaced with a soft grunt of disgust, it’s perfectly audible. Alastair and Dean turn in unison to the man across the room. His eyes are fixed on them because Alastair wouldn’t let him look away, but Dean knows the type. He’d have watched them anyway, glaring disapprovingly the entire time. He flicks his gaze up to Alastair who just smiles.
“Don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you.” The demon groans softly as Dean tongues a particularly sensitive spot. “You are most definitely next on the agenda.” He waves a hand. “Please, don’t let us interrupt. I believe the twenty-third psalm was next, if you keep to your order.”
Dean’s working Alastair hard, need building. This little display is all part of the first lesson for the fresh soul waiting across the cell, but that’s not all it is. Alastair’s the master, Dean the apprentice and that lesson is reinforced every chance the demon gets. Still, he’s not going to make Dean wait much longer. Alastair loves to watch him work. Dean can feel the pride in his teacher’s gaze when he unleashes his anger, his inventiveness, his brutality.
With one final grunt the demon’s flooding Dean’s mouth, and Dean’s swallowing, waiting for permission to free his boiling rage to counteract the ice Alastair has filled him with. He looks up at the demon, everything he’s feeling stark in his eyes and Alastair smiles.
“Have at him, my boy.”
Permission given, Dean lifts his hands from his thighs and flows to his feet, licking Alastair’s release from his lips. He pads across the room toward the man spreadeagled in what Alastair calls “the welcome box”, his fingers itching to reach for a knife or two as he passes the table. A disapproving cough from behind sends him on empty handed; Dean’s a ‘get the job done right away no matter what method you use’ type of guy but Alastair’s gradually teaching him the joys of taking it slow, using a little finesse. It’s hard, but Dean thinks he’s getting the hang of it.
There’s terror in the man’s eyes as he pulls frantically at the chains binding his ankles and wrists but his obvious repulsion at what he’s just witnessed is giving it some stiff competition. Jumbled Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s tumble from his lips, but as Dean draws closer the words change. “Sodomy is an abomination,” he hisses, lips pursed with contempt. “Consorting with demons is a sin against the Lord.”
Dean’s anger rises, threatens to overflow as he bares his teeth, aching to bury them in the other man’s neck. He swallows it back down and barks out a laugh, shuddering at Alastair’s deeper rumble behind him. “I hate to break it to you, pal, but you didn’t exactly get where you are today by following the path of ‘what would Jesus do?’”
The man is middle aged and flabby, pale skin covering the paunch of his belly, a sparse line of fine grey hair down the center of his chest, but Dean learned long ago that physical attractiveness or lack thereof means nothing down here. Alastair’s shown him how to look past whatever exterior is in front of him and dig out the beauty hiding deep inside. One look at the pinched face and small, mean eyes tells him that this is just another coward trying to hide his failings behind religion. Not like he hadn’t met his fair share of those while he was still alive
“Let me guess,” he adds, voice dropping to a growl. “Church every Sunday, grace before every meal, look down on just about everyone and wouldn’t give a dime to a person starving on the street?”
Blue eyes skitter across Dean’s naked body, dart to Alastair and away again. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he avers, voice hardly shaking at all. “He’s testing me.”
“You’ve already failed.” Dean steps closer, runs a hand slick with various bodily fluids down the man’s midsection, grinning as he tries unsuccessfully to pull away. He leans forward until their lips almost touch before sliding around to breathe into his ear. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you put out on the first date. We’re going to get to know each other a lot better first.”
“You?” The man looks startled; eyes Alastair over Dean’s shoulder, not focusing back on Dean until a firm hand grips his chin, holding it still.
Dean’s grin is sharp and flecks of black dance across green in his gaze. “You were expecting someone else?” He laughs at the expression of shock on the other man’s face. “I’m the lesser of two evils,” he says with a shrug. “But I’m working my way up. What I did for him, you’ll do for me. If I want it.” He presses a kiss to his newest project’s forehead, relishing the way the chains rattle as the man flinches away. It had taken a long time for it to sink in, but what Alastair did to him wasn’t about sex. Mostly. It was about power. And now it’s Dean’s power to wield. “You’ll fall on your knees and be grateful for whatever relatively pain free time you get to spend sucking dick. You’ll beg for it.”
“I won’t,” the man grates out in a voice already hoarse. “It’s unnatural. There’s nothing that you can do that will make me.”
Dean doesn’t blame him because, really, if anyone had told him he’d willingly fellate demons in Hell, he’d have had the exact same reaction. Still, here he is, not demon yet, but not remotely human either, swallowing Alastair’s cock on a daily basis. Here they both are. And one of them, at least, has it all in front of him.
“That’s the spirit,” he whispers, circling the man like a hunting cat. “But you will do it. You’ll do a hell of a lot worse before I'm finished with you.”
"Worse," the man says, like the notion of anything being worse than sex with another man is inconceivable. Dean's looking forward to teaching him differently.
"Here," he says, grabbing an axe off the table. "Suppose I told you there's a woman in the next room over; naked, chained, terrified. Sure that all this is a mistake, just like you are. Suppose I told you that you could go free if you'd take this axe and go chop her into little bits. What would you say?"
The man spits and Dean feels a surge of elation. Maybe he’s finally getting out of the remedial torture class and this time Alastair’s given him a soul that will hold out more than a week. Most break within days, if not hours and that’s not teaching him what to do if he’s in it for the long haul. Alastair hadn’t even gotten around to fucking Dean until he’d been in hell a decade and a half and the problem with souls like this holy roller is that as soon as they figure out that giving in will get them a chance to punish what they consider the real sinners they’re off the rack in a heartbeat. Which, of course, is the idea, but damn it, if he’d lasted thirty years there must be millions of souls out there that held out fifty, a hundred, hell, a thousand years.
“One step at a time,” Alastair murmurs from right behind him and Dean nods, turning to choose his tools from the table. “You’re the lesser of millions of evils right now, but I’ve got great faith in you, my boy. With your talent and my tutelage you’ll rise higher than you can imagine.”
Dean flushes, tries to tamp down the warmth he feels at Alastair’s words, but there’s a small smile on his face when he stands in front of his newest assignment. “Well, here we go,” he says voice deceptively mild as he places the blade of his knife at the man’s temple and slices him open to the chin. “I know God is your co-pilot, but he’s going to bail on you, so just say the word when you’re ready to deal.” Screams echo through the chamber as the knife slashes again and again and Dean drinks blood fresh from the open wounds.
Hours pass and by the time Alastair calls a halt to the proceedings, gore splashes underfoot with each step. Dean’s still whirling around the wailing lump of tattered flesh and the demon grips his arm and physically hauls him away.
“Enough,” he snarls, easily evading the knife strike Dean thrusts his way.
Dean drops his weapons, chest heaving with exertion and rage. “No.” he replies, trying to reach the quivering remains past Alastair’s enormous body.
“Yes,” Alastair growls, giving him a shake. “We’ll come back in the morning but right now everyone needs some time to reflect on what just happened. Your new friend here has to process some things and you and I need to head home to discuss a few poor applications of the techniques I taught you.” He runs a hand down Dean’s blood caked chest to fondle the swollen flesh between his legs. “As well as to take care of a few other necessities.”
With a thought from Alastair, the bits of tendon and bone hanging from the chains become whole again, knit into a body, clean and unmarred. Terror permeates the cell and Dean breathes it in like the aroma of cheeseburgers.
“Got something you want to say to me?” he asks, holding up his weaponless hands. The man shakes his head, teeth tightly clamped and Dean gives him an approving smile. “Good,” he whispers, gripping the man’s arm. “I’ll see you in the morning.”