"on a dark desert highway"
“on a dark desert highway”
Summary: In Hell, Alastair's the teacher, and Dean and Meg are the students. There's only room for one favorite.
Warnings: non-con, torture, general ‘if you didn’t know I was twisted before, you really do now’-ness
A/N: Written for the hoodie_time Writing Between the Lines challenge, for this prompt (87), by sistabro.
Disclaimer: Not sure Dean would want to own himself after what I put him through in this story, but still, he’s not mine. Title is taken from “Hotel California” by The Eagles.
Wordcount: around 1600
This week's theme is crucifixion and it's Meg's turn behind the knife.
Dean had gone first, nailed her up on the splinteriest piece of wood he could find and then got down to business. It took three days before Alastair judged her to be sufficiently tortured.
Dean's hoping to last at least that long, hopefully longer.
~~~~~
It’s a sad thing, when your only desire is to be better at dying than someone else, but it’s what Dean’s got left. Meg had already beat him at giving Alastair a blowjob, not for lack of effort, but Dean figures that one wasn’t really his fault- there was only so much acid you could swallow before your throat gave out.
Oh, no, Dean’s not keeping tallies or anything, but he almost smiles when he remembers how much better he was than Meg at carving. Just like Halloween, she was, and if he’d called her Jamie Lee a couple of times, he wasn’t sorry.
It was Meg’s turn to choose this week, though, and like the bitch she was, she’d volunteered Dean to go first.
Crucifixion. Dean was never much of a churchgoer unless he was burning them down, but maybe that’s coming back to bite him in the ass. And by ass he means wrists and feet. He had to give it to Meg; she was creative. The thing he hates most about it is that, when he’s up there himself, and Meg’s spindly little nails are ripping through his flesh- he wishes he’d thought of it himself.
Dean had chosen thick, sturdy nails when he’d done Meg, thinking that she would really feel it with each ram of his hammer (just like thatonetime after class, when he’d rammed his own hammer up in her and she’d liked it goddammit she’d screamed for more). At first he thinks Meg’s kidding when she brings out the nails she’s chosen for him. There’s no way they’re going to hold him up there for very long. Then he swallows, hard, realizing: that’s the point.
~~~~~
It was a few years ago that Alastair first asked him. “Did you ever hear of the prison experiment? Which school was it at, again? Oh… Stanford. You remember Stanford, don’t you, Dean?”
Alastair has his own unique inflection, like he manages to inflict pain even on the words themselves.
“Stanford,” Dean had choked out, pretending to think. “That’s the one in California, right?” The problem there was that he wasn’t entirely sure if he knew anymore.
“Very good, Dean.” Alastair had stroked his head, and his tongue had explored the chasm of Dean’s mouth for so long that Dean started to forget that they didn’t used to be joined together.
That was back when Meg’s shoes still had heels on them. That bruise on Dean’s chest took weeksmonthsyears to heal. Meg didn’t like it when Alastair spent so much time on just Dean.
~~~~~
By the third day of her crucifixion, Meg’s lips had split open, and when Dean cut her down, the sand stuck all over her body, mixing with the blood and bodily fluids. Dean thought that she was a whole hell of a long way past the ministrations of ChapStick and Banana Boat.
A dark desert highway- that was what Hell was, for this particular lesson. It’s been a long time since Dean could recognize the irony in that.
There wasn’t time to fuck in between Meg’s crucifixion and his own. Dean’s disappointed with that, too- he wanted to know if she was even deader inside now than she used to be, he wanted to feel it.
His left arm was the first to go, flopping down to his side sickeningly, making the other nails shift. He’s hanging lopsided on his cross, the omnipresent sun glaring down and telling him that there’s no respite, and there never will be. These are the rules of Hell. It will always be sunny, it will always be hot, and Dean will always bleed, but never enough.
His other arm gives way not long after. Dean can hear the muscles in his arm tearing, then he’s falling face forward and the nails are ripping out of his feet.
“Jesus,” Dean says into the sand, once he’s got his breath back. “You got me good.”
“Irony,” Meg smiles. “How quaint.”
Dean blinks grit out of the corners of his eyes. He’s not sure what she’s talking about.
Alastair claps his hands before either of them can do anything else, though.
“What an interesting and… informative… class today. I know I learned something.” He chuckles to himself, long and drawn-out, like a donkey choking on its own blood.
~~~~~
“Welcome to the Hotel California,” Alastair had said on the first day. “You know how the rest goes, don’t you, Dean?”
And Dean did check out, sometimes, more and more often as the years went by. Alastair always brought him back though- the gravity to his Earth. Or maybe it was the other way around. Dean’s not sure. There’s no time for science down here, or at least not unless the teacher says there is.
One of Meg’s fingernails is lodged in Dean’s back. That happened sometimes. Hell, Dean even lost a whole finger once, not to mention other things, but they always grew back. Personally, Meg had said, she liked his dick better the second time around. Alastair had agreed. Much better.
Meg received a better grade on her crucifixion than Dean did. It’s the little things- it’s her smirk, the way she almost dances around Alastair, the way Dean wants to rip out her eyelashes individually and feel the delicate bones in her neck snap, one by one, the xylophone in Hell’s orchestra.
It wasn’t really fair, Dean thought, since he’d hardly been crucified. It was the creativity, though- Alastair loved creativity. Dean strives to do better next time. He will.
~~~~~
“So,” Meg says the morning of Dean’s choice day. Her tongue’s poking out of her mouth like a bloated corpse’s. “Whatcha got for me today, Dean?”
“Surprise,” Dean grunts, focusing on the image in his head. Blonde hair, and was that an umbrella? Her hair was blonde, he’s pretty sure, but sometimes he gets mixed up. There was a red leather jacket, too, and a girl screaming- everything’s blurred together and then it’s just his mom, and he almost forgot what her hair looked like, because there was so much blood in it that it looked red.
He’s interrupted by Alastair’s arrival. He shakes his head to clear it, and he and Meg line up, elbow-to-elbow, ready for the day’s lesson.
Lessons are integral, Alastair had explained to them. They build on each other. You can take what you learn from them and apply it, anywhere you like. This last part made Alastair smile. It was either terrible in the best way, or wonderful in the worst.
~~~~~
Meg’s got guts; Dean will give her that, too. He ties her intestines in a bow. It’s the little things.
Alastair circles around Dean as he works, his hand sometimes flitting to Dean’s shoulder, steadying his hand.
It takes hours, but by the time Dean’s done, Meg’s a work of art. It had started out a Dalí but morphed into a Picasso, and by the end it’s more of a Pollack than anything else. Alastair is impressed. Finally living up to your potential, he tells Dean, and his embrace feels like coming home after a long war.
Later on, when Meg’s… organizing… Dean, he realizes something. It wasn’t so much that he needed it anymore but that he wanted it. There was a huge thick line of distinction between the need and the want, a line of crusty blood, after Meg had dragged him halfway across the desert.
“Oh, Dean-o,” Meg coos to him, after she can haul him no further. She caresses his cheek, then squats down and straddles him. “You’re so much more fun than Johnny was. I have to say, I love a man who’s not afraid to scream.”
A couple of Dean’s ribs are poking through his skin. Dean knows this because, after Meg’s finished with him this time, there are small corresponding puncture wounds on her chest.
“Blood makes a decent lubricant,” Meg observes, and Dean grimaces an agreement. This isn’t the first time they’ve discovered this.
This was all sometime after the year of the Inferno (damn Meg’s meatsuit and its liberal arts education), but still before Meg decided to play John Grisham and put Dean on trial.
~~~~~
Alastair had loved that one even more than the crucifixion.
“From channeling Andrew Lloyd to 12 Angry Men… Meg, I’m impressed.” He’d kissed her then, right in front of Dean, and Dean can see just how hard Meg’s working for those participation points.
It’s going to be a long trial, Dean can tell already. The jury’s impatient, eager to hear about all the blood and gore he’s inflicted. Alastair’s settled a wig over his head. If Dean looks closely, he can see that it’s crawling with maggots.
“I’m going to cross-examine you until you’re good and crucified,” Meg seethes in his ear, but Dean’s not listening. He’s picturing the end of the trial, his closing remarks.
Why’d you do it, Meg would ask him keenly, and Dean would laugh and duck his head, maybe catch the eye of a girl in the front row of the jury box.
For the Hell of it, he’d say. Just… for the Hell of it.
Summary: In Hell, Alastair's the teacher, and Dean and Meg are the students. There's only room for one favorite.
Warnings: non-con, torture, general ‘if you didn’t know I was twisted before, you really do now’-ness
A/N: Written for the hoodie_time Writing Between the Lines challenge, for this prompt (87), by sistabro.
Disclaimer: Not sure Dean would want to own himself after what I put him through in this story, but still, he’s not mine. Title is taken from “Hotel California” by The Eagles.
Wordcount: around 1600
This week's theme is crucifixion and it's Meg's turn behind the knife.
Dean had gone first, nailed her up on the splinteriest piece of wood he could find and then got down to business. It took three days before Alastair judged her to be sufficiently tortured.
Dean's hoping to last at least that long, hopefully longer.
~~~~~
It’s a sad thing, when your only desire is to be better at dying than someone else, but it’s what Dean’s got left. Meg had already beat him at giving Alastair a blowjob, not for lack of effort, but Dean figures that one wasn’t really his fault- there was only so much acid you could swallow before your throat gave out.
Oh, no, Dean’s not keeping tallies or anything, but he almost smiles when he remembers how much better he was than Meg at carving. Just like Halloween, she was, and if he’d called her Jamie Lee a couple of times, he wasn’t sorry.
It was Meg’s turn to choose this week, though, and like the bitch she was, she’d volunteered Dean to go first.
Crucifixion. Dean was never much of a churchgoer unless he was burning them down, but maybe that’s coming back to bite him in the ass. And by ass he means wrists and feet. He had to give it to Meg; she was creative. The thing he hates most about it is that, when he’s up there himself, and Meg’s spindly little nails are ripping through his flesh- he wishes he’d thought of it himself.
Dean had chosen thick, sturdy nails when he’d done Meg, thinking that she would really feel it with each ram of his hammer (just like thatonetime after class, when he’d rammed his own hammer up in her and she’d liked it goddammit she’d screamed for more). At first he thinks Meg’s kidding when she brings out the nails she’s chosen for him. There’s no way they’re going to hold him up there for very long. Then he swallows, hard, realizing: that’s the point.
~~~~~
It was a few years ago that Alastair first asked him. “Did you ever hear of the prison experiment? Which school was it at, again? Oh… Stanford. You remember Stanford, don’t you, Dean?”
Alastair has his own unique inflection, like he manages to inflict pain even on the words themselves.
“Stanford,” Dean had choked out, pretending to think. “That’s the one in California, right?” The problem there was that he wasn’t entirely sure if he knew anymore.
“Very good, Dean.” Alastair had stroked his head, and his tongue had explored the chasm of Dean’s mouth for so long that Dean started to forget that they didn’t used to be joined together.
That was back when Meg’s shoes still had heels on them. That bruise on Dean’s chest took weeksmonthsyears to heal. Meg didn’t like it when Alastair spent so much time on just Dean.
~~~~~
By the third day of her crucifixion, Meg’s lips had split open, and when Dean cut her down, the sand stuck all over her body, mixing with the blood and bodily fluids. Dean thought that she was a whole hell of a long way past the ministrations of ChapStick and Banana Boat.
A dark desert highway- that was what Hell was, for this particular lesson. It’s been a long time since Dean could recognize the irony in that.
There wasn’t time to fuck in between Meg’s crucifixion and his own. Dean’s disappointed with that, too- he wanted to know if she was even deader inside now than she used to be, he wanted to feel it.
His left arm was the first to go, flopping down to his side sickeningly, making the other nails shift. He’s hanging lopsided on his cross, the omnipresent sun glaring down and telling him that there’s no respite, and there never will be. These are the rules of Hell. It will always be sunny, it will always be hot, and Dean will always bleed, but never enough.
His other arm gives way not long after. Dean can hear the muscles in his arm tearing, then he’s falling face forward and the nails are ripping out of his feet.
“Jesus,” Dean says into the sand, once he’s got his breath back. “You got me good.”
“Irony,” Meg smiles. “How quaint.”
Dean blinks grit out of the corners of his eyes. He’s not sure what she’s talking about.
Alastair claps his hands before either of them can do anything else, though.
“What an interesting and… informative… class today. I know I learned something.” He chuckles to himself, long and drawn-out, like a donkey choking on its own blood.
~~~~~
“Welcome to the Hotel California,” Alastair had said on the first day. “You know how the rest goes, don’t you, Dean?”
And Dean did check out, sometimes, more and more often as the years went by. Alastair always brought him back though- the gravity to his Earth. Or maybe it was the other way around. Dean’s not sure. There’s no time for science down here, or at least not unless the teacher says there is.
One of Meg’s fingernails is lodged in Dean’s back. That happened sometimes. Hell, Dean even lost a whole finger once, not to mention other things, but they always grew back. Personally, Meg had said, she liked his dick better the second time around. Alastair had agreed. Much better.
Meg received a better grade on her crucifixion than Dean did. It’s the little things- it’s her smirk, the way she almost dances around Alastair, the way Dean wants to rip out her eyelashes individually and feel the delicate bones in her neck snap, one by one, the xylophone in Hell’s orchestra.
It wasn’t really fair, Dean thought, since he’d hardly been crucified. It was the creativity, though- Alastair loved creativity. Dean strives to do better next time. He will.
~~~~~
“So,” Meg says the morning of Dean’s choice day. Her tongue’s poking out of her mouth like a bloated corpse’s. “Whatcha got for me today, Dean?”
“Surprise,” Dean grunts, focusing on the image in his head. Blonde hair, and was that an umbrella? Her hair was blonde, he’s pretty sure, but sometimes he gets mixed up. There was a red leather jacket, too, and a girl screaming- everything’s blurred together and then it’s just his mom, and he almost forgot what her hair looked like, because there was so much blood in it that it looked red.
He’s interrupted by Alastair’s arrival. He shakes his head to clear it, and he and Meg line up, elbow-to-elbow, ready for the day’s lesson.
Lessons are integral, Alastair had explained to them. They build on each other. You can take what you learn from them and apply it, anywhere you like. This last part made Alastair smile. It was either terrible in the best way, or wonderful in the worst.
~~~~~
Meg’s got guts; Dean will give her that, too. He ties her intestines in a bow. It’s the little things.
Alastair circles around Dean as he works, his hand sometimes flitting to Dean’s shoulder, steadying his hand.
It takes hours, but by the time Dean’s done, Meg’s a work of art. It had started out a Dalí but morphed into a Picasso, and by the end it’s more of a Pollack than anything else. Alastair is impressed. Finally living up to your potential, he tells Dean, and his embrace feels like coming home after a long war.
Later on, when Meg’s… organizing… Dean, he realizes something. It wasn’t so much that he needed it anymore but that he wanted it. There was a huge thick line of distinction between the need and the want, a line of crusty blood, after Meg had dragged him halfway across the desert.
“Oh, Dean-o,” Meg coos to him, after she can haul him no further. She caresses his cheek, then squats down and straddles him. “You’re so much more fun than Johnny was. I have to say, I love a man who’s not afraid to scream.”
A couple of Dean’s ribs are poking through his skin. Dean knows this because, after Meg’s finished with him this time, there are small corresponding puncture wounds on her chest.
“Blood makes a decent lubricant,” Meg observes, and Dean grimaces an agreement. This isn’t the first time they’ve discovered this.
This was all sometime after the year of the Inferno (damn Meg’s meatsuit and its liberal arts education), but still before Meg decided to play John Grisham and put Dean on trial.
~~~~~
Alastair had loved that one even more than the crucifixion.
“From channeling Andrew Lloyd to 12 Angry Men… Meg, I’m impressed.” He’d kissed her then, right in front of Dean, and Dean can see just how hard Meg’s working for those participation points.
It’s going to be a long trial, Dean can tell already. The jury’s impatient, eager to hear about all the blood and gore he’s inflicted. Alastair’s settled a wig over his head. If Dean looks closely, he can see that it’s crawling with maggots.
“I’m going to cross-examine you until you’re good and crucified,” Meg seethes in his ear, but Dean’s not listening. He’s picturing the end of the trial, his closing remarks.
Why’d you do it, Meg would ask him keenly, and Dean would laugh and duck his head, maybe catch the eye of a girl in the front row of the jury box.
For the Hell of it, he’d say. Just… for the Hell of it.