(no subject)
Title: they read baudelaire in hell
Author: captainswank
Pairing: Dean/Alastair
Rating: R for violence
Words: ~1,200
Summary: For the prompt: "Is growing flowers in somebody's heart a kink? Dean/Alastair." With inspiration from badbastion's art, tumblr user godkillinghimself's goading, this post, and of course the prompter rosereddawn. A team effort!
Warnings: Blood, torture, violence, gore, body horror, Alastair.
Edit: I'm really LJ inept but I must direct your attention to salty_catfish's art on tumblr. I'm unsure of the protocol here but all I know is that I think she's one of the most talented artists in the entire fandom, one of my favourite artists in the entire fandom, and she made this and I could just cry. Click the link check it out!! (NSFW, blood, nudity, body horror).
Alastair may tell you that he is a professional, that he is an artist.
He is also a gardener.
He gathers his little seeds and finds the perfect places to plant them; tends to them over time so they’ll grow sweet, thick and lovely.
Dean’s body is warm, Dean’s body is wet, Dean’s body is lush and fertile. And Alastair loves to plant in Dean and watch him grow.
Dean opens his eyes as best he can when he hears rustling from above. Today he can’t move at all; Alastair wants him still. Fat black vines have ripped themselves from the dirt to wrap round his ankles, wrists, and neck. Their jagged thorns have sunk right through his limbs, their glistening tips emerging from the other side of his calves and forearms in places. He can feel the worms and maggots and rot against his naked skin.
“Ta-da.” It’s flat and it comes with a slick smile, Alastair’s arms snaking outwards to give Dean the best view of his outfit. He’s got a pair of powder blue rubber boots, caked to the ankle in a layer of dried and flaky crusty reddish brown, the occasional chunk of something clinging to the sides. His thick gloves look like they’d been dipped in something similar. Wrapped around his middle is an apron with lots of pockets and a cheerful floral print, white and splattered with what must be little red flowers. Topping it all off is a floppy old sun hat.
Dean coughs wetly.
“Oh, I just live to make you smile, Dean Winchester,” Alastair says as he drops his arms to his sides, smiling wistfully, dangerously. “But I wouldn’t scoff if I were you. I’ll admit I may lose points for style, but it never hurts to come prepared.” He’s reproachful and under the brim of his hat he motions upwards with his eyes. Dean looks to what passes for the sky in the pit and there’s light up there now. Light like the sun, like the sun back home cranked as high as it can go, and Dean can’t close his eyes as they’re consumed by the agonizing brightness, bubbling and bursting and running wet and scalding down the sides of his face while he screams.
“But you’re right; I don’t think it’s really me.”Alastair removes the hat and throws into the blackness. The light has gone out again and it’s just the demon and Dean again in the dark. “But that’s enough fooling around for one day.” Now Alastair produces a small spade from his apron. “How about you and me get down to some real work around here?” Dean tries, he really does, but he can’t help but whimper when the blade of the little trowel first touches his chest. The cold metal feels a bit like Alastair’s razor, but not as familiar. He shivers and twitches when Alastair trails the trowel’s point thoughtfully up and down his chest.
“How long have we been down here together, Dean? You and I?” Dean responds with a little moan. He’s finding it difficult to speak but it’s very important that he always respond. Alastair rewards him by digging the point of the trowel into Dean’s chest, but he’s having a bit of a hard time with it, because the blade of the trowel really isn’t all that sharp.
“Weeks?” Dean moans again, this time in the negative. It has to have been more than a few weeks. It must have been longer than that. Alastair has given up trying to penetrate Dean’s chest directly, and is sort of sawing at his flesh with the blade.
“Years?” A moan no, again. More than years. Many years. Alastair’s found some success with his sawing and has carved a big bloody gash into Dean. He pauses in his work; looks thoughtful.
“Decades?” Dean screams. Alastair had decided to put everything he had into it, and despite the dullness of the little trowel he pushes through the weakened flesh and tissue, leans on it to cut through bone and opens Dean right up.
“Am I getting close? A couple of decades sounds about right to me. What do you say to that, Dean!” Dean doesn’t say much, can’t say much through the screaming. He’s getting hoarse as Alastair hollows out Dean’s chest cavity and admires his exposed heart.
“Now, I know this must be hard for you,” Alastair begins, with mutilated sympathy. “But, you ever think about how little Sammy’s doing up there?” In the past Dean might have tried, might have gone for a don’t you fucking talk about him, you don’t get to even think about Sam, but now he can’t.
“Twenty, twenty five years alone up top without you, Dean.” Alastair pauses to look down at Dean’s face. “What, no ‘fuck you, Sammy’s doing just fine without me’?” Alastair drawls. He’s beginning to regret burning Dean’s eyes out so early in the party. Dean’s tears would taste fantastic right about now. Sighing, he digs around in his apron and pulls out a little bag of seeds. There are white lilies on the front.
“That’s a lot of years without you, Dean. Think he’s gotten into trouble without you there to watch out for his ass? Oh, no, shh, shh.” Alastair raises the bloody trowel and presses it gently against Dean’s red lips. “There’s no way Sammy’s left the business just because you checked out early. This is angry Sammy, vengeful Sammy we’re talking about, right?” Alastair lays the trowel aside and pours the seeds into his open palm. “No, he’s been raising hell up there without you, I don’t doubt it. And what a nasty business it is, isn’t it? All that killing and shooting and stabbing, all without you, for twenty five years?” Now Alastair picks the small spade up again, and uses the blade to carefully slice open Dean’s beating heart. “I mean, what are the chances he’s still up and kicking after all this time? A hunter like him living to a ripe old age?” Alastair slips the seeds into the ventricles of Dean’s heart, and he whispers: “What are the chances?”
Alastair threads some rusty wire through a needle and begins to sew the black rift in Dean’s chest back up. After he’s taken Dean apart, Alastair likes to put him back together perfect when he starts a new session with his boy. He likes his canvas fresh and pure, virgin and untouched each time he gets to work with Dean. For the next little while, though, Alastair thinks he’ll heal Dean completely except for this one tiny addition of his own. He wants to nurture what he’s planted, wants it to bud and grow. He’ll have plenty of opportunities to rip Dean open again and again, to give their seedlings plenty of light. Dean will help him, will keep them fed and watered, sweetly salty-watered. Alastair imagines what it’ll look like, to tear Dean open and see bright white lilies bursting from the chambers of his heart, pretty little babies peeking their pale heads out of Dean’s valves and arteries when he digs in for a closer look. Alastair’s seen every inch of Dean’s heart in all of its black and twisted glory. But the sick and the rotting make for wonderful fertilizer and Dean’s suffering will be white and clean and beautiful.
He’s planted the seeds, and all that’s left is to wait for them to grow.