SPN fic: Vertigo | Dean/Alastair | PG-13
Title: Vertigo
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 4.16, "On the Head of a Pin"
Wordcount: ~1.2k
Genre: Gen, horror, angst
Characters/pairings: Dean/Alastair.
Contents/warnings/kinks: Allusions to torture, mindgames, amnesia, stalking, flashbacks
A/N: Written for blindfold_spn to the prompt Alistair/Dean, early S4, Dean doesn't remember. Many thanks to viridian_magpie for taking a quick look at it; further concrit is still very much appreciated!
Disclaimer: SPN and its characters do not belong to me.
Summary: Just because Dean does not remember hell does not mean it never existed, only that it's become a part of him.
The man, seated at a side table in the corner of the room, wasn't one Dean would normally give a second glance. He sat too far from the bar, and alone, and was dressed a little better than most of the patrons.
Dean knew the type -- the successful loner that no one liked, that everyone paid attention to.
Dean and Sam usually preferred chatting up the gossipers that nobody noticed, who'd talk too much and hide too little. Those people made info-gathering easy and painless. Those were the people Dean targeted.
But the man at the corner, the one Dean shouldn't have noticed, gave Dean the feeling that he was the one who was the target.
*
eyes, white and burning and blinding, pale like bones and shining.
curious, they say. very curious.
they poke you in the side, and it tickles so hard that your eyes start burning up
*
"Anything to drink?" the bartender asked him, putting both her elbows against the worn surface of the bar. She had a nice cleavage and even nicer boobs, and Dean took a moment to appreciate them before dragging his eyes up to her face.
It was a nice face. Oval-shaped and with full lips that could've been pouty, but were too busy being stretched into a smile.
He said with a grin, "Got any recommendations?"
She said, "I don't drink on my shift."
He said, "And off-shift?"
She smiled wider. "My favorite is Redheaded Slut." Her hair was a dark, glossy brown.
Dean laughed, ignoring the eyes that burned holes at his back. "Really? I'm pretty fond of it myself. One of those, then."
*
the best thing about having you here, dean, is that you like it.
especially when you try to pretend you don't.
*
"There ya go." Instead of putting the glass on the table, she waited until he took it from her hand. The glass was sweating between their hands, chilling Dean down to the bone even where his skin touched hers.
She let go of the glass, and Dean raised it in a toast, and drank.
*
whatever i give, you take and keep on taking.
*
The drink was too sweet; nausea roiled down his stomach.
He set the glass down and tapped his fingers against it. The bartender still hovered by him; Dean figured it was a good a time as any to start questioning her about the details they needed for a hunt he was certain was a bust. He smiled at her to draw her attention and asked, "Say, you wouldn't happen to know what nobody's talking about, would you?"
When she laughed, her voice was low and throaty, just the way he liked. "I know lots of things. Whatcha want to know?"
Dean screwed his face into a grimace. This was such a waste of time --
*
you can make up for it, make it all right. one cut, dean. take the knife and make the cut.
*
-- and he was going to give Sam a piece of his mind once they were back in the car. They would've already been out of the county if Sam hadn't disappeared on him sometime during the afternoon with only a note that he was fine and would he please continue to look into the deaths they'd read about online?
The fucker.
"I heard there were a couple of deaths right outside town, by the highway. You hear anything about it?"
The bartender scowled. "Why d'you want to know?"
Dean shrugged. "I was driving on that highway when they died. Gives me the chill to know I was so close and not know what happened, you know?"
a hand ghosting up the spine, claws digging into skin
Something must've shown on his face, because the scowl eased off the bartender's face, and she almost, but not quite, gasped in sympathy. "That's awful!"
"Doesn't help that the rumors I hear all talk about ghosts." Dean gave her a crooked smile.
The bartender waved her hand dismissively and rolled her eyes. "That's silly. Mr. Walker used to drink here before we kicked him out for being a mean drunk. He used to be a butcher before retiring, but he kept all the knives..." she trailed off. "I'm not helping, am I?"
Dean slouched, about to say that she had helped him, a great deal, before jerking back upright -- if you keep slouching like that i'll sever your spine again --
"You okay?"
He blinked.
She peered into his face. "You look a little pale. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"I'm fine," he rasped.
liar, he heard murmured into his ear. He jerked around, looking for the person who'd said that, and found no one. In the far side of the room, at the furthest table, the man who'd been watching him since he'd walked inside was still there, staring. Their eyes met.
The man smiled.
Dean faced the bar again, heartbeat racing in his ribcage. if you don't calm down soon he'll carve it out he thought before catching himself, but catching himself didn't stop the room from spinning wildly around him. "I'm going to get some air," he managed to say before pushing himself up to his feet and stumbling across the room to where he thought the exit was.
He missed the exit by three tables and almost walked into the wall. The floor wouldn't stay still, and he was starting to hyperventilate. His hands were trembling, when he raised them to brace himself against the wall.
feet further apart, dean. forearms touching the wall from wrist to elbow. stick your ass out, you know how he likes it
wait until
There's a hand between his shoulderblades.
I'm losing it, he realized. He leaned his weight against the wall and turned his face to see who was touching him, rubbing soothing, burning lines along his spine, and chalked the man's pearl-white eyes up to his vertigo and the bad lighting in the bar.
The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end.
getawaygetawaygetaway
He met the man's eyes. They looked normal now, even though they were a bit lighter than was normal. His eyes kept Dean grounded, kept him standing.
His hand crept up to rest on Dean's sweaty nape, flattening the hairs back against his skin.
he likes your eyes, Dean remembered and dropped them to the ground.
The man brought his mouth close to Dean's ear, close enough to feel his breath, to smell traces of its familiar, sulfuric essence.
He stopped breathing.
"you should take better care of yourself, dean," the man says and tightens his hold. "don't forget that i'm the only one who's allowed to hurt you."
"What the fuck?" he asked.
The man's brows furrowed together. "I asked if you're all right."
Dean muttered, "I'm fine," right before passing out.
originally posted at dreamwidth
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 4.16, "On the Head of a Pin"
Wordcount: ~1.2k
Genre: Gen, horror, angst
Characters/pairings: Dean/Alastair.
Contents/warnings/kinks: Allusions to torture, mindgames, amnesia, stalking, flashbacks
A/N: Written for blindfold_spn to the prompt Alistair/Dean, early S4, Dean doesn't remember. Many thanks to viridian_magpie for taking a quick look at it; further concrit is still very much appreciated!
Disclaimer: SPN and its characters do not belong to me.
Summary: Just because Dean does not remember hell does not mean it never existed, only that it's become a part of him.
The man, seated at a side table in the corner of the room, wasn't one Dean would normally give a second glance. He sat too far from the bar, and alone, and was dressed a little better than most of the patrons.
Dean knew the type -- the successful loner that no one liked, that everyone paid attention to.
Dean and Sam usually preferred chatting up the gossipers that nobody noticed, who'd talk too much and hide too little. Those people made info-gathering easy and painless. Those were the people Dean targeted.
But the man at the corner, the one Dean shouldn't have noticed, gave Dean the feeling that he was the one who was the target.
*
eyes, white and burning and blinding, pale like bones and shining.
curious, they say. very curious.
they poke you in the side, and it tickles so hard that your eyes start burning up
*
"Anything to drink?" the bartender asked him, putting both her elbows against the worn surface of the bar. She had a nice cleavage and even nicer boobs, and Dean took a moment to appreciate them before dragging his eyes up to her face.
It was a nice face. Oval-shaped and with full lips that could've been pouty, but were too busy being stretched into a smile.
He said with a grin, "Got any recommendations?"
She said, "I don't drink on my shift."
He said, "And off-shift?"
She smiled wider. "My favorite is Redheaded Slut." Her hair was a dark, glossy brown.
Dean laughed, ignoring the eyes that burned holes at his back. "Really? I'm pretty fond of it myself. One of those, then."
*
the best thing about having you here, dean, is that you like it.
especially when you try to pretend you don't.
*
"There ya go." Instead of putting the glass on the table, she waited until he took it from her hand. The glass was sweating between their hands, chilling Dean down to the bone even where his skin touched hers.
She let go of the glass, and Dean raised it in a toast, and drank.
*
whatever i give, you take and keep on taking.
*
The drink was too sweet; nausea roiled down his stomach.
He set the glass down and tapped his fingers against it. The bartender still hovered by him; Dean figured it was a good a time as any to start questioning her about the details they needed for a hunt he was certain was a bust. He smiled at her to draw her attention and asked, "Say, you wouldn't happen to know what nobody's talking about, would you?"
When she laughed, her voice was low and throaty, just the way he liked. "I know lots of things. Whatcha want to know?"
Dean screwed his face into a grimace. This was such a waste of time --
*
you can make up for it, make it all right. one cut, dean. take the knife and make the cut.
*
-- and he was going to give Sam a piece of his mind once they were back in the car. They would've already been out of the county if Sam hadn't disappeared on him sometime during the afternoon with only a note that he was fine and would he please continue to look into the deaths they'd read about online?
The fucker.
"I heard there were a couple of deaths right outside town, by the highway. You hear anything about it?"
The bartender scowled. "Why d'you want to know?"
Dean shrugged. "I was driving on that highway when they died. Gives me the chill to know I was so close and not know what happened, you know?"
a hand ghosting up the spine, claws digging into skin
Something must've shown on his face, because the scowl eased off the bartender's face, and she almost, but not quite, gasped in sympathy. "That's awful!"
"Doesn't help that the rumors I hear all talk about ghosts." Dean gave her a crooked smile.
The bartender waved her hand dismissively and rolled her eyes. "That's silly. Mr. Walker used to drink here before we kicked him out for being a mean drunk. He used to be a butcher before retiring, but he kept all the knives..." she trailed off. "I'm not helping, am I?"
Dean slouched, about to say that she had helped him, a great deal, before jerking back upright -- if you keep slouching like that i'll sever your spine again --
"You okay?"
He blinked.
She peered into his face. "You look a little pale. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"I'm fine," he rasped.
liar, he heard murmured into his ear. He jerked around, looking for the person who'd said that, and found no one. In the far side of the room, at the furthest table, the man who'd been watching him since he'd walked inside was still there, staring. Their eyes met.
The man smiled.
Dean faced the bar again, heartbeat racing in his ribcage. if you don't calm down soon he'll carve it out he thought before catching himself, but catching himself didn't stop the room from spinning wildly around him. "I'm going to get some air," he managed to say before pushing himself up to his feet and stumbling across the room to where he thought the exit was.
He missed the exit by three tables and almost walked into the wall. The floor wouldn't stay still, and he was starting to hyperventilate. His hands were trembling, when he raised them to brace himself against the wall.
feet further apart, dean. forearms touching the wall from wrist to elbow. stick your ass out, you know how he likes it
wait until
There's a hand between his shoulderblades.
I'm losing it, he realized. He leaned his weight against the wall and turned his face to see who was touching him, rubbing soothing, burning lines along his spine, and chalked the man's pearl-white eyes up to his vertigo and the bad lighting in the bar.
The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end.
getawaygetawaygetaway
He met the man's eyes. They looked normal now, even though they were a bit lighter than was normal. His eyes kept Dean grounded, kept him standing.
His hand crept up to rest on Dean's sweaty nape, flattening the hairs back against his skin.
he likes your eyes, Dean remembered and dropped them to the ground.
The man brought his mouth close to Dean's ear, close enough to feel his breath, to smell traces of its familiar, sulfuric essence.
He stopped breathing.
"you should take better care of yourself, dean," the man says and tightens his hold. "don't forget that i'm the only one who's allowed to hurt you."
"What the fuck?" he asked.
The man's brows furrowed together. "I asked if you're all right."
Dean muttered, "I'm fine," right before passing out.
originally posted at dreamwidth