cado in nusquam (haud sileo pro scelestus), Part II, Supernatural, NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: cado in nusquam (haud sileo pro scelestus)
Pairing: Alistair/John/Dean
Other Characters: Sam
Rating: A very serious NC-17
Word Count: 3396
Summary: Dean gave in, gave up, but he isn't promised freedom, only the addition of pleasure to the pain.
Warnings: This is maybe the darkest thing I've ever written, and those of you who have read my work know I don't say these things lightly. This at the very least rivals the "P!Verse"...in some ways it goes darker places than that. There is rape/non-con, dub-con, there is torture, both physical and mental. This part of this fic does not contain any real comfort.
A/Ns: This began as a comment fic prompt that simply wouldn't leave me alone. Then I was surrounded by dirty, filthy enablers (I'm eyeing varkelton and denyce specifically here). I haven't seen fandom really address the issue of John and his year in hell in light of Dean's revelation that 4 months was like 40 years...and if Dean broke in 30 years, how much longer could John have held out? In my mind for this, John escapes hell in "All Hell Breaks Loose" but isn't necessarily the John we remember...and what happens after he kills his enemy is murky at best...what if he was just far enough gone that he never could come back?
Art provided by fallen_for_lost.
cado in nusquam (falling into nothing)
haud sileo pro scelestus (no rest for the wicked)
"He's all yours, boy. Don't disappoint me."
Alistair snapped his fingers as he disappeared and Dean's body was whole again. His father turned to him, eyes flooding black. His smile was evil as he squatted beside Dean.
"Well then. Let's get started."
No rest for the wicked.
The thought echoes around in his head as he is dragged through fire and ash, from one bloody scene to another. His father holds out the weapon and Dean takes it wearily, blinking as minions dragged the poor soul up onto the rack the same way they had done to him so many times.
The man screams almost non-stop, thrashing about as if it might change the fact that he is in hell, that he is doomed to repeat this over and over until he breaks.
Dean looks down at the meat hook in his hand. It is still dripping blood from the last victim, some woman that he'd watched his father fuck before it was Dean's turn. When they'd pulled him away, she was still screaming, her heart beating and pumping blood out of her onto the ground.
This man's skin is pristine, pale, smooth. Dean steps in as the minions scatter, their job done in. He can feel the sticky heat of his father behind him, on his skin.
"Please…help me…"
Dean wonders for a moment if he had sounded so scared, so terribly frail and alone and small. This man's eyes are blue. Or they were. The body is nothing but an illusion, a means to cause pain to a soul already lost, even if it hasn't figured that out yet. He steps even closer and the ramble of words and noises quiets as Dean lets the hand not holding the meat hook glide over the man's skin, painting it with sticky red. "Shh…" Dean slides the hand up to the man's lips, letting the red cover them like make up. "Shh…What's your name?"
His eyes dart, from Dean to John and back, his body shudders and he knows the pain is coming, knows the wracked voice that tries to sooth him is only hours from its own screaming, knows that Dean will rip this illusion into shreds, but he stills, swallows, focuses on Dean as if somehow, some way Dean might save him, free him.
"R-roger."
Dean nods. "Roger." He tests the name in his mouth. It feels strange, meaningless. He may have been Roger once, before he came to be here, but now he is just another soul in hell, whether he sold himself or lost himself it doesn't matter.
"Roger, I'm not going to play games with you. I'm going to hurt you." Dean holds up the hook, looking at it until he feels Roger's eyes leave his and focus on the hook. "With this." Dean looks back at Roger. "I'm going to use it to pull the skin off your bones, rupture your organs, I may use it to fuck your ass. When I am done there will be nothing left of you but your voice and the illusion that you have a body, one that has been shredded and fucked." Dean leans in close. "And then, he'll make the illusion whole again and someone else will start over."
Dean brings the point of the hook down onto Roger's chest, traces it around his nipple. He smiles when Roger hisses and his cock fills. "You're going to like this, Roger."
He presses in, down, the point of the hook breaking skin just under his right nipple. Dean concentrates, drags it down, not too deep, not yet. Blood wells up, spills. He cuts down to the navel while Roger screams.
Behind him, John's closing in, the illusion of his body pressing against Dean's. It makes the air that much hotter, as if the oppressive heat of eternal damnation isn't enough. Dean's illusion of a body responds, his cock hardening, his heart beating faster. Hands ease over his naked skin, lips traverse over his spine, up onto his neck.
"Feels good."
Dean can only nod in agreement, lifting the hook to draw another bloody line over the pale, white skin. Roger screams, shaking. John reaches around Dean, his hands grasping the flaps of skin and yanking Roger open. His hands are all the hotter when they return to Dean's skin, flushed with the illusion of blood.
Roger screams endlessly and the sound is wearing on Dean's ability to concentrate. He lifts the hook, dripping blood and gore and when Roger's mouth opens again, Dean shoves the hook in, digging it into his tongue and yanking.
The scream grows louder, then falls away into a gurgle as the tongue rips loose and Dean drops it to the side, cocking his head to look at the bloody mess before him.
"Not bad." John says, his mouth against the back of Dean's neck. "You're learning."
There are times when Dean told himself that this was not John Winchester…that this was nothing more than a demon masquerading, that he was an illusion, like so much else in this place.
The cruelty in him gave Dean pause. His father was never that cruel, never that callous and cold. His father, for all of his faults, was a good man. A strong hunter. A hunter who would just as soon kill this bastard as look at him.
But then, Dean supposed, that hunter would kill him too. He wasn't all that different now from the demon wearing the face of John Winchester. He wore an illusion like his former body. He used that illusion to torment others. He raped them. He tore them apart.
Dean reasoned that the step from what he was now to actually being a demon wasn't all that far. Time was strange here, worse than before. When he was being dragged to the rack he had the illusion of days. A new one began each time he was hauled from his nightmares onto the rack and Alistair would ask him if he was ready to give in. Now it all just blurred together, no day, no night, just an endless round of torture, torment, fucking, serving, torture until Dean didn't really think he could tell his victims apart anymore.
This son of a bitch who wore his father's face, his father's body, was sadistic, a trait he seemed to share with those around them. Dean watched him bully the others, watched him carve some miserable soul to shreds, all the while whispering sweet words in her ear, about her lover, her father, the little sister she left behind.
Sometimes his father would pull them into some illusion…a soft bed, candlelight, wine and roses and soft lovemaking. He said it fucked with their head better, made them see him as a savior of sorts so that when he started cutting on them it made the betrayal sweeter.
It wasn't all that different from this illusion where Dean knelt. There was no need of sleep or food here, though he was a kind of tired he'd never known, but sometimes they got a rest anyway…and they would do it here. It looked like any number of places he'd known in life, a small apartment, a motel room. There was a bed and a kitchen table, a stove and the pretense of life.
John dropped him on the floor as they entered, as the illusion closed in around him and went about being normal…whatever that equated to. Today he was making them dinner, talking at Dean as though nothing had changed.
Slowly, Dean dragged himself to the chair, and as he sat, as he accepted the illusion, he was dressed…jeans, dark gray-t-shirt, button down…it was all real-feeling, all normal, right down to the ring on his right hand, the rolled leather bracelet on his wrist, the work boots on his feet. It felt like home, even though he knew it wasn't.
"Heard about your brother." John said as he dropped a bowl of soup in front of Dean and took his seat. "He met a girl."
Sam. The name came to him slowly, rising up from inside him. Sam. It seemed that ages had passed since he last thought of his brother. He looked up at his father, dropping deeper into the illusion. "Sam's got a girl?"
John's eyes met his, flooded with black. "Well, maybe she's got him."
Dean worked hard at not reacting. Reacting always led to bad. Usually to blood and screaming and other things he didn't want to think about. Instead he lifted a spoonful of the soup. "Are you saying she's a demon?"
"That's what I hear…but you know how rumors are." His eyes went back to their normal brown and he too lifted his spoon.
It was weird. This sitting and pretending things were normal, were real. It was worse than when they just fucked and got it over with. "Whatever. Sam seems to have a soft spot for them."
Ruby. It popped into his head. That's who Sam was with. Ruby, who had somehow survived this, somehow kept part of herself in this pit.
A big hand crashed across his face. "That kind of thinking isn't going to get you anywhere. Dean didn't look up, just nodded, his attention firmly on the table in front of him.
"Problems with your boy?"
Dean's entire body, illusion though it was, tightened at the sound of that voice, drawing in, away from the damage Alistair could do with a look. "Nothing I can't handle."
Alistair was close, less in a physical way than in a non-corporeal sense, Dean could feel him on his skin, making it hard to breathe, to think. "Maybe I'll handle him."
The illusion of clothes were gone, even as Alistair lifted him from the chair. "Tired of your daddy already, Dean? He's one hot fuck. Wanna watch?"
Alistair threw him in the direction of the bed, Dean skidding on the ground, not surprised to find himself positioned on his knees and restrained before Alistair had even turned to John.
John's face was a terrifying smile, arousal and defiance, lust and submission all mixed together as Alistair beckoned him with a hand, and just like Dean, John was naked before Alistair tossed him to the bed.
There was no prep, no niceties. John struggled, but it was mostly for show and position, not because he didn't want what Alistair was about to give him. Then John was on his stomach and Alistair was fucking him hard.
John's hands fisted in the blankets, his face turned to Dean as they moved violently against one another. His eyes rolled back in obvious pleasure. Dean can't help but watch, mesmerized by the pleasure/pain/pleasure, by the way his father's voice grunted and growled, groaned and grated, by the way Alistair's body beat his father's down.
There was a feeling like all hell was watching as Alistair fucked him for what seemed hours, until John had stopped writhing, had given up, caved under, his come painting the bed under him, his face a sated out mask of exhaustion.
Alistair laughed, his eyes falling on Dean. "Such a slut he is for me, Dean…loves it when I fuck him down. Won't be worth anything for hours now…which leaves me with you."
Dean swallowed and pulled against the restraints holding him, but Alistair just grinned lazily at him, pulling his hard, thick cock out of John's ass and moving toward Dean. It was slicked with blood and Dean knew he was meant to lick it clean, but he pulled back instead of opening his mouth.
"You still hold on to something." Alistair's hand petted over Dean's head, then tightened in his hair and forced his face forward. "Can't you see how much more you'll enjoy me when you let go of who you were, Dean? Look how happy he is." Alistair looked at John, then back at Dean. "Pleasure is easy Dean. Close your eyes."
Dean did, closed his eyes, breathing in to steady himself. Let go. He meant forget. Forget the past. Forget who he was. And embrace this. Embrace evil…embrace the role Alistair wanted him to play.
His cock pushed in past Dean's lips, into him, deeper than it should be able. Dean relaxed into it, let the pain carry him past the fear, his cock aching as Alistair held his head and fucked into him. Let go. Just let go.
Dean's eyes flashed to his father, to the sated expression, the utter release. Let go. He closed his eyes again and gave in…just a little more.
Pleasure radiated off Alistair as he sensed the shift, pleasure that found its way into Dean, under his skin, like something alive. He heard a moan, not unlike his father's, startled to realize it had come from him.
Alistair's hand petted over his face as he quickened his pace, then pulled out, dumping come over Dean's face and Dean groaned as his own cock dumped onto the floor. "See Dean? See what I can give you?"
He's lost count of the souls, the endless parade of them, the ways he's hurt them, words and knives, whips, cat o'nine tails made of the bones of sinners and demons, nails and teeth. He's fucked them with his own cock, with his hand, with their own cocks, their own hands. He's perpetually covered in their blood, their gore.
It's grown numbing as his father pulls him to the next. He's tall, this one and something about him reminds him of someone…he's all legs and arms and shaggy brown hair…and he fights as he's dragged to the rack, but he doesn't scream, doesn't yell.
His father holds him back, holds him against a strong body to watch as they strap him down. "He looks like your brother."
Dean makes the connection slowly, surprised he hadn't before. "Sam."
His father nods, stubble scraping over Dean's skin. "Your brother who let you die."
That doesn't seem right, but Dean can't place why. "Your brother who was always jealous of you…hated you…he let you die."
"No…he…" But Dean can't finish the thought…it slips away as anger uncoils low in his gut.
"He left you. Ran away after you gave him everything." John's voice is deep, eating into Dean, slithering around the anger, the vile, disgusting hatred in the words twisting inside him. "He went to her. Wanted nothing to do with you after you spent all those years keeping him safe."
John's hands rake over Dean's skin as they move a little closer to the rack. This isn't Sam, he can see that now…this is someone who looked enough like Sam he has to look close to see the differences.
"He used you…dragged you on his vendetta when all you wanted was to have your family back together…he knew you'd do anything he wanted and he let you…let you save him over and over again…let him use you, put you down…never smart enough, never good enough…never let you in…he held you at arm's length…and when you sold yourself for him…" His hand circles Dean's cock, pulling hard and dry down its length. "He died Dean…he left you again…left you alone because he couldn't embrace who he really is…he was weak, Dean…he was weak and he died and you sold yourself to save him….sacrificed everything you've ever been…"
Dean's lips curl in snarl as they reach the rack, reach the broad expanse of bare skin. The cat o'nine tails in his hand is heavy. "He didn't save you…didn't even try…he let you go…he let you go to hell, Dean."
Dean hears himself growling, anger spilling through his veins, blinding him to anything but this Sam in front of him and he brings the punishing tool down over and over, ripping the back into shreds as the man whimpers, shakes and finally loses the battle to keep from yelling.
Dean switches to a blade, a long handled knife, deepening wounds left by the tongues of the cat o'nine tails, cutting away pieces of skin. He drags the tip of the blade up the man's ass crack, catching on the hole and cutting to let blood flow. "He's the reason you're here….he's the reason you've been beaten and raped…he's the reason, Dean…he's up there cavorting with some girl while you're here…he isn't trying to get you back…he put you in a box and forgot you."
John's hand is on his cock, guiding him to the bloody ass. "Fuck him Dean…fuck your brother for what he's done to you. Show him your hatred."
Dean screams as he shoves himself into the man, as John shoves himself into Dean…screams and screams and screams, drowning out the man's own whimpering cries for mercy with something that might have been his brother's name, fury and despair roaring out of him as he comes.
No rest for the wicked.
Dean collapsed exhaustedly under his father, closing his eyes as the weight of the bigger man, bigger illusion, fell against him, heaving and panting as if these were physical bodies and the need for air was real.
The bed was wet with sweat and come, his illusion-body slicked with it, making him feel dirty and used. A big hand petted over him and whiskered lips smiled against his skin.
He didn't think about how far he'd fallen or how much further he had to go. Didn't think about the souls they gave him to torment, didn't think about the bodies they gave him to fuck, or the ones they wore to fuck him. He couldn't think because the guilt was gnawing in his stomach, the anguish eating him alive. He could only focus on each moment. One tiny stretch of eternity at a time.
His father's illusion-body was curled around his, holding him close. It would be comforting, maybe should be, but it isn't.
Whispers filled the air and Dean lifted his head. Usually when they were playing in the illusion of a real life the rest of hell left them alone. Rushing voices, like water running over boulders, grew louder and even his father sat up, looking around them.
Hands closed around Dean's shoulders, not unlike Alistair's, only there was no one there.
"No!" His father's hands were on his hips, digging into his skin. For a moment there was a tug of war, one set of hands pulling him up, another yanking him down, then there was dark and flames licking at his heels and the sense of rising. Something like a voice but he couldn't understand.
Pain lanced through him, his illusion-body falling away into nothing and he was nothing…nothing held in the grip of nothing. Pulled, dragged, hauled and then the black gave way to white, light that was too much…too much and there was no where to hide, it burned through him, through his nothing and he got a sense of being judged, being scrutinized.
There was a clap of thunder and everything vanished. He landed with a thud that rocked the ground. Everything hurt. Everything hurt. Dean gasped in air. His hands shot out to his sides, slamming into wood. He blinked in the dark, slowly realizing it was more than the after shock of all that light. He was…someplace that was dark.
He was…He shook his head. It wasn't possible. It was probably another one of Alistair's tricks. He'd done it before. Made him believe he was out, that Sam had gotten him free from hell.
Dean breathed slowly, smelling damp earth and soft pine. It was quiet. Close. He was closed in a small space. He was dressed. He was alone. All alone.
No Sam. No Dad. No Alistair. Just silence and his breathing. Actually breathing. It felt real. Still, he doesn't want to believe it. He fumbled for a pocket, found a lighter.
It let him see his prison. A box, simple and plain, nothing fancy, easy to break into.
Or out of.
It can't be true. Can't be.
But that won't stop him from hitting at the wood, spitting out the dirt as it cascaded into his mouth. Won't stop him from fighting his way up, won't stop him from crawling out of his grave or laying on the brown grass gasping in the sweetest, freshest air he had ever known.
Title: cado in nusquam (haud sileo pro scelestus)
Pairing: Alistair/John/Dean
Other Characters: Sam
Rating: A very serious NC-17
Word Count: 3396
Summary: Dean gave in, gave up, but he isn't promised freedom, only the addition of pleasure to the pain.
Warnings: This is maybe the darkest thing I've ever written, and those of you who have read my work know I don't say these things lightly. This at the very least rivals the "P!Verse"...in some ways it goes darker places than that. There is rape/non-con, dub-con, there is torture, both physical and mental. This part of this fic does not contain any real comfort.
A/Ns: This began as a comment fic prompt that simply wouldn't leave me alone. Then I was surrounded by dirty, filthy enablers (I'm eyeing varkelton and denyce specifically here). I haven't seen fandom really address the issue of John and his year in hell in light of Dean's revelation that 4 months was like 40 years...and if Dean broke in 30 years, how much longer could John have held out? In my mind for this, John escapes hell in "All Hell Breaks Loose" but isn't necessarily the John we remember...and what happens after he kills his enemy is murky at best...what if he was just far enough gone that he never could come back?
Art provided by fallen_for_lost.
cado in nusquam (falling into nothing)
haud sileo pro scelestus (no rest for the wicked)
"He's all yours, boy. Don't disappoint me."
Alistair snapped his fingers as he disappeared and Dean's body was whole again. His father turned to him, eyes flooding black. His smile was evil as he squatted beside Dean.
"Well then. Let's get started."
No rest for the wicked.
The thought echoes around in his head as he is dragged through fire and ash, from one bloody scene to another. His father holds out the weapon and Dean takes it wearily, blinking as minions dragged the poor soul up onto the rack the same way they had done to him so many times.
The man screams almost non-stop, thrashing about as if it might change the fact that he is in hell, that he is doomed to repeat this over and over until he breaks.
Dean looks down at the meat hook in his hand. It is still dripping blood from the last victim, some woman that he'd watched his father fuck before it was Dean's turn. When they'd pulled him away, she was still screaming, her heart beating and pumping blood out of her onto the ground.
This man's skin is pristine, pale, smooth. Dean steps in as the minions scatter, their job done in. He can feel the sticky heat of his father behind him, on his skin.
"Please…help me…"
Dean wonders for a moment if he had sounded so scared, so terribly frail and alone and small. This man's eyes are blue. Or they were. The body is nothing but an illusion, a means to cause pain to a soul already lost, even if it hasn't figured that out yet. He steps even closer and the ramble of words and noises quiets as Dean lets the hand not holding the meat hook glide over the man's skin, painting it with sticky red. "Shh…" Dean slides the hand up to the man's lips, letting the red cover them like make up. "Shh…What's your name?"
His eyes dart, from Dean to John and back, his body shudders and he knows the pain is coming, knows the wracked voice that tries to sooth him is only hours from its own screaming, knows that Dean will rip this illusion into shreds, but he stills, swallows, focuses on Dean as if somehow, some way Dean might save him, free him.
"R-roger."
Dean nods. "Roger." He tests the name in his mouth. It feels strange, meaningless. He may have been Roger once, before he came to be here, but now he is just another soul in hell, whether he sold himself or lost himself it doesn't matter.
"Roger, I'm not going to play games with you. I'm going to hurt you." Dean holds up the hook, looking at it until he feels Roger's eyes leave his and focus on the hook. "With this." Dean looks back at Roger. "I'm going to use it to pull the skin off your bones, rupture your organs, I may use it to fuck your ass. When I am done there will be nothing left of you but your voice and the illusion that you have a body, one that has been shredded and fucked." Dean leans in close. "And then, he'll make the illusion whole again and someone else will start over."
Dean brings the point of the hook down onto Roger's chest, traces it around his nipple. He smiles when Roger hisses and his cock fills. "You're going to like this, Roger."
He presses in, down, the point of the hook breaking skin just under his right nipple. Dean concentrates, drags it down, not too deep, not yet. Blood wells up, spills. He cuts down to the navel while Roger screams.
Behind him, John's closing in, the illusion of his body pressing against Dean's. It makes the air that much hotter, as if the oppressive heat of eternal damnation isn't enough. Dean's illusion of a body responds, his cock hardening, his heart beating faster. Hands ease over his naked skin, lips traverse over his spine, up onto his neck.
"Feels good."
Dean can only nod in agreement, lifting the hook to draw another bloody line over the pale, white skin. Roger screams, shaking. John reaches around Dean, his hands grasping the flaps of skin and yanking Roger open. His hands are all the hotter when they return to Dean's skin, flushed with the illusion of blood.
Roger screams endlessly and the sound is wearing on Dean's ability to concentrate. He lifts the hook, dripping blood and gore and when Roger's mouth opens again, Dean shoves the hook in, digging it into his tongue and yanking.
The scream grows louder, then falls away into a gurgle as the tongue rips loose and Dean drops it to the side, cocking his head to look at the bloody mess before him.
"Not bad." John says, his mouth against the back of Dean's neck. "You're learning."
There are times when Dean told himself that this was not John Winchester…that this was nothing more than a demon masquerading, that he was an illusion, like so much else in this place.
The cruelty in him gave Dean pause. His father was never that cruel, never that callous and cold. His father, for all of his faults, was a good man. A strong hunter. A hunter who would just as soon kill this bastard as look at him.
But then, Dean supposed, that hunter would kill him too. He wasn't all that different now from the demon wearing the face of John Winchester. He wore an illusion like his former body. He used that illusion to torment others. He raped them. He tore them apart.
Dean reasoned that the step from what he was now to actually being a demon wasn't all that far. Time was strange here, worse than before. When he was being dragged to the rack he had the illusion of days. A new one began each time he was hauled from his nightmares onto the rack and Alistair would ask him if he was ready to give in. Now it all just blurred together, no day, no night, just an endless round of torture, torment, fucking, serving, torture until Dean didn't really think he could tell his victims apart anymore.
This son of a bitch who wore his father's face, his father's body, was sadistic, a trait he seemed to share with those around them. Dean watched him bully the others, watched him carve some miserable soul to shreds, all the while whispering sweet words in her ear, about her lover, her father, the little sister she left behind.
Sometimes his father would pull them into some illusion…a soft bed, candlelight, wine and roses and soft lovemaking. He said it fucked with their head better, made them see him as a savior of sorts so that when he started cutting on them it made the betrayal sweeter.
It wasn't all that different from this illusion where Dean knelt. There was no need of sleep or food here, though he was a kind of tired he'd never known, but sometimes they got a rest anyway…and they would do it here. It looked like any number of places he'd known in life, a small apartment, a motel room. There was a bed and a kitchen table, a stove and the pretense of life.
John dropped him on the floor as they entered, as the illusion closed in around him and went about being normal…whatever that equated to. Today he was making them dinner, talking at Dean as though nothing had changed.
Slowly, Dean dragged himself to the chair, and as he sat, as he accepted the illusion, he was dressed…jeans, dark gray-t-shirt, button down…it was all real-feeling, all normal, right down to the ring on his right hand, the rolled leather bracelet on his wrist, the work boots on his feet. It felt like home, even though he knew it wasn't.
"Heard about your brother." John said as he dropped a bowl of soup in front of Dean and took his seat. "He met a girl."
Sam. The name came to him slowly, rising up from inside him. Sam. It seemed that ages had passed since he last thought of his brother. He looked up at his father, dropping deeper into the illusion. "Sam's got a girl?"
John's eyes met his, flooded with black. "Well, maybe she's got him."
Dean worked hard at not reacting. Reacting always led to bad. Usually to blood and screaming and other things he didn't want to think about. Instead he lifted a spoonful of the soup. "Are you saying she's a demon?"
"That's what I hear…but you know how rumors are." His eyes went back to their normal brown and he too lifted his spoon.
It was weird. This sitting and pretending things were normal, were real. It was worse than when they just fucked and got it over with. "Whatever. Sam seems to have a soft spot for them."
Ruby. It popped into his head. That's who Sam was with. Ruby, who had somehow survived this, somehow kept part of herself in this pit.
A big hand crashed across his face. "That kind of thinking isn't going to get you anywhere. Dean didn't look up, just nodded, his attention firmly on the table in front of him.
"Problems with your boy?"
Dean's entire body, illusion though it was, tightened at the sound of that voice, drawing in, away from the damage Alistair could do with a look. "Nothing I can't handle."
Alistair was close, less in a physical way than in a non-corporeal sense, Dean could feel him on his skin, making it hard to breathe, to think. "Maybe I'll handle him."
The illusion of clothes were gone, even as Alistair lifted him from the chair. "Tired of your daddy already, Dean? He's one hot fuck. Wanna watch?"
Alistair threw him in the direction of the bed, Dean skidding on the ground, not surprised to find himself positioned on his knees and restrained before Alistair had even turned to John.
John's face was a terrifying smile, arousal and defiance, lust and submission all mixed together as Alistair beckoned him with a hand, and just like Dean, John was naked before Alistair tossed him to the bed.
There was no prep, no niceties. John struggled, but it was mostly for show and position, not because he didn't want what Alistair was about to give him. Then John was on his stomach and Alistair was fucking him hard.
John's hands fisted in the blankets, his face turned to Dean as they moved violently against one another. His eyes rolled back in obvious pleasure. Dean can't help but watch, mesmerized by the pleasure/pain/pleasure, by the way his father's voice grunted and growled, groaned and grated, by the way Alistair's body beat his father's down.
There was a feeling like all hell was watching as Alistair fucked him for what seemed hours, until John had stopped writhing, had given up, caved under, his come painting the bed under him, his face a sated out mask of exhaustion.
Alistair laughed, his eyes falling on Dean. "Such a slut he is for me, Dean…loves it when I fuck him down. Won't be worth anything for hours now…which leaves me with you."
Dean swallowed and pulled against the restraints holding him, but Alistair just grinned lazily at him, pulling his hard, thick cock out of John's ass and moving toward Dean. It was slicked with blood and Dean knew he was meant to lick it clean, but he pulled back instead of opening his mouth.
"You still hold on to something." Alistair's hand petted over Dean's head, then tightened in his hair and forced his face forward. "Can't you see how much more you'll enjoy me when you let go of who you were, Dean? Look how happy he is." Alistair looked at John, then back at Dean. "Pleasure is easy Dean. Close your eyes."
Dean did, closed his eyes, breathing in to steady himself. Let go. He meant forget. Forget the past. Forget who he was. And embrace this. Embrace evil…embrace the role Alistair wanted him to play.
His cock pushed in past Dean's lips, into him, deeper than it should be able. Dean relaxed into it, let the pain carry him past the fear, his cock aching as Alistair held his head and fucked into him. Let go. Just let go.
Dean's eyes flashed to his father, to the sated expression, the utter release. Let go. He closed his eyes again and gave in…just a little more.
Pleasure radiated off Alistair as he sensed the shift, pleasure that found its way into Dean, under his skin, like something alive. He heard a moan, not unlike his father's, startled to realize it had come from him.
Alistair's hand petted over his face as he quickened his pace, then pulled out, dumping come over Dean's face and Dean groaned as his own cock dumped onto the floor. "See Dean? See what I can give you?"
He's lost count of the souls, the endless parade of them, the ways he's hurt them, words and knives, whips, cat o'nine tails made of the bones of sinners and demons, nails and teeth. He's fucked them with his own cock, with his hand, with their own cocks, their own hands. He's perpetually covered in their blood, their gore.
It's grown numbing as his father pulls him to the next. He's tall, this one and something about him reminds him of someone…he's all legs and arms and shaggy brown hair…and he fights as he's dragged to the rack, but he doesn't scream, doesn't yell.
His father holds him back, holds him against a strong body to watch as they strap him down. "He looks like your brother."
Dean makes the connection slowly, surprised he hadn't before. "Sam."
His father nods, stubble scraping over Dean's skin. "Your brother who let you die."
That doesn't seem right, but Dean can't place why. "Your brother who was always jealous of you…hated you…he let you die."
"No…he…" But Dean can't finish the thought…it slips away as anger uncoils low in his gut.
"He left you. Ran away after you gave him everything." John's voice is deep, eating into Dean, slithering around the anger, the vile, disgusting hatred in the words twisting inside him. "He went to her. Wanted nothing to do with you after you spent all those years keeping him safe."
John's hands rake over Dean's skin as they move a little closer to the rack. This isn't Sam, he can see that now…this is someone who looked enough like Sam he has to look close to see the differences.
"He used you…dragged you on his vendetta when all you wanted was to have your family back together…he knew you'd do anything he wanted and he let you…let you save him over and over again…let him use you, put you down…never smart enough, never good enough…never let you in…he held you at arm's length…and when you sold yourself for him…" His hand circles Dean's cock, pulling hard and dry down its length. "He died Dean…he left you again…left you alone because he couldn't embrace who he really is…he was weak, Dean…he was weak and he died and you sold yourself to save him….sacrificed everything you've ever been…"
Dean's lips curl in snarl as they reach the rack, reach the broad expanse of bare skin. The cat o'nine tails in his hand is heavy. "He didn't save you…didn't even try…he let you go…he let you go to hell, Dean."
Dean hears himself growling, anger spilling through his veins, blinding him to anything but this Sam in front of him and he brings the punishing tool down over and over, ripping the back into shreds as the man whimpers, shakes and finally loses the battle to keep from yelling.
Dean switches to a blade, a long handled knife, deepening wounds left by the tongues of the cat o'nine tails, cutting away pieces of skin. He drags the tip of the blade up the man's ass crack, catching on the hole and cutting to let blood flow. "He's the reason you're here….he's the reason you've been beaten and raped…he's the reason, Dean…he's up there cavorting with some girl while you're here…he isn't trying to get you back…he put you in a box and forgot you."
John's hand is on his cock, guiding him to the bloody ass. "Fuck him Dean…fuck your brother for what he's done to you. Show him your hatred."
Dean screams as he shoves himself into the man, as John shoves himself into Dean…screams and screams and screams, drowning out the man's own whimpering cries for mercy with something that might have been his brother's name, fury and despair roaring out of him as he comes.
No rest for the wicked.
Dean collapsed exhaustedly under his father, closing his eyes as the weight of the bigger man, bigger illusion, fell against him, heaving and panting as if these were physical bodies and the need for air was real.
The bed was wet with sweat and come, his illusion-body slicked with it, making him feel dirty and used. A big hand petted over him and whiskered lips smiled against his skin.
He didn't think about how far he'd fallen or how much further he had to go. Didn't think about the souls they gave him to torment, didn't think about the bodies they gave him to fuck, or the ones they wore to fuck him. He couldn't think because the guilt was gnawing in his stomach, the anguish eating him alive. He could only focus on each moment. One tiny stretch of eternity at a time.
His father's illusion-body was curled around his, holding him close. It would be comforting, maybe should be, but it isn't.
Whispers filled the air and Dean lifted his head. Usually when they were playing in the illusion of a real life the rest of hell left them alone. Rushing voices, like water running over boulders, grew louder and even his father sat up, looking around them.
Hands closed around Dean's shoulders, not unlike Alistair's, only there was no one there.
"No!" His father's hands were on his hips, digging into his skin. For a moment there was a tug of war, one set of hands pulling him up, another yanking him down, then there was dark and flames licking at his heels and the sense of rising. Something like a voice but he couldn't understand.
Pain lanced through him, his illusion-body falling away into nothing and he was nothing…nothing held in the grip of nothing. Pulled, dragged, hauled and then the black gave way to white, light that was too much…too much and there was no where to hide, it burned through him, through his nothing and he got a sense of being judged, being scrutinized.
There was a clap of thunder and everything vanished. He landed with a thud that rocked the ground. Everything hurt. Everything hurt. Dean gasped in air. His hands shot out to his sides, slamming into wood. He blinked in the dark, slowly realizing it was more than the after shock of all that light. He was…someplace that was dark.
He was…He shook his head. It wasn't possible. It was probably another one of Alistair's tricks. He'd done it before. Made him believe he was out, that Sam had gotten him free from hell.
Dean breathed slowly, smelling damp earth and soft pine. It was quiet. Close. He was closed in a small space. He was dressed. He was alone. All alone.
No Sam. No Dad. No Alistair. Just silence and his breathing. Actually breathing. It felt real. Still, he doesn't want to believe it. He fumbled for a pocket, found a lighter.
It let him see his prison. A box, simple and plain, nothing fancy, easy to break into.
Or out of.
It can't be true. Can't be.
But that won't stop him from hitting at the wood, spitting out the dirt as it cascaded into his mouth. Won't stop him from fighting his way up, won't stop him from crawling out of his grave or laying on the brown grass gasping in the sweetest, freshest air he had ever known.