These bones of mine (Team Hell)
Tittle: These bones of mine
Author: amaresu
Characters/Pairing(s): Dean, Alistair, Sam, with slight Dean/Alistair overtones.
Rating: R for general Alistair-ness
Warnings: Alistair, stockholm syndrome
Summary: Torture is a really a matter of perspective.
Word Count: 1058
Disclaimer: Not mine
A/N: Thanks to mneiai for looking this over. Quote: The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
“Medial cuneiform, intermediate cuneiform, navicular,” Dean spoke softly as each bone was pointed out with a small pin-prick of pain. Alistair was going slowly and rather methodically over his foot and it was easy to relax into the familiar feel of it all. The feeling of being laid out, spread eagle for Alistair, is almost comfortable and he has to resist the urge to wiggle his toes as he feels the hand moves across his bare foot. Things would be easier if Sam would stop making noise from where he was sitting in the corner, but Dean did his best to ignore him. Not good enough though as he realized his mistake a bit too late, “Lateral cuneiform, no, wait, cuboid. That's the cuboid.”
“Dean, that was a good catch, but I'm afraid you did make a mistake.” Alistair actually sounds regretful. He probably is, he hates it when Dean makes stupid mistakes like that. Dean can hear Sam trying to yell something, but the gag keeps it from sounding like anything but grunts. “Now, because you remembered the cuboid almost immediately, we'll just reiterate where exactly the lateral cuneiform is.”
He doesn't bother to hold back the scream as the lateral cuneiform on his right foot is broken. It hurts, a lot, and it'll take time to heal up here. Once Alistair finishes he relaxes back into the floor. The concrete is cool, but not cold enough to numb, and breathing through his mouth, Dean forces his muscles to release the tension they'd built up as Alistair broke his lateral cuneiform. “I do believe you're distracting him, Sammy,” Alistair says as he softly prods the break. Dean's eyes snap open and he quickly finds Alistair's face in the dim light of the basement they're in. It's a look of amusement that meets his eyes. “Don't agree with me?”
“No,” his voice breaks as he talks, the last scream took it out of his throat apparently. “I just lost track of things. That's all.”
Alistair frowns at him briefly before standing up and moving towards Sam. For a second he's worried that something is going to happen to Sam, but Alistair heads in the other direction after only a few seconds, “I hate it here. A sore throat wouldn't have been a problem in the Pit. I have water in the next room, wait here.”
“Dean?” Sam's voice startles him, it sounds as bad as his own, but he doesn't think Alistair is going to get him anything to drink. “Dean? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he manages to croak out. Sam probably wants more than that though, so he tilts his head back and to the right until he can see his little brother. The position is mildly uncomfortable, but really not that bad all things considered, nothing like the way Sam is positioned at any rate.
His brother is kneeling on the concrete floor with his thumbs tied to his toes behind him. The gag is hanging around his neck now, resting against the noose that Alistair had made. If he bothered to trace the rope he'd see it looped over a beam in the ceiling, but Dean watched Alistair put it there so he doesn't need to. It's insurance against Sam trying any mind tricks. It would take almost no effort for Alistair to knock Sam over and Sam wouldn't be able to save himself, not tied up like he is. They learned that the hard way. Alistair had made Dean beg until Sam was almost unconscious before picking him up again.
“Can you move anything else?” Dean stalls at the question for a second until he realizes that Sam is asking if he can move his body. The answer is yes, Alistair hadn't bothered to restrain him at all beyond a command to stay still, but Sam wouldn't understand that. He shakes his head slightly rather than answer Sam directly. “Damn it. Why is he doing this?”
Dean is saved from giving the rather obvious answer of 'because he can' by Alistair's return. “Doing what?” Of course Alistair would ask that. Maybe he thinks Sam will have an amusing answer.
“Why are you torturing him?” Turns out Sam did have an amusing answer. He turns his head away from Sam before his expression can give away more then he really wants it to. Alistair meets him with an open bottle of water. It's hard to drink from a bottle laying down, even without someone else holding the bottle, but they manage.
“I'm not torturing him.” Alistair's reply is succinct and Dean can imagine the look on Sam's face and has to struggle not to laugh. This isn't anything like torture, at least not like any sort of torture Alistair is capable of inflicting. Not that it hadn't started as torture.
“Not torture?” Sam yells in outrage. Dean doesn't really blame him, from an outside prospective he can see how it would look like torture. “What the hell do you call this then?”
Alistair looks at him and nods, permission given to answer the question. “It's a game.”
He knows Sam won't understand, not really, but it is a game. A simple game. A game that started as torture, but it couldn't be much of anything else back then. It'd taken Dean months to fully learn the names for all of his bones, but eventually he'd learned them. In the decades that followed it had become a way to relax. A way for the two of them to just spend some quiet time together, and Dean doesn't need anyone to tell him how messed up it is. But, in the midst of Hell, their little game wasn't anything close to torture. Sam doesn't get a chance to respond to Dean's reply, Alistair replaces the gag before he can find the words to respond.
Dean closes his eyes again as Alistair sits back down next to him. Sam may not understand, but it's the simplest thing in the world for Dean to lay in silence waiting for the game to begin again. It's simple, comfortable, and so familiar it almost makes him cry with relief when he feels the pin-prick in his hand, “Hamate, capitate, lunate.”
Author: amaresu
Characters/Pairing(s): Dean, Alistair, Sam, with slight Dean/Alistair overtones.
Rating: R for general Alistair-ness
Warnings: Alistair, stockholm syndrome
Summary: Torture is a really a matter of perspective.
Word Count: 1058
Disclaimer: Not mine
A/N: Thanks to mneiai for looking this over. Quote: The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
“Medial cuneiform, intermediate cuneiform, navicular,” Dean spoke softly as each bone was pointed out with a small pin-prick of pain. Alistair was going slowly and rather methodically over his foot and it was easy to relax into the familiar feel of it all. The feeling of being laid out, spread eagle for Alistair, is almost comfortable and he has to resist the urge to wiggle his toes as he feels the hand moves across his bare foot. Things would be easier if Sam would stop making noise from where he was sitting in the corner, but Dean did his best to ignore him. Not good enough though as he realized his mistake a bit too late, “Lateral cuneiform, no, wait, cuboid. That's the cuboid.”
“Dean, that was a good catch, but I'm afraid you did make a mistake.” Alistair actually sounds regretful. He probably is, he hates it when Dean makes stupid mistakes like that. Dean can hear Sam trying to yell something, but the gag keeps it from sounding like anything but grunts. “Now, because you remembered the cuboid almost immediately, we'll just reiterate where exactly the lateral cuneiform is.”
He doesn't bother to hold back the scream as the lateral cuneiform on his right foot is broken. It hurts, a lot, and it'll take time to heal up here. Once Alistair finishes he relaxes back into the floor. The concrete is cool, but not cold enough to numb, and breathing through his mouth, Dean forces his muscles to release the tension they'd built up as Alistair broke his lateral cuneiform. “I do believe you're distracting him, Sammy,” Alistair says as he softly prods the break. Dean's eyes snap open and he quickly finds Alistair's face in the dim light of the basement they're in. It's a look of amusement that meets his eyes. “Don't agree with me?”
“No,” his voice breaks as he talks, the last scream took it out of his throat apparently. “I just lost track of things. That's all.”
Alistair frowns at him briefly before standing up and moving towards Sam. For a second he's worried that something is going to happen to Sam, but Alistair heads in the other direction after only a few seconds, “I hate it here. A sore throat wouldn't have been a problem in the Pit. I have water in the next room, wait here.”
“Dean?” Sam's voice startles him, it sounds as bad as his own, but he doesn't think Alistair is going to get him anything to drink. “Dean? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he manages to croak out. Sam probably wants more than that though, so he tilts his head back and to the right until he can see his little brother. The position is mildly uncomfortable, but really not that bad all things considered, nothing like the way Sam is positioned at any rate.
His brother is kneeling on the concrete floor with his thumbs tied to his toes behind him. The gag is hanging around his neck now, resting against the noose that Alistair had made. If he bothered to trace the rope he'd see it looped over a beam in the ceiling, but Dean watched Alistair put it there so he doesn't need to. It's insurance against Sam trying any mind tricks. It would take almost no effort for Alistair to knock Sam over and Sam wouldn't be able to save himself, not tied up like he is. They learned that the hard way. Alistair had made Dean beg until Sam was almost unconscious before picking him up again.
“Can you move anything else?” Dean stalls at the question for a second until he realizes that Sam is asking if he can move his body. The answer is yes, Alistair hadn't bothered to restrain him at all beyond a command to stay still, but Sam wouldn't understand that. He shakes his head slightly rather than answer Sam directly. “Damn it. Why is he doing this?”
Dean is saved from giving the rather obvious answer of 'because he can' by Alistair's return. “Doing what?” Of course Alistair would ask that. Maybe he thinks Sam will have an amusing answer.
“Why are you torturing him?” Turns out Sam did have an amusing answer. He turns his head away from Sam before his expression can give away more then he really wants it to. Alistair meets him with an open bottle of water. It's hard to drink from a bottle laying down, even without someone else holding the bottle, but they manage.
“I'm not torturing him.” Alistair's reply is succinct and Dean can imagine the look on Sam's face and has to struggle not to laugh. This isn't anything like torture, at least not like any sort of torture Alistair is capable of inflicting. Not that it hadn't started as torture.
“Not torture?” Sam yells in outrage. Dean doesn't really blame him, from an outside prospective he can see how it would look like torture. “What the hell do you call this then?”
Alistair looks at him and nods, permission given to answer the question. “It's a game.”
He knows Sam won't understand, not really, but it is a game. A simple game. A game that started as torture, but it couldn't be much of anything else back then. It'd taken Dean months to fully learn the names for all of his bones, but eventually he'd learned them. In the decades that followed it had become a way to relax. A way for the two of them to just spend some quiet time together, and Dean doesn't need anyone to tell him how messed up it is. But, in the midst of Hell, their little game wasn't anything close to torture. Sam doesn't get a chance to respond to Dean's reply, Alistair replaces the gag before he can find the words to respond.
Dean closes his eyes again as Alistair sits back down next to him. Sam may not understand, but it's the simplest thing in the world for Dean to lay in silence waiting for the game to begin again. It's simple, comfortable, and so familiar it almost makes him cry with relief when he feels the pin-prick in his hand, “Hamate, capitate, lunate.”