To Want What You Have
Title: To Want What You Have
Pairing: Alastair/Dean
Genre: Slash
Rating: R
Word count: 966
Warning: dark!fic, reference to non-con
Summary: Dean learned long ago that he's never going to have what he wants, so he learned to want what he has.
Disclaimer: SPN and it's characters don't belong to me, I'm just playing in their sandbox.
A/N: Written for prompt 1: Lady Gaga's Bad Romance
Written for the SPN Last Author Standing challenge. A prompt is issued every other week, you have 10 days to get your story in, then four days are left for voting. One author voted off each cycle until only one is left. Stories must be posted anonymously and be between 100 - 1000 words. No betas allowed, authors aren't revealed until after voting is complete
I want your ugly
I want your disease
I want your everything
As long as it’s free
Dean's concentrating on his work, brow creased, teeth worrying his lower lip. He studies what he's done so far, shakes his head. It's not quite right. He's always been a quick study, but this is taking him a while to get the hang of. He's so engrossed in what he's doing that he doesn't hear the footsteps and he's proud of himself that he only flinches a little when a hand grips his shoulder and another comes to rest on his hip.
Alastair settles himself along Dean's back, rests his chin on his protege's shoulder. "The placement's a little off, Dean. You want to get the point of the spike straight through the joint."
Dean nods. He knows, but knowing and doing are two different things and he trembles against Alastair's body. Mistakes are not something Alastair tolerates and he shows his displeasure with Dean's screw ups in far more imaginative ways than any he used while merely trying to break him.
Alastair's tongue flicks against Dean's neck, rough and scaly, before dragging a long, burning line up his face. "Do you need me to show you again?" Dean jerks in his grasp and shakes his head. The demonstration won't be done on the soul Dean's been working on, but on Dean himself. "Maybe we need to take a break here. Give you some time to think about what you've done wrong."
Dean lets out a shaky breath and nods. Pleading or arguments will only make things worse and he lets Alastair guide him back into the recesses of the cell. Alastair turns Dean to face him, leans in close, his fetid breath forcing it's way into Dean's lungs. Once it would have sickened Dean, made him gag. Now it's normal, everyday, and it doesn't hurt so he's made his peace with it. Alastair finishes, lifts his face, and Dean's eyes drop to a spot on the floor between his feet and Alastair's.
Both of Alastair's hands are on Dean's shoulders and Dean waits for what always comes next- for talons to dig in and force him to his knees, then to pierce his skull and drag his head forward until his mouth is impaled by Alastair's dick. Dean braces himself, tries to get ready for something he's never ready for, but Alastair just stands there, hands resting; not pushing, not tearing, and Dean can't help himself. He looks up.
Demons are ugly, that's just a fact, but Dean thinks Alastair could win prizes for it. The first time he'd seen Alastair, Dean had compared him to a giant lizard that had escaped from a leper colony and he sure as hell hasn't gotten better looking since. Like the foul breath and the odor of putrescence and decay, it's something Dean has, improbably, gotten used to.
Alastair's hand finds Dean's chin, tilts it up, forcing their eyes to meet. "What are you thinking, my boy?"
"I'm just, I mean, usually.." Dean stammers. If Alastair's forgotten that by now he's usually riding Dean's mouth like it's a rodeo bull, he sure as hell doesn't want to remind him.
"Wondering why you're not on your knees already? Why you're not pleasuring me yet?"
"Yes," Dean whispers, barely audible.
"Is that what you're supposed to be thinking about?"
It's not possible to freeze in hell, but the spike that goes through Dean's chest feels like ice. Think about what you've done wrong. "No," he breathes and is about to drop to his knees in atonement when Alastair's talons finally dig in. Holding him upright, against all expectations.
"You don't have to."
Don't have to. Don't have to? "If I don't, do I go back there?" Dean's head jerks minutely toward the rack on the other side of the cell. His eyes are looking everywhere but, and Alastair moves Dean's chin again until he's facing exactly what he's trying to avoid. Alastair knows. Alastair always knows, and he always makes Dean face his fears.
"No. No, my boy. Not for this."
Alastair releases Dean's chin and Dean's gaze immediately returns to the ground. He doesn't look at hell's head torturer any more if he can avoid it. When he first found himself on Alastair's rack, he'd stared the ugly fucker in the eye; back in the days when he wouldn't back down, wouldn't break. A shudder wracks Dean's frame. That contest is long over. They both know who's the alpha and who's the bitch in this relationship. A much harder shudder rocks Dean to his foundation. Relationship. His eyes stare elsewhere and Alastair waits patiently. He's always patient when there's a lesson to be taught.
Dean's world consists only of the souls who come to his rack and Alastair. Alastair, who broke him down and reforged him into what he is today. Alastair, who gives him the damned to vent his rage on, his hatred, his violence. Alastair, who gives him pain and pain and more pain until there's room for nothing else and the guilt leaves his body with his screams. Alastair, who teaches him with punishment, but also with praise.
Alastair's ugly. He's putrid and disgusting and he's nothing Dean wants. Dean casts his mind out to what he does want and is horrified to find there's nothing there. There was. He knows there was, but it's long gone now. Dean moans, but doesn't look up, and misses the sharp slash of Alastair's smile. Life has never let Dean have what he wants, he didn't need Alastair to teach him that, and Dean had learned early to want only what he has. This would cost him, he thinks, if he had anything left to pay with.
Dean leans forward, lips brushing Alastair's, then drops to his knees. Alastair's going to make him say it, acknowledge it, and Dean waits for the pain to free him to scream the words out.
Pairing: Alastair/Dean
Genre: Slash
Rating: R
Word count: 966
Warning: dark!fic, reference to non-con
Summary: Dean learned long ago that he's never going to have what he wants, so he learned to want what he has.
Disclaimer: SPN and it's characters don't belong to me, I'm just playing in their sandbox.
A/N: Written for prompt 1: Lady Gaga's Bad Romance
Written for the SPN Last Author Standing challenge. A prompt is issued every other week, you have 10 days to get your story in, then four days are left for voting. One author voted off each cycle until only one is left. Stories must be posted anonymously and be between 100 - 1000 words. No betas allowed, authors aren't revealed until after voting is complete
I want your ugly
I want your disease
I want your everything
As long as it’s free
Dean's concentrating on his work, brow creased, teeth worrying his lower lip. He studies what he's done so far, shakes his head. It's not quite right. He's always been a quick study, but this is taking him a while to get the hang of. He's so engrossed in what he's doing that he doesn't hear the footsteps and he's proud of himself that he only flinches a little when a hand grips his shoulder and another comes to rest on his hip.
Alastair settles himself along Dean's back, rests his chin on his protege's shoulder. "The placement's a little off, Dean. You want to get the point of the spike straight through the joint."
Dean nods. He knows, but knowing and doing are two different things and he trembles against Alastair's body. Mistakes are not something Alastair tolerates and he shows his displeasure with Dean's screw ups in far more imaginative ways than any he used while merely trying to break him.
Alastair's tongue flicks against Dean's neck, rough and scaly, before dragging a long, burning line up his face. "Do you need me to show you again?" Dean jerks in his grasp and shakes his head. The demonstration won't be done on the soul Dean's been working on, but on Dean himself. "Maybe we need to take a break here. Give you some time to think about what you've done wrong."
Dean lets out a shaky breath and nods. Pleading or arguments will only make things worse and he lets Alastair guide him back into the recesses of the cell. Alastair turns Dean to face him, leans in close, his fetid breath forcing it's way into Dean's lungs. Once it would have sickened Dean, made him gag. Now it's normal, everyday, and it doesn't hurt so he's made his peace with it. Alastair finishes, lifts his face, and Dean's eyes drop to a spot on the floor between his feet and Alastair's.
Both of Alastair's hands are on Dean's shoulders and Dean waits for what always comes next- for talons to dig in and force him to his knees, then to pierce his skull and drag his head forward until his mouth is impaled by Alastair's dick. Dean braces himself, tries to get ready for something he's never ready for, but Alastair just stands there, hands resting; not pushing, not tearing, and Dean can't help himself. He looks up.
Demons are ugly, that's just a fact, but Dean thinks Alastair could win prizes for it. The first time he'd seen Alastair, Dean had compared him to a giant lizard that had escaped from a leper colony and he sure as hell hasn't gotten better looking since. Like the foul breath and the odor of putrescence and decay, it's something Dean has, improbably, gotten used to.
Alastair's hand finds Dean's chin, tilts it up, forcing their eyes to meet. "What are you thinking, my boy?"
"I'm just, I mean, usually.." Dean stammers. If Alastair's forgotten that by now he's usually riding Dean's mouth like it's a rodeo bull, he sure as hell doesn't want to remind him.
"Wondering why you're not on your knees already? Why you're not pleasuring me yet?"
"Yes," Dean whispers, barely audible.
"Is that what you're supposed to be thinking about?"
It's not possible to freeze in hell, but the spike that goes through Dean's chest feels like ice. Think about what you've done wrong. "No," he breathes and is about to drop to his knees in atonement when Alastair's talons finally dig in. Holding him upright, against all expectations.
"You don't have to."
Don't have to. Don't have to? "If I don't, do I go back there?" Dean's head jerks minutely toward the rack on the other side of the cell. His eyes are looking everywhere but, and Alastair moves Dean's chin again until he's facing exactly what he's trying to avoid. Alastair knows. Alastair always knows, and he always makes Dean face his fears.
"No. No, my boy. Not for this."
Alastair releases Dean's chin and Dean's gaze immediately returns to the ground. He doesn't look at hell's head torturer any more if he can avoid it. When he first found himself on Alastair's rack, he'd stared the ugly fucker in the eye; back in the days when he wouldn't back down, wouldn't break. A shudder wracks Dean's frame. That contest is long over. They both know who's the alpha and who's the bitch in this relationship. A much harder shudder rocks Dean to his foundation. Relationship. His eyes stare elsewhere and Alastair waits patiently. He's always patient when there's a lesson to be taught.
Dean's world consists only of the souls who come to his rack and Alastair. Alastair, who broke him down and reforged him into what he is today. Alastair, who gives him the damned to vent his rage on, his hatred, his violence. Alastair, who gives him pain and pain and more pain until there's room for nothing else and the guilt leaves his body with his screams. Alastair, who teaches him with punishment, but also with praise.
Alastair's ugly. He's putrid and disgusting and he's nothing Dean wants. Dean casts his mind out to what he does want and is horrified to find there's nothing there. There was. He knows there was, but it's long gone now. Dean moans, but doesn't look up, and misses the sharp slash of Alastair's smile. Life has never let Dean have what he wants, he didn't need Alastair to teach him that, and Dean had learned early to want only what he has. This would cost him, he thinks, if he had anything left to pay with.
Dean leans forward, lips brushing Alastair's, then drops to his knees. Alastair's going to make him say it, acknowledge it, and Dean waits for the pain to free him to scream the words out.