Title from "Help" by the Beatles. You can listen to it and watch it here on YouTube (go to youtube dot com, add /watch?v=yWP6Qki8mWc) and join me in ogling John Lennon...who I've had a thing for since I was 10... (and, by the way, according to Lennon himself, the song Help was about depression and insecurity he was really suffering from, so appropriate, too...)
In "In This World of Strangers, I Belong to Someone" I alluded to Dean's second panic attack, which he had the day he broke up with Alastair. I hadn't thought that through AT ALL when I put that line in, but while I was editing the story, I had the idea for this one.
So, dear reader. You know Supernatural (I hope...). You know Alastair. I think you can probably make some educated guesses what's in store in this chapter. However, have some warnings.
The first chapter is interspersed with an extensive flashback of Dean's terrible, lousy, no-good, really crappy, truly shit morning and early afternoon. This includes sadism, safeword usage, and said safeword being ignored.
I decided to go with "EXTREMELY DUBIOUS CONSENT" to describe the events in question, in that Dean had *previously* consented to the activities engaged in, but, well, that's a borderline call, part of me thinks I should flat-out call it Non-Con, because seriously, if one partner says no, the other partner needs to *stop.* And that does not happen.
As of now I've got 13k words written. I *promise* there is angsty schmoop (cause that's about what Dean is capable of - considering the events in this story are 8 months before the events of "Sticks and Stones") and consensual smut and happy - as the description says, this is the story of how Dean and Cas hook up for the first time - but it gets off to an *extremely* rough start, and I want people to be aware of that.
*TIMELINE*
This story is a PREQUEL. Of the stories I have written so far, it takes place FIRST.
Fourteen years before 20XA: Cas and Dean enter their freshman year at Lawrence HS together and become friends. Both are 14, as is Jimmy. Sam is 10 (Dean is 4 ½ years older).
Ten years before 20XA: Dean, Jimmy and Cas graduate. Dean stays in Lawrence. Jimmy moves west to start school at Berkeley. For a year, Cas goes to KU, but then he follows Jimmy to California.
Six years before 20XA: Sam graduates high school. He leaves for Stanford. Dean stays in Lawrence.
Three years before 20XA: John Winchester dies when Dean is 26 years old. Dean moves to San Jose.
Two years before 20XA: Sam graduates pre-law, starts law school.
July, 20XA: Dean and Cas start dating (the events of THIS STORY)
November, 20XA: Cas invites Jimmy to join them (the events of "I Guess You're Just What I Needed")
Late March, 20XB: Dean says "I love you." (the events of "No More Than He Deserves")
Early April, 20XB: A whole pile of angst happens. (the events of "Sticks and Stones" and "In This World Of Strangers, I Belong to Someone.")
"Hey, Jimmy." Casual. Nonchalant. Dean always called Jimmy out of the blue. This wasn't totally weird or abnormal. Absolutely not. Totally a random social call. Utterly innocuous. These are not the droids you're looking for.
The flogger struck Dean's back again, and only willpower and the ball gag in his mouth kept him from screaming, only the rough rope binding him spread-eagle on the bed kept him from writhing and curling in on himself. His shoulders and thighs contorted, limbs straining against the constraints, but there wasn't the least give, there wasn't the least relief, there wasn't the least escape. There was no sympathy to be had.
"Dean! Dude! What's up?" Unlike Dean, Jimmy actually was at ease and relaxed, upbeat and utterly different than Cas' no matter how similar they looked and sounded to those who didn't know them well. "Oh, is this about going to see that new Hercules thing? Cause dude, you know I'm so in, right?"
"Very good, Dean." With his eyes covered by a thick blindfold, lying face-down on the bed, Dean couldn't see Alastair's expression, but he didn't need to. "I can tell you're really in the spirit of things now." After four months doing weekly scenes, Dean could perfectly picture the malicious glitter in blue eyes, the stalking step that paced around the bed looking for the ideal angle from which to place the next strike, the faint quirk of a cruel smile. "How many times do I have to hit you to tease some interest out of that flaccid little thing of yours?" Alastair didn't give a fuck if Dean enjoyed what was being done to him. "Let's find out." Dean's pleasure had nothing to do with their scenes. "And Dean? This had better be good for me." That wasn't what either of them was there for.
"Yeah, Hercules," said Dean absently. "Looks awesome, right? You free next Sunday? Matinee? Rocco's after?" The plans had no bearing on why Dean had actually called Jimmy, but the longer he could procrastinate, the better. There was no way for Dean to say why he'd called, no way for him to admit what he needed. Of the only three people in San Jose he could rely on, Jimmy would normally be the last he'd call for help – Sam would usually be the first, though, really, if Dean had any choice at all he wouldn't call anyone – but in this instance, Jimmy was the only one of the three who might possibly understand what Dean was going through, might possibly offer him support without judgment.
Tension built in Dean's back as he waited for the next blow to fall. Frantic thoughts begged his recalcitrant muscles to relax. He was all too aware that if he was rigid when Alastair struck him it would hurt that much more, but his body was in too much pain to give a shit what his mind thought about anything. Fuck, if anything his body was intentionally ignoring all mental remonstrance, well aware that this exercise in agony was all Dean's brain's idea, that for some bizarre reason Dean had volunteered for the flagellation that wracked agony over tortured flesh at every blow.
"Oooh, no good, buddy," Jimmy said with genuine regret. "Hot date. With twins." Laughter drowned out background sounds of muffled voices and passing traffic. "Twins are awesome."
A hard strike streaked stinging fire over Dean's ass and lower back, followed by another, another, a rain of blows, accompanied by the snap and thwap of leather, a low chuckle, and intense, unending, building pain. Dean tried to keep quiet as the assault continued, but he couldn't despite his best efforts. Desperate, strained sounds choked against the gag, ravaged his throat as the flogger ravaged his back. Tears soaked into the blindfold, and instinctually, Dean pulled as hard as he could against the ropes, pulled until the coarse hemp chafed agonized rings around the skin of his ankles and wrists, pulled as if his life depended on it.
"If you say so," Dean said without really hearing. What a fucking idiot he was. If he was going to call at all, he should stop fucking around. If he didn't even have the nerve to ask for what he needed, he should get off the phone.
I deserve this. Strike. I failed my family. Strike. I failed my brother. Strike. I failed my father. Strike. I have sinned. Strike. I should suffer. Strike. I should pay. Strike. Make me pay. Strike. Punish me. Strike. Punish me. Strike. Punish me. Strike.
"Hey, you okay? You don't sound so good," concern tinged Jimmy's voice, incongruous, wrong.
Dean's back arched up from the mattress as his skin split, tore open as it never had in the past. Alastair had bled him before, but he'd never been whipped until his skin broke. The pain was unbelievable, and he screamed around the ball gag, screamed with his entire body. I deserve this…No. No, stop, please stop, have to make him stop. Desperately, Dean patted at the plastic-covered mattress, their prearranged signal that Dean couldn't take more, since he wasn't able to safe word while he was gagged.
"I'm fine," Dean lied. "Just wondering, I've got some stuff to do around the house, but it's a two person job. Cas is teaching, Sam's got midterms, and I was wondering if maybe you had an hour or two." It was all bullshit, but he couldn't explain, he was too much of a coward to confess after all. He couldn't say what had happened, what he needed. He had no fucking clue what he needed. All Dean knew was that Jimmy had seen some shit, and if anyone could help him, Jimmy would be able to. If he could just get Jimmy over to the house, nothing else would be needed. One look at Dean would tell Jimmy everything he needed to know.
"What was that, Dean?" Alastair breathed heavily, voice thick with arousal. "I can't quite hear you." The words fell in Dean's ears distorted, virtually incomprehensible over uncontrollable keening and the rush of blood and terror flooding his thoughts. All sense vanished saved the need to make the beating stop, and tenuously Dean held on to one thing, that slapping the bed was the key. Frantic, he did so over and over again, struggling against his bindings. Another blow struck his torn back, and he sobbed and squirmed helplessly.
"Fuck…I wish…today really isn't good," Jimmy's voice sounded far away. Memories choked Dean with nausea, his stomach roiling at the taste of blood on his lips. "How's tomorrow?"
The bed shifted beneath him, bounced his body up and down as the springs shifted. Each inadvertent movement was painful in a new way. His wrenched muscles ached, the knots at his wrists and ankles slid easy over bloody rope burns, and his back felt like it had literally been set ablaze from shoulders to ass. Flesh brushed against the skin of his inner thighs, fingers grasped the plug inside him and thrust it roughly in and out. A whisper of pleasure crept through the pain flooding his thoughts, and stomach-turning euphoria flooded Dean.
"Don't worry about it," Dean said with as much of the semblance of brightness as he could muster. Fuck, he hurt everywhere. It was better that Jimmy didn't come over. Dean wasn't sure he was physically capable of rising from the bathroom floor long enough to walk the short distance to the front door. God, he was fucking useless, and a coward to boot.
"Wet and ready for me, I see," Alastair said with an audible smirk. A hand ran down his back, sparking agony, moving smoothly over skin slick with sweat and blood. Weakly, Dean smacked his palm against the bed again. The plug was torn from his ass, and Alastair's cock pressed against him. Dean whimpered uncontrollably, sounds trapped in his throat as broken whines, insides clenched with a wrenching combination of desire and disgust. As much pain as he was in, a part of him still wanted. He'd taken his punishment. He'd earned his reward. He just wanted the pain to stop. Alastair was anything but a tender lover, but surely even his brutal strokes were better than not being filled at all. Nothing was happening to Dean save what he'd earned. His hand stilled, fingers clenching convulsively into fists in plastic covering as Alastair chuckled and breached him, forced his way inside Dean with a single solid thrust. Dean deserved this.
"Are you sure you're alright, Dean?" Far from setting Jimmy's concerns at ease, Dean had apparently roused them further. The whisper of anxiety that thickened Jimmy's voice curled in Dean's insides and knotted him up with worry, guilt, and shame. Objectively, Dean knew he wasn't alright. Objectively, Dean knew he was hurt, maybe badly. Objectively, Dean knew that what had happened that morning wasn't okay, and that he'd done what he needed to do. Objectively, Dean knew he needed help urgently. He was completely incapable of asking for it.
Alastair fucked him without the least concern for Dean's comfort, interest or gratification. From the start the thrusts were punishingly hard, no regard for the relative size of Alastair's cock as compared to the small plug, no regard for Dean's wrenched, strained muscles or his back weeping blood. When Alastair had hurt him in the past, even on the rare occasions he'd drawn blood, Dean had only had minimal difficulty transitioning from the punishment component, the masochistic aspect of the scene, into the sexual. Today, that didn't happen at all. Grunting with effort, using strong hands to push and pull Dean's body as he would, Alastair thrust and thrust, and though Dean felt scattered pleasure as bursts of warmth in his body, it didn't built in his body, didn't swell and burgeon, didn't even bring him to an erection. He hurt too much, in his mind, in his flesh. All he wanted was for it to stop. He'd told Alastair that he wanted to stop. Why hadn't Alastair stopped? Fingers bruised Dean's ass as Alastair continued unrelentingly and Dean wept pain and misery into his blindfold.
"No worries, Jimmy," said Dean gruffly. "Have a good one." He practically jerked the phone away from his ear, fumbling for the "disconnect" button.
A low, satisfied groan oozed from Alastair as he jerked Dean's hips up, held them still. With a spate of quick, desperate thrusts the sadist came, pulling out as he did to splatter Dean's already disgusting back with streaks of white come. Dean shuddered, disgusted with what he'd done, disgusted that he'd wanted this, disgusted with Alastair, disgusted with himself so profoundly he couldn't believe it.
"Dea—" Jimmy's voice echoed from the phone just as Dean found the button and his phone chirped to let him know the call had been ended. Resting his elbows on his raised knees, Dean slumped forward, back protesting agony, one of the gashes breaking open to leak a thin trickle of blood along his spine. He dropped his head against his hands, fingers still wrapped around his cell phone, and tried to take slow, calming breaths. If Jimmy couldn't help him, what the fuck was he supposed to do now?
Indifferent hands untied Dean's restraints, freed his ankles, then his wrists. Every instinct screamed to hide, to disappear, but moving hurt too much, and Dean could bring himself to do no more than lie limply spread eagle, flat on his stomach, hardly able to lift his own body weight even enough to inhale. Each exhale felt like it drained all his energy, left him merged with the mattress. His sweaty skin stuck to the plastic, which made a discordant squeaking, stretching noise under his weight, squealing as Alastair moved around the bed freeing Dean's limbs. A finger traced along Dean's chin in the imitation of tenderness, a farce that was revealed as Alastair pushed Dean's face against the plastic so hard he couldn't breathe for the material suctioning to his nose. The buckles on the ball gag were undone and it was torn away, Dean gasping desperately in its absence. The blindfold went last, and Dean's vision, hazy and dark, resolved into Alastair's lean, naked body, smeared with bright red streaks of blood, smiling at Dean in the cruel way that, as far as Dean knew, was the only semblance of kindness and humanity that Alastair was capable of.
Calling Cas was inconceivable. Dean's best friend was so vanilla he made Neapolitan ice cream seem risqué. There was nothing about Dean's situation that Cas would be able to understand, and his well-meaning, benign, misguided attempts at sympathy would only make Dean feel worse. No, that wasn't fair. Cas would understand that Dean needed help, and he'd give it unconditionally, and try to give him comfort as well. Help, Dean could acknowledge he needed. Comfort, on the other hand, was completely undeserved and utterly impossible to accept. Dean had brought every bit of his pain on himself.
"You were so good today," Alastair murmured, wrapping a hand around Dean's chin and jerking his head up, forcing their eyes to meet. Alastair's were crystalline blue, cold as a winter morning, horribly chilling against Dean's pained, incinerated flesh.
Calling Sam was inconceivable. There was literally not a single way that Dean could imagine his brother reacting to this situation that would improve things. Sam meant well, but his initial reaction would be to tell Dean what an idiot he was for not going immediately to the hospital, and his next would be fury ostensibly directed at Alastair but in truth aimed at large part at Dean and what a pathetic excuse for a brother he was. If Dean wasn't so busted, he would never have gotten involved with a sadist in the first place. It was his first foray into masochism, and for the past few months, it had seemed like a decent answer. Alastair had appeared to accept Dean's limitations, and Dean had gotten what he needed. The suffering and subsequent release he experienced cleansed him, left him clear headed, left him feeling able to get through the day – at least until the high wore off. Then he'd feel achy and depressed and even more pathetic and worthless than he'd felt before. Then he'd crave another scene, another high, another glorious explosion of pain to drown out the voices in his head that never shut up. Sam would never understand. That was a good thing. It meant that Dean hadn't completely failed his brother. It meant that he'd managed to shelter Sammy enough that the younger man couldn't possibly relate to what would drive Dean to someone like Alastair.
"We're done," Dean mumbled. His mouth ached from being stretched over the gag, his throat was scoured by the noises that he'd not been able to keep from making. Nonetheless, he could tell by Alastair's reaction that his words were intelligible. Alastair's lips quirked into a slight, expressive frown, his body went stiff, his fingers dug into Dean's chin hard.
The phone in Dean's hands vibrated, the low opening notes of "Smoke on the Water" eerie and echoing in the confines of the tile bathroom. The enema kit showed over the rim of the garbage, reminding him that even his attempts to clean himself couldn't remove the sense that the morning had left him tainted. The room was glisteningly clean and white, and made Dean feel impure and foul.
"I must have misheard you," Alastair's calm façade was more intimidating than anger would have been. Someone with such utter self-control was capable of anything. Fear heaped atop the morass of physical and emotional trauma swamping Dean's brain, and part of him screamed to agree with Alastair's words, claim to have misspoken, rather than risk Alastair's wrath.
The Caller ID named Dean's caller Jimmy, and Dean scowled and sent it straight to voice mail. If Jimmy wasn't available to help, Dean would have to figure things out alone. He shouldn't have a called in the first place. Dean didn't need help. Now, as always, he'd do what he needed to do on his own. In this case, that meant he would man up, take another shower to wash of the feeling of being steeped in crap, and go to bed nice and early. He was exhausted. He'd feel better in the morning, and he still had all day tomorrow off to recover before he had to go to work on Friday.
"I said, we're done," Dean snarled, anger rising. With a monumental effort of pure, fury-fueled willpower, Dean got his hands under him and sat up. Sweat and blood splattered on the plastic. "I told you to stop, and you didn't. I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back."
Dean's muscles tensed, the initial clench before actual movement, and jolted him through with pain as every joint screamed objection to the intention of rising. Fuck, Alastair had really done a number on him this time.
"Oh, did you safe word? I must not have noticed," Alastair's lisp was pronounced, his expression playful, his eyes dead. "We were having so much fun." Dean met Alastair's gaze with all the anger, betrayal and self-disgust he felt. "Look at you, giving me those bedroom eyes. But we both know the kind of man you really are, don't we?"
With a groan, Dean overcame the ache and forced himself to stand. He felt like he'd been on a Goddamn rack, stretched thin, distended, busted. His worn wrists brushed against the rough material of his jeans and burned. Maybe he'd skip the shower. He'd already had one. It wasn't like he was actually dirty. Collapsing in bed sounded great.
"Yeah," shouted Dean. "The kind of man who doesn't need you. Go to hell, Alastair." Dean's clothes were folded by the door. With more strength than he would have credited himself with having, he crossed the room as if he weren't on the verge of falling on his face, as if he couldn't feel the streams of liquid trailing over his ass and down his legs.
Blood soaked through his shirt, thick flow upsettingly reminiscent of Alastair's come on him earlier. Determinedly, he turned the water on and let it heat, and with difficulty he stripped down. In the bright light of the small bathroom, the mirror showed every blemish. Dean's chest was unharmed, but when he turned he could see the angry red lines crisscrossing his back, several partially scabbed over and leaking thick, dark blood. His face was a disaster, his chin bruised, his mouth swollen, his light brown hair matted to his head, his green eyes gritty, sunken, rimmed in red, his cheeks streaked from crying. The steam that rapidly filled the room made breathing more difficult, but it obliterated his reflection, for which he was intensely grateful.
"See you next week," taunted Alastair. "Coy" sprang incongruously to mind as a word to describe the playfulness in Alastair's voice, and the contrast between the meaning of that word and the sadist's cruelty was sickening. As hastily as he could, Dean threw his clothing on, pulling his shirt and jeans on despite the painful abrasion of the fabric on his scoured skin, the frustrating way the cloth stuck and clung to the fluids dampening him. Dean slammed the door as he walked out, stalked to the Impala, and collapsed in the front seat. The hardest part was done. He'd managed to walk, managed to leave, Alastair hadn't stopped him. Now he just had to get home to safety, and he'd never have to go through that again.
He was never seeing Alastair again.
The air in the bathroom was thick. It was so hard to breath. Dean needed air but each time he inhaled all he got were memories.
Alastair using a razor to make him bleed. Alastair fucking him open unlubricated. Alastair laughing when Dean screamed. Alastair promising to give him what he needed. Alastair choking him on cock. Alastair reminding him that he got no more than he deserved. Alastair dripping hot wax on his dick. Alastair flogging him bloody. Alastair ignoring his use of a safe word.
No one could help Dean. No one could know the things he'd allowed to be done to him. Shame choked him, shame at how he'd gotten off on the pain, shame at his worthlessness, shame at how often he'd screamed.
Nothing he did got enough air in his body. His vision blurred out – too much steam in the room, making everything fuzzy, rendering every surface vague and undefined. He blinked, things came into focus; he blinked and there was nothing, only a wash of pristine white tile; he blinked and splatters of ruby covered everything, each a perfect glittering gem in the haze. With a shaking hand, Dean reached out, ran a finger over one of the drops, but it wouldn't go away. He scrubbed over it, gasping, again and again, and the splotch only grew bigger, spread along the wall like a cancer, extended into a long line that split open and leaked a ragged line of blood over the tiles.
Need to breath. Need it to go away. Need to breath. Need to make him stop hurting me. Need to breath. Need to escape. Need to breath. Need to be punished. Need to breath. Need help. Help me, help me, someone help me, someone make the blood go away, someone heal me, someone fix me, someone punish me, that's what I deserve, that's all that I deserve.
The gash in the wall grew and grew. The whole room was a tear in the world, swollen, infected, oozing ichor and blackness and red, so much red.
Help me, Jimmy! Help me, Sam! Cas, help me, please, help me, Castiel!
There was nothing but red.
The worst is over. Promise.
By the way, in terms of kink...I in no way mean to imply that I think that SM is bad in general. I in fact mean to imply that Alastair is a sadistic cruel torturing son of a bitch.
Also...I'm guessing this will be 3 chapters and around 20k words but I'm not positive and, if you're a regular reader, you know I'm notoriously bad at having these guesses be accurate.
I have a busy weekend (my weekends are Friday/Saturday) but I'll get another chunk up tomorrow if I possibly can.
