Disclaimer; Supernatural and the characters portrayed therein are the property of Kripke and all those associated.
Asylum
You're not fighting anymore, Dean," the form of Mary Winchester murmurs, pity in her eyes, "and you should be. You can't give in to this, you must be strong..." Ethereal fingers touch Dean's cheek, and a choked sob passes his lips.
"You must be," Mary continues, soothing her boy, "because you left Sammy all by himself. Who will look after him now, hmm? All alone in the big wide world with no family left. Alone." That sweet face, the face of his mother, leans in to press a kiss to Dean's forehead; with all the love that an incorporeal hallucination can muster... and when she pulls away he can taste blood on his tongue. He can taste blood, and his mom's eyes flicker and slide to white, bone giving away as her very body begins to decay in front of his eyes, the stench of dead flesh and offal causing him to retch.
When she smiles, it is one of death, her breath putrid; sulphur.
"All alone. With no-one to save him."
The corpse of Mary Winchester cocks her head, and blood seeps down her cheeks. Its tainted love spills into him, causing a sweet agony to erupt from within; failure. Sam. Sammy. Screw this torture; because if one hair on Sammy's head is hurt then he'll ... he'll...
"You'll what? Fight back? Be the knight in shining armour? Not gonna happen sweetheart."
Mary's voice becomes sing-song, sweet and melodious; a stark contrast to her ugly visage.
"You can't save him because you're a disappointment; disgusting," her face twists, and a bony hand snaps out to meet the thin, pale flesh of his cheek. "Daddy's little soldier; a good for nothing little bastard with no use other than to follow orders. No PURPOSE. No SUBSTANCE. Useless. Your only mission in life, boy, and you fuck it up. Save your brother. SAVE YOUR BROTHER."
When she pulls away, Dean realises that the wetness on his face are tears. Weeks, months, years... he's broken inside and can't be fixed.
He's too goddamn tired to fight anymore.
The balance shifts, and Mary becomes hard, voice deepening with evil intent. "We'll get your sweet baby brother, Dean... and you won't be able to do a thing. You'll stay, and you'll fester, and the darkness will eat you up inside until all that's left is a husk; a pale imitation."
Mary smiles, the soft and tender flesh of her face sinking inwards as maggots eat at the decayed flesh, "And then we'll make you watch as we tear out Sammy's innards and throw them to the hounds."
The sob of denial that graces the ears of Mary Winchester fills her chest with longing, for her words are accompanied by a terrible vision; sweet Sammy stretched upon the rack, his guts a beautiful contrast to the pallor of his skin. Those sweet cries are something that she knows all too well, for the tune slips into her mind and slowly turns her crazy, its melody graceless and hoarse, yet enchanting.
Straddling her darling boy's hips, Mary leans in and verily breathes out the essence of despair. Her breasts are shrunken husks of beauteous femininity, heavy against his bare chest as she leans in to nuzzle at his throat. And yet, as Dean looks into her eyes, his world tilts on its axis and those rotten limbs melt into hard, smooth muscle, woman becoming utterly masculine... vengeful spirit becoming sadistic demon. Alastair is all steel and graceful slim fingers, a refined face and beneath that a veneer of dark satisfaction.
"And we'll do it again, and again. We'll skin him alive and watch him squirm," Alastair murmurs, lusty, "and do you know what comes next, Dean-o? Hmmm? We'll feed you the bloody pieces of meat that we cut from his screaming body... piece, by delicious piece."
His honeyed whispers cause Dean's body to become taut with exhausted anger, pulling against the rusted hooks that secure his very flesh in a last attempt at rebellion. His body trembles with effort, muscles bunching and body trembling as the words hit his tortured mind in the manner of a sucker punch. It swells like a great wave, only to crest and recede utterly, and he is defeated.
Aww, poor lad.
And he looks so adorable too.
Pinching those cheeks, Alastair laughs, licking the tears from Dean's face with obvious delight. The salty river runs constant now, eyes glistening, glassy. The abstract terror in them has Alastair rumbling with pleasure.
"Sammy..."
"Not yet, my sweet boy," Alastair utters, "not yet. He's as much ours as you are."
Dean sags, pale.
They're so very beautiful when they're broken, are they not?