Disclaimer: Don't own any of these characters, they all belong to Kripke and the CW.
A/N: So, I posted this over in LJ and then decided why not and post it over here as well. Pretty much this idea came from rewatchin season 1 when Dean was interrogating Meg. I couldn't but think that by battling all these demons, Alastair would have heard about the Winchesters in some way or other.
Also!! I don't really write slash, but I just couldn't help it here. It's not too graphic but still up there. So if graphic torture and twisted slash makes you squirm don't read this!!!
There you've been warned.
Procede with caution.
YOU'RE MY OBSESSION
Alastair's a focused individual, not obsessed like others declare. He takes pride in his work, each day finding something to improve on or experiment with. It's a never ending high of creation. He wonders if this is what God felt when he created these deliciously corruptible and moist creatures called humans.
Today, though, something breaks his attention with a screech of a siren.
"I'm going to rip his head off!"
Meg's voice stokes the flame walls into a sea of orange. Irritation crackles at his smoldering ash form. He can't work in this environment with a screaming brat in the background. Drawing his twisted, hunched form Alastair peers down at his whimpering victim. "Be right back." He chuckles, turning his back on the ever predictable sob of relief before shuffling towards a small cavern.
Sliding into a lax position against the entry, skin flaking off like snow, he watches as Meg's fizzling form vibrates red with wounds, blond hair and slim face of a woman peeking out once in awhile. She must have currently returned from that artic crap hole.
Azazel's seamless form stretches out, yellow eyes flashing with annoyance. "Don't worry kiddo; things are going according to plan."
Meg's black eyes burn as she stalks up to Azazel. "You weren't the one exorcized! You should have seen him, he…"
"Don't tell me you were scared of Dean Winchester?" chuckles Azazel, "That self-loathing, whimpering brat is nothing."
The older demon doesn't see it, but Alastair finds his interest piqued at Meg's tiny tremble at the mention of this Dean before utter hatred blasts to life. "I'm gonna kill him," she seethes through clenched teeth, "gonna rip off that cocky grin and-"
"Enough Meg," Azazel's stern voice jerks the demon to attention, "Now tell me where you stashed dear old dad. I wanna pay a little visit to Johnny."
Mindless, boring chatter fills the air. Meg's rage simmers into bubbling lava, her little tantrum over at the moment. Rolling his eyes, Alastair drifts back to his workshop glad to have peace and quiet once more amongst the hellish screams. Yet, he can't help but ponder about this Dean Winchester.
Scowling, the Grand Inquisitor locks the name away deep inside his mind as he slithers back up to his soul, wide grin hinting at the razor sharp teeth stabbing into rotted lips. "Wakey, wakey, Ruby, you've been a very naughty girl again."
He walks, nodding to random insubordinates successfully ripping souls to shred while relishing due punishment to the slackers. Really, he sometimes hates being this high in the food chain. Supervision's such a dull job and sadly there were no challenging souls dangling around. Has the topside truly gotten this soft? That or maybe he's becoming bored…
A dreaded feeling drapes like tar over his heart. It's a feeling he hasn't felt in centuries. It's something he remembers as dread...maybe even fear. That one day, his love for torture would dissipate leaving him as another moping white-eyed demon with nothing to do. Hell, it's the reason Azazel and Lilith began their joint adventure in bringing about the Apocalypse. Pure, maddening boredom.
With a flick of his wrist, a long metal chopstick flies through the air impaling a working demon right in between the exposed vertebras. The demon howls, spasms onto the ground as warped fingers grasp futilely at the weapon. Sighing loudly, the Grand Master numbly decides to visit Lilith and ask her what the hell is taking so long. Azazel should be done by now, that cocky smartass bragging on and on about his children. Especially this one called Sam Winchester, whoever that was. If anything, all Alastair cares about is if that kid has any relation to a Dean.
Passing through another thick ring of wires and brimstone, the demon halts in mid-stride at the sound of a cluttered laugh. It's been decades since he heard a laugh coming from a chained soul. Leaning back, white eyes narrow taking in Meg's pulsing form brimming with sadistic joy. Before her on the large barbed-wire rack is a tall, broad shoulder man whose shaggy brown hair is caked in blood, while his beard is hacked off at random places.
Cocking a burnt eyebrow, Alastair strides over. Each step quickens at the sound of defiance from this soul. Meg's not one to get her hands dirty in the fine art of torture. If anything, he hates when untrained demons think they can pick up a razor and call themselves master torturers. They don't know squat about the skill.
"Oh, John," sighs Meg as she tugs her knife out of his stomach spilling bright blood onto the floor. John keeps his steady gaze on the demon; stubbornness hardens each flinch of pain. "Sadly, I have something to do at the moment, gotta repay my respects to your boys, especially Sam. We're gonna get nice and cozy with each other."
Meg laughs as that calm mask cracks. John struggles against his bonds, snarling clear despite the few missing teeth. "Go ahead and try you demonic whore. You're nothing my boys can't handle."
"I'd like to see you try, big boy, considering you've always disappointed me." Chuckling, Meg sprints into the air, zooming up towards the surface.
Left alone, John hangs his head, biting back tears when Alastair halts in front of him. Lifting a weary head, hard brown eyes stare up at him, the brief mourning covered with disgust. "Who the hell are you?" snaps John, his tone painting an attitude that this here is John's private time and Alastair is intruding. Sadly, it seems this soul doesn't realize that nothing is private. All of one's darkest secrets come out to play down here.
Leaning forward, Alastair sniffs the air around John. "Hm, you've been here for awhile and still defiant." Smirking, he waves a table into existence with all his favorite tools. All thoughts of Lilith and boredom swept away with intrigue. "The name's Alastair, head boss here in the Pit."
John's shredded lips thin with caution, "Like I give a care. The moment I'm off this rack, I'm gonna kill the whole lot of ya."
"Bit redundant wouldn't you say," muses Alastair, "But it's the thought that counts." Then it hits him. He's heard of a John, but it couldn't be this John could it? "Wait...you wouldn't happen to have a son would ya or a brother?"
An anger becoming of a parent darkens John's eyes. "You touch Sam in anyway-"
"Sam?" Confusion tightens Alastair's face. Shaking his head, he lowers his voice as he leans forward, "It's Dean I want to hear about."
John's face turns into a ghostly shade of white as terror numbs his features. "You can't have him...neither of them."
Sadly, Alastair reads in that moment how this Dean holds a special place in John and it wets his appetite even more.
John never says yes to his proposition. Despite the rage and hunger to slice every demon he can see, the eldest Winchester remains pinned to the rack. Yet, the father begins to trickle out memories in the daze of torture, trying to remain sane as Alastair hums quietly while carving away.
The hunter tells stories of his boys, of his dead wife and a black car. The way he screams Mary is so beautifully heartbroken that Alastair wishes for a moment to go topside, grab a recorder and forever preserve the scream. A love like this doesn't come down here in the Pit that often despite the campfire stories.
Everything else he blocks out. Even after 55 years, Alastair grows tired of Mary and slices a bit of John's heart every time he speaks her name. But there's one thing that never grows dull. It fuels a twisted obsession that trumps his reputation to get John off the rack. For once in awhile, in that mist between tortures John's raspy voice tells what Alastair secretly questions.
"Dean's a good kid, so proud." Alastair slows down listening with baited breath.
It's through these silences, the Inquisitor learns of green eyes and a splash of freckles across a tanned face. Of a smartass kid who loves food, his car and his little brother. Of a skilled hunter whose fingers work magic with a blade and a gun.
After a long session with a icicles, Alastair finds himself warm after learning of Dean's first kill. An arm flings over John's bone shoulder, a waft of blood and sweat filling the air, Alastair cups the soul's chin. Raising it till pain-filled, breaking eyes gaze fearfully at the work table, Alastair bends down his acidic breath bubbling the flayed neck. "One of these days, John...one of these days I'm gonna have you boy here."
John shivers in fear and rage towards the deep obsession Alastair has for his eldest. It infuriates him that he can't do a damn thing...except pray to a God who he doesn't believe in that Dean will never meet Alastair.
"And I'm going to throw him over that table and make him whimper and beg."
"You sick bastard," John coughs out the same old retort he's used for 99 years, "I'll kill you first."
Alastair laughs.
He's sulking. The head Inquisitor is sulking in the ninth level of the Pit where tears are ice, freezing him to the jagged shore. He pushed the whole Dean thing a bit too far a few years ago. Freakin stupidity and pride blinded him, made him careless. Cause in that one second he let his guard down, John flew off the rack eyes pure black with fury. Without a glance, the hunter grabbed the demon's favorite razor as he pinned Alastair to the floor. In a blink, John sliced and diced into him like there was no tomorrow.
And as that father poured his blinding rage with slashes and tears, Alastair bit back screams of disappointment. No seal cracked opened. Sure, there were fine lines and an occasional rattle from this supposed righteous man's blood but no big finale. And now with him crossing over, play time was over.
Yet Alastair didn't care about that because all he saw was underneath this strong exterior, John was merely a loose canon when it came down to it. Irrational and no grace. With one powerful shove, the white-eyed demon slammed John off of him. Grasping a fiery knife in one hand, ready to dish out his punishment the Devil's Gate wrenched open above baring down tornado winds. In a flicker John's gone. Cursing dead languages with damaged pride as the winds howled through him, the demon crawled into the darkness.
Where green eyes full of defiance are blown open with terror keeping him warm. He's lustful with an idea he will never meet. And as much as this obsession is eating him, he will not leave to go topside only to get himself killed by this reputable hunter.
He's not that far gone.
In a steaming hiss, the final cut heals. Groaning glaciers shatter as Alastair trudges back to civilization. His mind spins with stories and excuses as his pride coils tightly in him like one of those whimpering newly arrived souls. Spotting one the moment he returns to his realm, Alastair licks his teeth like a hungry wolf. Taking one step to the left to savor this treat, he hears the static charges of gossip buzz to life in his mind. The sightings of angels hacking a trial downwards in search for something makes him chuckle. The seal's breaking at a fast rate earns a scowl. Cocking his head upwards, he listens for more. Off in the distance, demons scream with wild abandonment as they claw and swarm over a singular spot, buzzards to a corpse.
Grinding his teeth at the chaos of his realm, Alastair's frustration sparks blazing white lightening crackling against the sky. "Enough!" With a swipe of his hand, the demons part in the middle like the Red Sea baring to him a single soul glowing brightly before him.
Stalking up to a rotted wooden rack, he stops before the soul mouth drying up, eyes darkening with hunger. It's not from the sheer righteous anger blazing before him or the chilling love of a brother frosting over his lungs. No. It's those haunting green eyes glinting like jades, as that freckled nose sniffs back the pain of his ripped form as if it was nothing.
The light dims revealing a young man with light brown hair flashing a cocky grin. "I know I'm good lookin, but I don't swing that way."
The chipper light tone jerks Alastair's head back in surprise. He can't remember when a soul seemed this overconfident in the bowels of Hell. Obsession bubbles with anticipation, thrumming his dark form.
He's here.
This much talked about soul is here.
Biting the hidden razor into his palm, Alastair relishes the stinging. This is truly happening. He's not hallucinating.
Dean Winchester, son of John, brother to Sam is in his realm.
And he's definitely more beautiful in person; beyond anything Alastair could imagine. "Dean, Dean, Dean," whispers the demon with an almost sacred reverence.
Shock spills on the boy's face before reverting back to that self-assured mask. Eyes narrow into slits as those rip lips curl slightly. The motion so natural and seamless waters Inquisitor's mouth. Reaching outwards, he cups that young face relishing the searing pain of goodness radiating from Dean. Such a soul belongs in Heaven, not in the Pit. Biting back a scream of joy, Alastair tilts his head to speak over his shoulders keeping white eyes brimming with glee on the soul. He's already losing himself in those green depths into a sea of self-loathing. "He's mine boys. If I catch anyone touching him…"
The hidden threat is enough to scatter the demons away leaving him behind with this precious thing. Dean watches the flurry with calculated eyes, as if measuring his opponents before dropping his wary gaze back onto the creature before him. Alastair leans further in, tilting his head toward Dean's neck, inhaling that sweet scent of potential. A shiver runs down his knobble spin, talon feet curling into the ash covered ground. With a ghost of breath steaming over the pale flesh, he murmurs in drunken bliss. "Let's get started shall we."
It's all a blur after that: knives and guns, oil and vinegar, curses and blessings. Dishing out his wounded pride upon the son, throwing the handbook out the window, pushing his creativity to the brink and beyond Alastair creates his masterpiece with an earth shattering boom.
The events of angels or the Apocalypse now in full swing is a haze to the drug that is Dean Winchester. Despite no longer shining like a supernova, the righteous man oozes black tar out of his wounds. It seems underneath all that shiny armor there's darkness. A darkness, Alastair ponders, is probably what Meg saw that day long ago. A snarl breaks his reverie and with a long wide smile, the demon takes a deep breath...
And slams Dean's back onto the work table, grinning as his favorite screams as razors, barbs and shards of glass dig into that cracking skin of his former self. Soon this body Dean pictures himself as will be totally gone, giving birth to the full-fledge demon underneath. Until then, he racks his sharp fingernails along the peeling form ripping off scabs of flesh that will no longer heal. It no longer burns to touch him and it saddens the Inquisitor a little. There's a certain bolt of desire that came from the smell of his flesh burning. But at least, Alastair locks his gaze on his prey, that pretty face remains fully intact.
Reaching behind, he plucks out his infamous razor, the same one John used, out of Dean's rib. The man withers in pain or pleasure, he can't tell anymore since those eyes locked onto him, battered fingers scratching and gouging with a rustic knife while the latest soul pinned on the rack whimpers behind Alastair's towering frame. The demon rasps out a lust filled laugh, mirroring with contradiction Dean's moves by gently moving the razor over the small body without tearing any more skin smearing the blood around the bare chest and lower still. Dean always looks more beautiful in red. It compliments those green eyes perfectly.
Dean slices up near his throat, spilling blood onto his face. Unlike his father, Dean moves with precision and grace worthy of the title prodigy. A grunt of displeasure twists the young face as the blood burns.
"Do it," Alastair growls, his lisp spilling more blood. Oh he knows what Ruby is doing up there with Sam, how she makes the little Winchester drink demon blood to make him powerful and tainted. She took an ancient ritual and stripped its importance cleanly like the way he used to peel away her skin. For back in the day, when Azazel, Lilith and he roamed free, the offering of their blood was only given to the most loyal, to the most unique...to the ones worthy of carrying their lineage.
He wants Dean more than a soul, more than a mere prodigy. He wants him as his son, his lover, his creation marked for all eternity forged in this hellish environment. He wants Dean as his in all sense of the word.
Eyes squeezing shut in repulsion, Dean's tongue flickers out to lick up the blood on his lips before he begins to lean slightly upwards face melting into yearning as he catches more of the tiny red stream. Alastair hums as green eyes peek underneath their lashes, a battle of hatred and lust darkening them to black. It's a deadly game they play: Alastair relishing in replaying old torture games, Dean yearning to dish out his own hatred towards his mentor.
Pushing the razor into Dean's lung, scraping a mindless pattern into soft bone, he watches as Dean torts underneath him with pain and pleasure. The blood from the newly healed neck wound morphs into ash, sprinkling just enough to mix perfectly with blood red and white flesh. Bending his head, Alastair's forked tongue licks at the seeping sweet blood as his hips thrust into that warm, bruised hole. Groaning, he sinks his tongue even further, razor and knife falling mindlessly onto the floor as he rocks back and forth.
Dean's arms rise upwards, trying to push him away while legs brace themselves against the table to match each thrust. Moans and screams twist and snarl from those plump cracked lips. Bored with the wound, Alastair begins to nibble his way past the all the scars, stopping only once to give a tiny peck at the white jagged line where he first cut out Dean' heart.
"Gnnn" grunts the hunter, drawing the demon upwards to the bare neck glistening with red rivers. Licking up the mess, teeth nibbling and biting, Dean whimpers quietly "...more..." as his left hand slides over and clenches hard enough into Alastair's back to draw blood.
His prodigy is the only one allowed to make him bleed. And while he never speaks much during their sexual games, Dean's losing a battle of patience as he willingly arches more and more into Alastiar. Sweat gleams off his forehead, as pure lustful black eyes gaze up at white eyes, while the right hand scratches new claw marks into the table.
Alastair smirks wickedly, shifting the angle before drawing back slightly. "You're such a delicious contradiction, Dean." Biting hard into his ear, ripping off the tip, the demon purrs. "I told your father I would take you one day on this very table, Dean. And we both know how much you don't want to disappoint dear old Johnny."
Driving forward, Alastair sinks deep within the hunter. Dean arches off the table, feet scrabbling against his legs, head thrown back as a wordless scream erupts from that crumbling body as he cums. Dean used to scream one name, so loud and beautiful to shake the sulfur-yellow heavens. The way Sam exploded with such hopelessness and love is one all die-hard romantics could only imagine.
Yet these quiet screams, where Dean's stripped clean as the acidic stench of chloride that is Alastair spills into him is the one thing his love for torture cannot compare too.
Relishing in the dazed state of the man underneath him, Alastair rises slightly, his hardness back in record time. Eager to reach his own sadistic pleasure, he shifts inside Dean when a blade slams into his left side, curving downwards till it sinks deep into his liver.
Huffing, blinking back the sated glow, Dean's eyes burn with demonic flames as he twists the knife even more. Lips tighten, teeth grinding down into an animalistic snarl as a once light voice sneers deeply and raggedly, "I hate you."
Alastair laughs, his hand encircling the thin wrist. Resuming his rhythm, he watches as Dean glares up at him all the while trying to bit back the moans as he hits the man's prostate every time. Feeling his climax coming, Alastair lowers his head till all he sees is the dark forest that is Dean. "You're mine."
Dean's left fist slams into his temple, snapping the demon's head to the side. Grinning widely, he thrust once more, yanking the knife out of his body. His climax shudders through him, emptying deep into Dean a second time as he snaps the boy's forearm in half. Dean twists underneath him in agony, as a relieved moan of "Alas-" treacherously slips out before the hunter bits his lip hard enough to break skin as something deep inside awakens once more against the scrapping rawness of Alastair's form.
Panting slightly, Alastair licks Dean's lips tasting blood, ash and something uniquely Dean, never fully kissing him. Brushing his nose against the heated flesh, he leans down to whisper into the bleeding remains of an ear.
"One day, Dean, I might allow you to torture me, but not today...not today."