Foreword: Very quick drabble written after I received some inspiration. Warnings: very dark, graphic, and macabre.
His name is Dean Winchester.
He owns a Chevrolet Impala. 1967.
He has a little brother. His baby brother.
His name is Sammy.
His name is Dean Winchester. He's still human. He's here for his brother Sam.
Everyday Dean recites it, forces himself to remember who is wa- is. Who he is.
He refuses to remember that black eyed doppelganger in that nightmare.
He is dead, but he will never become that.
His answer is no.
Everyday Alastair's knife guides its way through Dean's flesh, flaying him alive as easily as cutting paper until he's nothing but shreds on the floor, staring as his own essence, gathered in bloody ribbons, falls detached and broken at the demon's feet. Alastair smiles.
His name is Dean Winchester. He owned a Chevrolet Impala from the 60s. The answer will always be no.
Alastair is nothing if not imaginative and patient. Each slice is a calculated, careful curve into the very marrow of his bones, snapping them like old, withered twigs of a weather beaten tree, each scraped of the bark until Dean is howling his own name to remember it.
His name is Dean Winchester. He has a little brother. Sammy. His name was Sammy. His name is Sammy.
Alastair's words are like arsenic laced alcohol. It burns, and it hurts, and each one bubbles in his stomach and makes him sick. Makes him dizzy until he can no longer see. But he needs the burn, he needs to feel it washing through his system so he drinks up every single one of the words poured from that silver tongue. Words whispered so close to his ear that he feels lips on his skin, so frequent Dean no longer flinches away. So careful and poisonous Dean leans into it and can no longer say no. But he won't say yes.
His name is Dean Winchester. He owned a beautiful, black car. He had a brother. His name is… Sam. His name is Sam. He won't say yes.
Alastair's hands are like fire and ice. They're so cold they burn everywhere they touch. There is no blade this time. Only frozen fingertips that make Dean cry out his name, Alastair's name. Not his own, never his own anymore and the demons keeps touching him, and Dean doesn't know if it's a plea for mercy or a plea for more.
His name is Dean. His brother's name is Sam. He can't say yes.
Alastair is careful, and always patient. His hands are slow on his skin now, and Dean can't flinch away. He shivers now, but not from the cold. He no longer relies on the words repeated like a mantra in his mind. Alastair's hands remind him of it now. His name is Dean and his brother is Sam, and Dean is dead and Alastair's hands are what make him feel alive.
But he...can't say yes?
The first time Alastair's mouth touches his skin, a brush of lips on his jaw, Dean almost cries in relief and wonders what took him so long. When his mouth travels up Dean quivers in his binds and when cold lips cover his, it feels like fire for the first time and his mouth falls open to drink in the poison.
His name is Dean, he died for someone named Sam and he feels alive for the first time. But he shouldn't…
Alastair has lost his patience. He is gone. He no longer touches Dean. He no longer comes. And Dean aches for that blade to burn through his bones again. Dean pleads for him with a small whisper of his name.
Alastair returns to him, he doesn't need to speak the question.
It's yes.
And Dean wonders why he ever said no.
His name is… Dean, Alastair tells him. And Dean knows nothing else.