Hello again! Thanks to those of you who read this.
Again, I don't own Supernatural.
Please be warned, the following chapter is very graphically violent. There is a reason this story is rated Mature.
He wakes up the next day from a nightmare. It's the same everyday, for all these years. The same nightmare that Dean can never remember, except for the strong feeling that he had failed. The fluorescent lights of his room are bright, and he stares into the light as long as he can, but it's nothing like that soul's light. Her burning light had erased part of the darkness; eased the suffocating black smoke that took over, mentally and physically.
The door opens without warning as the soul from yesterday is thrown into the room. She falls flat, shivering and he almost walks over to her but she picks herself up. He stays where he is, huddled in the corner that he had fallen asleep in. She doesn't fully realize he's there, because when she looks up her eyes are unfocused and he can tell she is confused. Her clothes have mysteriously reappeared and the cut he put in her side the day before is gone. He vaguely remembers feeling the same way the first night he woke up here. Every day his soul would be cut to pieces and every morning he would reappear seemingly unscathed. It was hard to accept in the beginning. Especially for her, obviously, because the blood began to pour from her eyes.
He closed his eyes and listened to her cry. The light that came from her didn't even burn as she started to pray. He let her words wash over him as though he had never heard anything about God before. The only problem, he found, was that the more she spoke about God, the more he felt the light leave his soul. If there was such a thing as God, how could he let his children make deals with the Devil? Why did he have to torture this poor girl? If there was a God, why was this girl even here in the first place? Because she had the man who killed her unborn child killed? Because she had stood up for herself? What the hell kind of God was that?
He suddenly found himself towering over her - his anger bubbling over towards this soul's God. With the tip of his boot, he pushed her shoulder until she was sitting up. He was relieved to see the white was dimming - even with all the God talk. Somewhere inside of him that bothered him, but the black part of his soul was in control. Before he
could speak, the door opened. Alastair leaned against the door frame.
"What's on the agenda today Dean-o?"
Dean looked from Alastair to the soul before him. The light was going out in her eyes, reminding him of a candle flame flickering. He grinned.
"I'm gonna break this bitch."
It seemed like days before the black part of Dean retreated and he blinked. He felt as if he had been drugged and was just suddenly regaining consciousness. He looked around the room and found that it was dark, as if one of the lights overhead had finally gone out. He realized it was something in his eyes; a black film covering his pupils that was slowly dissipating. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers but did more damage than good because of his blood soaked hands. He blinked several times so he could see, and found his entire forearms covered in sticky blood.
The black in his eyes had finally faded and he looked around the room. The white soul was still there; only the white was smudged out by blood and filth. She lay on the floor, naked and trembling but making no sound. Dean watched her, blinking again until finally he began to remember the past few hours.
The human part of Dean's soul made his body retch violently. He doubled over, dry heaving and his vision became tinted red with blood. The scene that played before him mentally was horribly indescribable, and through his tinted vision, Dean relived it all.
Alistair left the room, and the white soul looked up at Dean fearfully. The tears on her face were beginning to dry so that her cheeks were caked with dried blood. Her eyes pleaded with him, but she didn't speak. He grinned down at her ruefully.
"You ready baby?" She flinched at the word, and bowed her head. Part of him could feel that white-hot sensation building up inside of her, the rebellious part that spit on him and burned him. He laughed when she suddenly scrambled away from him, desperately clawing at the metal walls until her fingernails were bloody and cracked. In her moment of disarray she screamed for help, for God to help her, and the white light flared. Dean was somewhat surprised to find he could withstand the heat.
The girl before him knew there was no escape, but she clung to her faith as loyally as she could. She knew what this demon was planning to do to her; she knew her personal hell better than anyone, except maybe him. Her tears started anew, the blood dripping onto the floor as she beat on the walls. And he just laughed.
His black soul shook with mirth as she turned around to face him, fists held tightly by her sides and her terrified eyes looking to him. She would try to fight, but he knew her weak, white soul would break eventually. He took a step towards her, but stopped and looked around.
"This is hardly fitting, don't you agree?" He tsked at the blood running down her face, reaching out to wipe it away. She flinched and stepped back. His smirk chilled her to the bone.
"I think we need a setting that's a bit more… personal." He suddenly snapped his fingers, and the room around them was instantly changed. She began to shake violently when she realized they now stood in her deceased husband's tool shed. There were so many memories that flashed through her mind when faced with the room, but the memory of miscarrying her child on the concrete floor topped them all. She found the blood on her face was gone, and her clothing had been replaced by a dress she distinctly remembered throwing it out after he had beaten her so badly it was torn and bloodstained.
But it wasn't the memory of her baby that caused her fear. It was her pregnant belly that made her throat constrict. Her lungs refused to take air when she felt a little kick from the inside.
Dean watched her, snickering. He still maintained his form – her dead husband was 'fugly' (he grinned at the word, trying to remember where he heard it), and he wanted to enjoy this. He did adopt the dead man's clothes. Jeans and hiking boots, a crisp white tee shirt, and the rings she hated. Otherwise he was purely himself, someone that he vaguely remembered as handsome when he was alive. She didn't seem to think so, but then again she still hadn't looked up. He was able to place himself in front of her and put his hands on her pregnant stomach before she even registered that he was there. When she did, her muscles stiffened. She look up at him, water leaking from the corners of her eyes and he gently mused that real tears were much more attractive than blood.
"Please," Her voice cracked, and he felt very pleased with himself that she was already begging. "Please don't do this. Please don't hurt my baby." He shushed her, his hands gently caressing her face.
"Oh baby," The nickname was like a shock to her system, "I would never hurt my little boy." He caressed her belly lovingly but she shivered. "You on the other hand… Well I can't help that." She crossed her arms over her stomach protectively, and he put his arms around her, pulling her into an embrace that she wished she could break.
"If you would just behave," He kept his voice even, but she could hear the malice underneath it, "I wouldn't have to do this. It's really for your own good though baby – you know this hurts me more than it hurts you." He couldn't help but laugh then, repeating the words her husband used back to her like a parrot. She glared at him through hooded eyes, hating him indefinitely. He even sounded like the bastard, sickly sweet and cruel just like when he was alive. But this man was different – lethally dangerous, a million times more so than her dead husband. Compared to this man, her husband was an angel.
Dean smiled watching her squirm. He ran his hands across her face, almost lovingly, until finally he led her to the table and fastened her wrists together with a zip tie. He left her then, exploring the shed and whistling to himself.
She watched him warily; terrified that whatever this man had in mind it would blow her husband out of the water. She mentally kicked herself for admiring his body. Her husband was nothing spectacular to look at, but whatever this man was, he had a sinful appearance. She fought back the bile rising in her throat as the thought of the two of them making love flittered through her mind. It made her want to cry, that she could even begin to think of him in that way. As much as she hated herself for thinking it, she couldn't deny that the man was handsome but he scared her to death. She knew he was only going to hurt her.
Dean looked over his shoulder at her and smiled, as if he knew what she was thinking. With two strides, he crossed the small space and kissed her on the mouth without warning. The sensation exploded across her lips and she flinched as if she had been struck. It was a surprising feeling, but once it had passed she felt her body melt. The kiss made her warm to the core of her very soul and left a black scorch mark. She trembled and her knees grew weak. She almost wanted… Almost wished he would…
God she hated him, but she prayed he wouldn't stop. A tear escaped her closed eye as self-loathing rose in her chest, her brain screaming for it to end but her body demanding otherwise.
Finally Dean pulled away; he had kissed her so long he felt as if he had been kissing fire. He mused about how the day before he could hardly look at her because of the light inside of her, but that had worn off a little. Today, the white heat of her soul burned his skin whenever he touched her. He looked at the quivering soul in front of him, the darkness in him lustful while the light cried. Unfortunately for the light, the black won out.
He finally turned away again, seeking out something in the room. With her hands bound she covered her stomach protectively, remembering how fond her husband had been of kicking. She allowed herself to smile thinking of the baby inside of her, either not realizing or not remembering the baby as part of the scene Dean had conjured up. She could imagine the baby's tiny thumb in his mouth, sucking contently and she lost herself to the little boy momentarily. It was a torturous moment when Dean's fist connected with her ear, and the heavenly reprieve was broken. He was frowning at her.
"You weren't paying attention." His voice was hard and she could see the anger building inside of him like a black cloud. She whispered an apology, trying desperately to reconnect with the baby inside her. She heard him call her pathetic.
"You can't even apologize correctly. No wonder he beat you." His words hurt, but it scared her more that his hands were travelling down her body. His touch was so light it almost tickled. She began to tremble; his hands on her hips. He leaned down and kissed her again, pressing his lips brutally into hers, ignoring the burn. To her, it felt like an electric shock and she held her mouth still. His hands traveled lower and when he reached between her legs; she used all of her strength to push him away. She surprised even herself to find that he ended up flat on the floor. Dean only grinned and swiped his leg along the ground, knocking her legs out from under her. She fell hard, hitting her head on the workbench. She could feel her hair become moist with blood, but only thought of it for a moment when she realized somehow her arms were pinioned above her head. A cry escaped her; her stomach was unprotected.
Dean hovered over her, using some of what Alistair had taught him to keep her still. She couldn't push him away, and his hands roamed her body once again.
"You're a little bitch, you know that?" He mused laughingly, hands traveling down her belly to her thighs. She tried to kick him but he was holding her legs too.
"I already learned that lesson," He said mockingly, referring to the day before. "You can't fight back even if you really wanted to. I see that weakness inside of you." He smiled cruelly, tickling her inner thigh. "And, best part of this is, you know that you want me." She cringed at that, closing her eyes and Dean knew she really did want him – at least her body did. He could see the white part of her soul flaring when he had said it. He could feel the mental prayer forming in her head and he stopped it by forcefully ripping the material of her dress until the front of her was exposed to him. That got God out of her head. He could tell by the look on her face that she desperately wished she could move her hands or legs and he laughed when her eyes bulged as one of his fingers entered her. Her teeth clenched together and she fought back a scream.
"Obviously you want me," he said feeling the inside of her, "What a whore." He grinned, massaging her while she tried fruitlessly to fight him. He slipped another finger inside her. "Don't even pretend to want to push me away; you're such a slut. I bet that kid isn't even his. Another reason why he beat you – You didn't do the dishes either, huh?" His face was dangerously close to hers now and he kissed her cheekbone, ignoring how it singed his lips.
"Luckily, like you're poor son of a bitch husband, I know how to treat dumb sluts too." He hoisted her off the ground muttering about what a cow she was, and she found herself bent over the workbench, the metal edge digging into her belly. He fastened the zip tie holding her wrists together to the table and ripped the rest of the dress away from her body. Her tears hit the table silently and he didn't even stop her from praying.
The black part of Dean's soul loved the sight before him. Her pale, quivering flesh was like a canvas waiting for him to paint on. If it hadn't been for her skin, he'd be repulsed by her drenched face and the God talk – but the skin was enough to make him want her even if her white-hot core burned him. He stood behind her, pressing his hips into her exposed rear until he could hear her sobbing openly. He leaned up so he could whisper,
"You can quit pretending baby. You can give that up. You're wet as hell and little sluts like you just need to be fucked." She sobbed louder now, crying over and over until all of her pleas boiled down into "nononononono". Dean ignored her as he unzipped his pants and entered her roughly. He gritted his teeth, trying to enjoy the sensation of sex, but it burned. He forced himself so roughly upon her that her sobs died in her throat until finally, from nowhere, she screamed.
Dean, frustrated by the fact that she was setting his skin ablaze, literally, reached up and grabbed a handful of her hair when she screamed, and slammed her head against the table.
"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." He ground out, enunciating each word by thrusting into her. His fingers gripped her hips tightly, and despite the incredible burning, he could relish the fact that she was silent.
She let her head rest against the table, tears still flowing from her eyes but she no longer spoke. Every sensation throughout her body felt amplified by a million; like a stereo turned up to eleven. Her head throbbed, and he didn't pretend to be gentle. Every thrust felt like a red-hot poker slicing through her body and his fingers were so tight on her hips that she thought she felt the bones crack. It was the table digging into her that worried her most. The edge was so sharp, so painfully hard, that she could feel it split her belly open.
The bloodcurdling scream that ripped from her throat could be heard halfway across Hell.
