The house is too quiet when he's alone. The silence makes the bones in the walls creak, the hallways echo with the steady pitter patter of blood dripping from the ceilings, leaking from places he doesn't dare go. There are upper and lower levels to Alastair's lair, and aside from the basement, he hasn't left the solitude of Alastair's bedroom once. He sleeps best during the day, alone on Alastair's bed of stone, breathing in the putrefied sweet of baby skin.
"You seem depressed." He's too busy picking dried blood off his skin to listen. He digs his nails into his skin, longer than they used to be, and rakes them downwards, scrapes crusted blood and long strips of his flesh from his torso. "Are we going to have to talk about this? Please say no. I've had my fill of crying bitches today." Alastair, ever the sensitive romantic.
"No." A scaly, withered palm closes around his wrist.
"Come here." He lands solidly in Alastair's lap, Alastair's cock half hard and heavy against the small of his back, under his ass. "You are not the happy little soul you should be." Alastair holds him down when he struggles, grinds his hips up slow and dirty, his dick too hard and hot for Dean to be comfortable. "I let you off that rack, you should be all smiles." He's the one who grinds this time, rotates in tiny circles. "You need to loosen up, get those pesky morals off your chest. Go play with Lynette, I promise you'll have fun."
"I'm having fun." *NC-17 material removed*
"Fucking slut." Fucking Alastair isn't fucking without dirty talk, slut and whore and bitch, claws forcing his head to awkward angles, Alastair licking the edges of his mouth so his tongue can slide in, slimy like an eel. "I'm going to cut your heart out and eat it, then face fuck your dead skull." Believe it or not, the sentence is supposed to be a turn on.
Alastair won't do it, as much as he wants to. He's a demon of his word, Alastair is. He's downright fucking saintly about keeping a promise. If anything, it's the hypocritical morality down here he hates the most. Alastair's thrusts get ragged and rough, constant friction irritating the patch of skin Alastair drags his dick over. "I wish I was inside you, Dean." Alastair whispers into his hear his own version of sweet nothings, little loveless declarations. "Fucking your tight ass raw, make you bleed for old time's sake. Huh? Get you screaming good and loud while I pound you face first into the mattress." He watches Alastair's dick twitch, more glad than he's ever been that it isn't inside him. *NC-17 material removed* "Bela's stopping by today." Alastair wipes himself clean on Dean's lower back. "You go ahead and pick out something nice."
"Will do." Alastair's semen darkens the blanket where he rubs it, itchy blackness gone from his skin, tingling with the come's acidity, a slow acting chemical burn.
The woman in the basement, who in his head he calls Maria after his mother, has reduced her chains to bloody, red clumps, covered in layers of skin and muscle in various states of decomposition. The chains are ingenious on Alastair's part, the more you struggle the more pieces of yourself you lose, the longer you stay still the tighter they get, until one way or another all that's left of your wrist is whittled down bone. He'd learned to bite his lip and watch his skin slop off in layers; Maria prefers to fight until her bones crack and splinter.
Lynette is sitting at Maria's feet like always, stabbing herself repeatedly through the center of her hand and pleading.
"Sing it again, mommy."
"Sana sana colita de rana." Maria sobs, bloody chest heaving, screaming as Lynette hugs her, rests her bloody little palm on Maria's hip. There's something wrong inside the child, a problem soul deep. Therapy might be able to fix it, maybe not, but there's no therapy down here, hurt and sickness twist themselves around in rusty little coils, adding to the perpetual state of disrepair of the soul. "Si no sansas hoy." Lynette leaves small, red handprints on every inch of Maria she clings to. "iSansarás mañana/i." The lyrics dissolve into tears and shuddery breathes.
"Let go of her Lynette." He can't look at it, the sad, sadistic imitation of a little girl, broken and different, built up to withstand and muddle through.
"Are you taking her away?" Lynette traces the hole in her hand as it closes, makes those breathless, miserable kid sounds; a series of keening whines in her throat.
"I'm taking you both away." Maria falls to the floor when he unhooks her chains, scrabbles up and stands unsteady, bare toes curling inwards towards the soles of her feet. "Hold her hand." Turns out he doesn't need to remind Lynette, her hand has already wormed its way into Maria's. "Walk." The chains would make a great BDSM leash, if he were into that. Six days in hell and his sex drive yearns for the straight and narrow. Missionary would be nice.
"Where are we going?"
"Nowhere you want to be." Lynette picks a femur off the ground, drags it behind her in the sand.
"Good morning, darling." Bela's speaking to him, but she's smiling at Lynette, pokes her snake tongue out to frighten her. "What can I do for you?"
"I have some rentals I want to exchange." Maria tugs at her cuffs and blood rushes down the length of the chain. Maria's blood is a dark red today, almost purple from lack of oxygen, all the air she's wasting with her cries.
"Done with her already?" Bela puts a finger under Maria's chin, keeps her head level, presses back her lips to inspect her teeth. Checking the goods, examining the merchandise, souls are things down here, insignificant pieces of property. It makes him wonder if he belongs to Alastair or if he's his own person now. "I worked hard to find the perfect girl for you. Alastair was very specific." Bela cuts a line in Maria's cheek with her index claw. "Bleeds easy, pretty—" Bela says pretty like it's obvious, like ugly souls don't cry and scream right. "—tragic back story, and most importantly, a virgin. He wanted to be sure you got a nice Catholic girl."
"She can't be too nice if she's here." He's allowed to feel superior, he's here out of selfishness, but it's a selfless selfishness, his personal need that happened to be noble. If he were strong enough to live without his brother, he wouldn't be watching a young woman's blood trickle into the sand.
"I can guarantee you we've both done worse." There's blood on Bela's fingertip, she traces the outline of the cross on Maria's neck, paints it and leaves it to dry. He gets a buzz under his skin watching it, a hum of anger, watching her force her bloodied fingers into Maria's mouth and laugh, tip her head up further to kiss her. Bela kisses wet, kisses like she means it, spears that snake straight into Maria's mouth, down her throat. Any other person would probably find this hot, girl on demon-girl action, he feels nothing, the dull cool of apathy in the pit of his stomach. "You're free to go." Bela's kissed Maria's mouth bruised, red and dripping. "No one I'm selling to is interested in sloppy seconds." Maria's chains rattle on the ground and she runs, slipping and sprinting through the sand, tumbling down dunes until she's out of sight, a vague shape in the ever present shadows.
"Pretty nice of you to let her go like that." He stares at one of Maria's footprints, each individual toe, the indentation of her heel.
"Hardly. She's worse off out there than she is on the rack." Something screeches out of sight. "What would you like me to find for you Dean? Another pretty girl? One who speaks English this time? You seem the type to want to understand her pleading." Bela really isn't much different from who she was in life, she even resembles herself. He suspects that her appearance isn't just a side effect of hell; it's what she always was on the inside, her inner evil manifested onto her face.
"Can I see what you have in stock? I don't want to wait." He ties Maria's chains around Lynette's wrist, like he did with balloons for Sam when he was little, too young to be trusted not to let go of his balloon, and not quite old enough not to cry about it afterwards. He ties the other end to the bones at the start of bridge across the lake of fire. "Wait here Lynette."
"You'll want to hurry if you're going to leave her there." Bela giggles at a delightful secret. "Something might take her before we get back."
"I don't want her anymore." He won't hurt her, as much as everyone wants him to, but she's temptation, all the innocent pieces of himself. "How far are we going?" The bridge creeks and sways, bones charred past brittle, yet somehow they manage to support his and Bela's weight.
"Not too far, a place that's familiar to you. I have my own little section on the rack; it's where I keep all unsold items. You pick out anyone you want dearie and send Alastair my love when you get home."
"You're a heartless bitch Bela."
"Oh love," Bela laughs at him, her snake hair laughing too. "You think you're any better?"
"Probably not." Bela's wings tear beneath his hands when he tugs them, does his best to rip them at the seams, separate the sheets of skin and muscle from her back, crack the hollow bird bones with a firm snap. She howls at him, claws his face.
"Forget Alastair," Bela rages, each snake baring its fangs. "I'm going to cut off your head and mount it on my wall."
"He wouldn't let you." He kicks her in the chest, hard enough to feel her ribs against the sole of his foot, her withered breasts squished and firm. "I've got more power down here in six days than you had in your hundred years bitch." Bela falls into the fire screaming. Her skin burns away in a brilliant burst of orange and blue, the snakes in her hair wailing as they disintegrate until all that's left of Bela and them are blackened skeletons, bones for Bela and one long, straight spine with a skull for the snakes. "See ya, Bela. I'll let Alastair get my souls for me from now on." Bela raises one scorched middle finger at him.
"You killed her." Lynette laughs that high pitched, sweet-as-sugar giggle of a school girl, sunshine and ponies and sparkles wrapped up into one sound. "It was funny."
"It was pretty funny, wasn't it?" The pissed look on Bela's face sticks in his head, infects his blood with laughter. Lynette stares at him with big, amused and accusing eyes, the confused look of a kid. It's how he used to look at his dad after hunts, when he was too young to fight, but old enough to watch, touch the droplets of blood gleaming on his dad's chin.
"When is she coming back?" She's too little to know real death is permanent. To her you die and reappear a few seconds later, reanimated in a repaired body.
Lynette's cheeks are silky where he holds them, braces his thumbs along the line of her jaw.
"She's not. I promise you'll never see her again."
Lynette's neck snaps like a delicate, tiny twig. She falls to the side weightlessly, body tumbling off the edge of the bridge. The chain around her wrist keeps her from hitting the fire, instead she hangs, her head a lolling, heavy thing. She comes back to life just in time to scream as skeletal hands grab her ankles, sear her flesh with their heat and pull her down, rip her arm messily from its socket, while she cries for the mother she'll never see again. He should feel bad for what he's done, but he doesn't.
He walks off, behind him the sky blazes black and red. He thinks Alastair calls for him, so he puts his weight on the balls of his feet and runs, follows crisscrossing trails of claws and hoofs and footsteps through the sand.
Night is darkest. There is a blood red, pseudo-sunset in hell, a sorry rendition of reality. The lightning flickers bright, shines up the entire world and the lights go out, as quick and final as the flip a switch, one two three and off. Things come alive in the night, things he's never seen. There are giant creatures, as tall as buildings, slime and blood dripping from their teeth. They are monsters from childhood nightmares, spidery beasts made of jagged razors, big enough to touch the sky it seems, reach right up and eat the sun whole. He told his brother things like these weren't real when they were little, hiding in a fort made of pillows beneath the bed. There's nowhere to hide from them, they can smell his scent on the wind, turn their lumbering heads in his direction and move faster than they should be able to, barely a whisper across the ground. They're easily distracted, however, and focus on the soul of a man and woman on the ground, fucking wilder than animals, caught up in the bite and bleed of the mating ritual of hell.
The breeze blows cold out in the open, drives away the constant heat, prickles the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. The desert distends onwards, hundreds and thousands and infinite open miles of it, the shapes of mountains to the west. He has nowhere to go and nowhere he'd rather be. He seeks solace beneath an enormous skull, the skin and hair picked clean off by scavengers, by animal and fallen man and demon alike. The old Dean, a Dean only alive in his memories, would have kept vigil through the night, paranoid by the manic laughter and scratch of feet. He's a different Dean, not better, not worse, just no sameness, rearranged deep in his soul, and he sleeps easy, dreams of Bela's angry screaming for his lullaby, almost restless without a body draped on his back.
He's awaked by snarling and giggling, the stench of sulfur thick like sweat and body odor.
"Here pretty. Pretty pretty." One of the demons coos to him. They're low level demons, only a step or two away from souls, common black skin and red bug eyes with black cat pupils, the deformed mouths of parasitic insects. "Come on out and play with us."
"Fuck that." The teeth in the skull are sharp, hollow inside, he breaks two off with his hands, brandishes them the best he can. A hand reaches for him, he slices into it at the elbow, forces the tooth through bone. It bleeds a sort of corrosive acid, sulfuric acid most likely, and it burns him, fat red blisters welling up from his skin.
"Darling, give it up, don't make us hurt your pretty face."
The smallest demon slithers in through the skull's empty eye socket, grabs him by the ankle and drags him out kicking and screaming, his nails ripping off where he uses them as resistance to keep from being pulled out, scraping loud against the skull.
"Me first." Each of them is hard, sporting demon sized cocks nowhere near as frightening as Alastair's, not a barb or spike to be seen.
"Boys, we can all go at once."
No.
The grains of sand are sharp as glass; they cut wide little streaks in his knees, in his thighs, his belly as he twists about. If he could get on his feet he'd have a chance, he could go down fighting, take a couple of them with him first.
*NC-17 material removed*
The bones of the skull creak with a new burden, more demons, more guests to this private party.
"Alastair." The demons that aren't currently pounding his ass and throat raw drop to their knees. "Is this yours?" Oh yes, he's Alastair's, only Alastair's, so very glad to be Alastair's at the moment.
Alastair stares at him, rests his head in the palm of his hand, strokes a claw underneath his nose.
"Nope. I don't mean to interrupt gentlemen. I'm in the mood for some entertainment." Alastair please. He deserves this, brought it about with his stupidity. "Not to criticize your efforts, but only one in each end? You'd be amazed what the human body can take into itself." Fuck you Alastair. Two, three cocks in him at once and he's going to pass out, split open past the point of no return, demons inside him and carving into him, blades and teeth sinking into his flesh; an orgy of torture. All the while he's watching Alastair watch him, the delighted little grin of victory, Alastair's hand sliding down to touch himself in time with Dean's irregular, dying gasps. "Very nice." A slip of a claw through his windpipe kills him, cuts off his air and chokes him, his throat swallowing uncontrollably in desperation for air, squeezing around the demon's cock tight enough that it comes, its semen sucked down into his lungs, drowning him.
He's on his back when his body is done mending itself, light flooding into the sky, lightning shining in elegant lines; cracks in the surface of a frozen lake. He's not alone, Alastair's feet tapping impatiently by his head, hooves making the ground vibrate, clip clopping just like a goat's. The first Billy goat trotted across the bridge, clip clop clip clop.
"Alastair." He rolls over, kisses Alastair's hooves again and again and again.
"Did we learn our lesson today?"
"Yes."
"Good. Remember, Dean." Alastair pulls him to his feet; hand in his hair, sharp and painful. "You're nothing down here without me. If you leave again, I'm not coming for you, and you'll go through worse than that."
"Yes sir." He nuzzles in close, Alastair expects him to, pets him fondly on the top of his head.
"Let's go home."
The dismembered limbs and decapitated heads from the six demons litter the floor.
The sight of the rack has his heart beating faster, his body breaking out in a cold sweat. The space where he used to hang sits empty, the teeth and skin and parts taken out of him decomposing on the sand, old and fresh meat stinking, bones picked clean and rubbed smooth by particles in the wind. One week ago, exactly, he was up there too, watching the lightning and hoping for permanent death. It seems like another lifetime since then.
"Would you like to pick, Dean?" Alastair gestures at the endless space, at every wriggling body, at the chorus of screams.
"Yeah." He's a kid in a human candy store, looking back to Alastair for approval. He decides on a man half a mile to the east. He's a big guy, burly and overweight, beer belly clashing with the huge bulges of his biceps and forearms, the curve of his arm muscles, the thick tendons bulging in his neck. "Him." The man is quiet, the only one who isn't screaming. He looks at Alastair and doesn't flinch, spits a string of white saliva to the ground and meets Dean's eyes, unafraid. He should be afraid, he should be trembling. Dean feels no sympathy for him, but he isn't sure if he's able to be sympathetic for anyone anymore.
"Good choice. He's going to be fun."
The victim has a tattoo of a skull with a dagger through the mouth that's framed in barbed wire, definitely a prison tat. This kind of guy might have made him angry in the real world, sure as hell made other people angry or else he wouldn't be down here. Hate is life, hate is hell, hate is the driving force behind this dark world below the ground.
"What the fuck do you want?"
"To make you scream." Alastair laughs with him, his chest warming over with pride. He got Alastair to laugh with him, not at him or his extensive pain.
It's disappointingly easy to break prison guy. He cuts between the bones of his ribs, pierces the muscles that help hold in his lungs. Alastair scrapes a new drawing of a skull into the back of the man's head with his claws, feeds Dean the strips of wet skin. They have the ox of a guy bawling in minutes. He stabs him in the beer gut to shut him up.
"I'm sorry today went the way it did, Dean. You can't always pick winners." Alastair rests his fingers on the back of his neck, over the bump where the top of his spine is closest to the surface of his flesh.
"I didn't think the bitch would cry."
"I'll make it up to you." Alastair will fuck him savagely tonight; they'll go at it vicious. They have a ways to walk, retrace the faint outlines of Alastair's hooves and his feet, the circles of his toes and the horseshoe shape of Alastair's. Alastair guides him in a different direction, to the top of a shifting dune. "I find this place has a certain atmosphere about it." There are bodies hanging in the sky, rows and rows and rows of them, suspended by giant meat hooks, their blood dripping into a river of blood.
The blood is fresh here, liquid and steaming, rich with the smell of salt and minerals in the human body. Alastair bends at the river's shore and dips in his hand, collects a scoop of the blood and drinks, fat droplets rolling down his arm.
"Who are they?" The souls are so dirty they're black, coated in dried blood and dirt and sulfur. The grime is thick enough on them he could put his finger to their skin and wipe places clean, draw patterns on their skin, like a kid tracing pictures on a fogged over window. Sam used to practice his ABC's in the Impala on cold nights, writing in the condensation, spelling hi and Dean and Sam.
"This is where the souls no one has use for go. That girl." Alastair points to something that might have been a girl once, a girl with strawberry blonde hair and full breasts, hips too wide set for her to be delicate, shoulders broad enough to give her a sturdy, athletic look. "she's from fourteenth century Europe. She died of the plague." Alastair's face is fond and reminiscent. "The Black Death was beautiful Dean. Europe said it was a plague from God. It wasn't. It was a plague from us. We roamed the earth then and they died like flies, dropped where they stood. I was a flea for a week. I infected hundreds, just hopped from one person to the other. The sight of those black buboes was delicious. Him" A man thin enough to be a skeleton twitches at the sound of Alastair's voice, his ribs nearly poking through his skin, all of him unhealthily bony. "He's my very own heart of darkness. He was a chief you know, used to practice black magic. It tugged at the strings of my heart to have to put him up there. He showed so little potential it was embarrassing."
"So this is the equivalent of a land fill?" The souls are too worn out to scream, above him there is only the occasional half muted moan, a cough that sends blood spattering down. "You bring 'em here when you're bored?"
"It's a tad more complicated than that. Get on your knees." He knows where this is going. Alastair already has a hand on himself, supports the weight of his cock in his right hand. "Oh holy father in heaven" Alastair's mouth is shaped with sarcasm. "Fuck you and the high horse you stand on." Alastair starts to piss on him, stream hitting him square in the center of his forehead. Alastair pisses acid; he can hear his skin burning, smell the smoke, his bones bubbling inside his skull. "I baptize you, Dean Winchester." The acid dribbles over his lips. They tingle and slosh off, liquid as soup. Alastair adjusts the flow and gets his chest, dissolves the skin over his heart, burns right through the thick layer of bone. His heart beats in steady palpitations, squeezing bloody and dainty, the prettiest thing in hell he's ever seen. "The eyes are not here." Alastair recites, pissing on the line of his throat when he tilts his head back. Everything hurts, searing and quivering, burning burning, fire crawling across him. "In this valley of dying stars." His outer skin is completely gone, the burn six layers deep. "In this hollow valley. This broken jaw of our lost kingdom." Alastair has him open his mouth; he tastes the burn and the pain of it, the sulfur and death. "In this last of meeting places. We grope together." He wants to scream, but he can't, his throat blistered away. "And avoid speech, gathered on this beach of the tumid river." He's mostly blood, a loose structure of bones and scraps of muscle.
Alastair pushes him into the bloody river. The blood tastes too sweet, rotted over and expired, hot on what's left of his skin. He's not alone in the river, around him there is movement, air bubbles rising from below him. He imagines sharks with three mouths, bigger than a mountain, prehistoric beasts from Sam's old school books. He catches a snatch of a gray-pale forearm, flesh swollen and stretched near splitting. There are people in the water with him, blood laden souls.
A puffy hand ghosts his ankle, fat, sausage fingers too big to properly grip hold. It's enough of a warning through and he swims for the shoreline, body healing as he goes.
"Son of a bitch." He spits blood, climbs his way up onto the sand. "You could have warned me about the river zombies." They continue to reach for him, too weak to drag themselves from the blood.
"You had to pass the test, if I'd told you that would be cheating." Alastair helps wipe his face clean.
"I don't get it."
"The reason they didn't drag you down Dean" Alastair kisses the nape of his neck, licks blood and salt from him. "They're tragic souls. They can only latch onto good."
He dips his foot into the river once more, and sure enough their hands glide off him, as if repelled by an invisible force.
He has nubs of horns growing from the sides of his skull, curling crooked from the skin above his ears. They're tiny things, his horns, misshapen capital L's pointed at the top, the consistency and color of bone.
"What are you looking at?" Alastair hates early mornings, the bright red light that accompanies it. Sometimes it's almost bright enough to illuminate the landscape, give a peak of the mountain tops in the distance, of the desert stretching on and on and on. He envisions some sort of forest along the mountain side, stick thin trees stretching hundreds of feet tall, gray and black bark with moving branches.
"Nothing." His horns are humiliating, small and immature compared to Alastair's. Alastair has a rack of horns on his head that rival the rack itself, looming and impressive, as intimidating as chains of steel and blood dripping to the sand like water from a melting icicle. He wants to file them off, chip and saw away down to his bone, past it so they can't grow back, carve in until his blade touches his brain and scoop the bone away. He wants to make his face messy with his blood while Alastair watches, offers him tips throughout the morbid routine.
He doesn't look quite like himself anymore, not really. The horns detract from the humanness of his features and his skin is darkening, gray beneath what used to be a tan. He's shriveling up too, drying out, withering like a raisin in the sun, the smoothness of his forehead a thing of the past. Worst of all are his teeth, the pointy things they've become, unkempt and growing, elongating past an inch each. He cuts the inside of his mouth if he isn't careful, tastes his mistake with the tang of his blood, pokes his tongue from between his lips to share the drops with Alastair. He's ugly because hell is ugly and he and demons and deranged souls are part of it, grotesque extensions of the bloody, living sand. He kind of likes it though, this highest honor, the stub of a tail unfurling little by little each day from his back.
"I know what you're thinking about." Alastair shimmies down, stealthy and serpentine, teeth gnawing lovingly on his incipient tail, tongue swiping across the tip. Alastair doesn't read his mind anymore, he says he doesn't need or want to. Dean believes him. "I like them."
"You do?" Alastair chose him for his pretty, he told him so, composed fucked up, sadistic odes to his eyes as he carved him out, to the fluttery arrangement of his lashes, or the perfect placement of his lips, the way they shone with blood and saliva during the lightning crackles. "I think they'll make me look badass when they grow in." He leans over the side of the bed to stare at the floor made of glass and mirrors and sees that his tongue has changed too. It's half forked, red as the blood sitting on the mantel, a miniscule hole at the very top, the place where his tongue sticks out the farthest. "What's the hole for?"
"You'll find out." He loves Alastair's surprises, they have never disappointed him, always just for him, to brighten up his day. "If you're done fretting over your appearance, Princess, we have souls to spoil."
"Shut up." He shoves Alastair low in the stomach, cuts him open with his new claws, his fingernails overgrown and honed to mini razors by Alastair's blade. "Let me get that for you." He feigns sincerity and cleans the blood away with his mouth, then opens for Alastair's cock when it rises hard and throbbing towards the blood dimmed sky.
He can never seem to run fast enough. His feet tread on sand sharper than glass, his blood spread across the living desert. He smells his sweat, tastes adrenaline, molecules of panic.
"You can't run forever." The demons on his tail are tiny slug-like things without faces, only razor sharp teeth and two holes in the center of where their faces should be. They rely on smell, following his scent. He can't ditch them, even if he stands downwind. Their noses are sharper than a bloodhound's, but instead of blood or sweat or hair they smell whatever comprises an individual's soul. They're fixed on him and they won't stop until they catch him.
He trips over the half buried skeleton of a young child, breaks two toes on its small, bleached white skull.
"There you go baby." The slug things swarm him, oozing slime that hardens into a kind of shell; a restraint that holds him down, crusts over his muscles to stop them from moving. They don't exactly talk to him, whisper hoarsely out of their nostrils. The slugs are butter yellow and puffy with moisture, fluids secreted beneath their skin. They are a breed he's never seen before, freshly spawned from parts of hell unknown, barely big enough to see, the size of a baby's thumb. They fit in him so easy it's almost a joke, sliding in slicker than a condom covered in lube. It has him laughing, how badly they fail at this, sliding moist in and out of his ass, over a dozen of them, wriggling in him in their own form of rape. Come the fifth minute of fucking, they change, expand and swell, larger and thicker than such little things should be. He's split in two, ripped at the seams, plugged achingly, gorgeously full, slugs growing to ten times their normal size. Damn it all to hell, he's getting off on it, being held down and slithered over, things moving around inside him and tearing him apart.
There's blood on the backs of his thighs again, seeping out of his hole, dribbling from the gaping wound on his back, where the slugs have separated his body into two sections.
"No more, oh God no more." He's properly wrecked, panting at the sting.
The slugs wheeze in their version of laughter.
"Eight of us haven't gone for a ride yet."
They go for rides more than once, over and over. He's sloppier than the holes in a runny piece of Swiss cheese.
"You about done here Dean?" Alastair steps out of the shadows, erect and smiling.
"By all means, go ahead." Alastair kills the slug things easy, with swipes of his claws. They sever and gush clear liquid. He helps when he can stand again, his fucked out ass and lower torso stitched together, remade as tight as the day he was born, as tight as Alastair likes him.
"You could have been good in porn." Alastair sucks face like he means it, jealous and angry as Dean wants. There is nothing quite like some imaginary gang rape for foreplay. Who knew Dean Winchester would have a rape fetish some day.
"Only if you were my director."
Alastair fucks him atop the bodies of the shredded slugs.
"What do you know about Ruby?"
He asks Alastair one morning, a very special morning, his thighs powerful while he rides Alastair. *NC-17 material removed*
"What do you want to know?" Alastair has his arms folded leisurely behind his head, hands cupped behind his head, spread out and watching him, white eyes glazed over whiter, half asleep. Alastair's never fully awake in the early mornings, always half asleep. Alastair is always up so, so early but Dean beats him to it, rising earlier than any sun. When he wants to fuck before he goes to the rack he has to climb aboard and get himself off.
"Where is she? I know she has to have been sent down here. I want to give that bitch what's coming to her." He's looked for her on the rack these last ten years, hoped to catch sight of her ugly face, the smashed and gnarled tip of her nose, her skin a blotchy red and black.
"I don't know where she is but I know where she used to be." Alastair closes his eyes, yawning. "In Lilith's bed."
"Really?" He always thought he got the tough lesbian vibe from Ruby.
"Those two were together for centuries. Ruby used to worship her as a human. There isn't a sweeter love story ever told than one between a bitch and its master." He laughs, the blanket beneath his knees soaked entirely in his blood, his skin covered in it. "I thought Lilith was going to hunt her down for going AWOL. I'd hunt you down if you betrayed me. I'd want to hear you scream one last time."
"I'd scream long and loud for you." He curves himself forward to get the right angle, doubled over Alastair, their faces almost touching. He's starting to look like Alastair these days. His horns are bigger, thicker, more than the width of his thumbs put together, tripled in length. His claws are badass too, as long as Alastair's and his skin is that lovely shade of midnight black, the shadows all around him. "I'd deserve it, anything you had to do to me."
"She didn't you know. Lilith didn't look for Ruby once. I admire that about her, that bitch doesn't give a crap about anyone, especially the girl sharing her bed. That's the kind of demon I want to serve beside. I'd give you up Dean, if I had to, for the good of hell. I'd toss you right into the lake of fire; watch your pretty face burn."
He moans involuntarily, his nerves over stimulated.
"I know you would." He'd kill Alastair too. He dreams about it sometimes, slitting Alastair's throat with his own razor, dragging his body through the sand, chaining him somewhere no one could ever reach him, too high up in the sky for wings. The lightning would strike through the center of Alastair's eyes, fry him to a crisp. He dreams of Alastair vulnerable, he dreams of making Alastair cry blood from every inch of his skin, from beneath his claws and the soles of his hooves. He could rub himself with Alastair's blood, the best facial he'll ever know. He's even harder just picturing it.
"Hurry it up." The son of a bitch yawns at him, stretches his arms above his head. "I'd like to go back to sleep."
"Sorry to be such an inconvenience to you." Alastair doesn't mean it, smiles tiny in the corners of his mouth, cock pressing up harder, nudging forward into him if he pulls back.
"You're never an inconvenience." He shivers all over. "None of this would be possible without you." He doesn't understand, but he doesn't care because he's coming, messy and thick on himself, on Alastair.
The demon Alastair lives in a castle constructed from the bones of the dead and tortured, the stripped bodies of the damned. The land here in the lowest part of hell reeks of death, the salt and bitter of blood where it runs fresh and boiling in the river. The screams are quietest near Alastair's palace, dark beings scurrying past in the dark, shuffling silent over the sand in leaping bounds, twisting and cavorting. They flee from him, some of them running on all fours, others sprinting on two feet, hooves and toes and claws moving in tandem. Alastair does not come to meet him. Alastair does not seem to notice his presence. Inside Alastair's home there is the faintest movement, the flickers of candles through the closed windows, glass reflecting the red and black and sallow orange-red of the sand. One of the windows gives him view of Alastair's bedchamber, where he can detect the faint glimmer of Dean Winchester's soul.
The Dean he sees is not the Dean he knows. Dean's skin is charcoal black, scabbed over into disorganized scales, the pattern of desert lizards. Dean has horns growing from the sides of his head, long, gnarled bones that match the color of his claws, the bones of his fingers growing past his fingernails. Dean is a disfigured simulation of his old soul. Dean is lying flat on his back, one leg hooked on Alastair's right shoulder, hands bracing on the bed as Alastair pounds into him. Alastair fucks Dean so hard the wall rattles with the force, the very foundation of the house rocking, bones dislodging and sliding back. Dean has fallen; under any other circumstance, he would be ordered to leave him here to wallow in his debauchery. Even if Dean weren't needed, he would bring him along regardless, clutch his buried soul and hold it tight.
Dean's eyes are blacker than the shadows of hell, the darkest color Castiel has seen in hell yet.
"Who the hell are you?" Dean shields his face from Castiel's light, spits out acid through a hole in the tip of his tongue. The acid falls on the tips of his wings but does not burn.
"He's here to take you away Dean." The words rattle Dean to his bones and he lunges at Castiel, sinks his claws into his chest and recoils as though he has been burned.
Alastair is a giant, menacing at over seven feet tall. He is larger than Castiel, larger than his brothers and sisters, the largest force of evil he has yet seen in hell. Alastair makes no move to shelter Dean, to protect him, his white eyes focused on Castiel's sword.
"Take me where?" Dean is small beside Alastair, smaller than he was only moments before, curling in on himself, slinking closer to his master's feet. "I don't want to go."
"I know." Alastair pets Dean's head, stands him up to kiss him. He cannot watch, revulsion burning hotter than the bubbling sulfur in his soul. He will not watch this. His blade slides through the hardened flesh of Alastair's arm, through the ossified sulfur that forms his bones. Alastair's arm falls off limp, shrivels up to nothing on the floor, a twig thin bone covered in paper thick skin.
Dean is nearly too warm to touch, his body searing, fire and sulfur boiling in his blood. It hurts to see him this way, more than it would had Castiel rescued him from the rack, seen Dean torn apart and bleeding. That would have been infinitely easier to bear.
There are severed heads mounted on spikes along the path leading to the bridge across the lake of fire. The two closest to the femurs that begin the bridge are freshest, the sand beneath the pikes wet and red.
"I put those there." Dean struggles against his grip, snarling as he flies, hell a sandy, bloody blur below them. "Your head's going to join them." Dean's voice has changed to an inflection Castiel cannot pinpoint.
"Shh." One touch quiets the restlessness of Dean's freshly malicious mind. "Oh Dean." He wishes he could have met the Dean he knows, the Dean who loves his car and his brother, who sleeps with guns beneath his pillows and silver flasks tucked cool against his hip. He would have liked to speak to that Dean. His wings twitch in disparity but his course through the sky doesn't falter. Dean was a good man once and he will be again. Somewhere deep, somewhere private, somewhere innocence goes to die he can hear Dean's soul screaming. Dean is all he knows that is not the arbitrary workings of the world. Through Dean he has seen television, tasted ketchup sweet as sugar, held a baby in his arms. He wants to see Dean restored, to watch him eat and smile again.
He flies onward to rejoin his brothers at the river's bend, where the last futile army of demons is being laid to waste. By the time he arrives they will be little more than piles of bones and mounds of decomposing flesh. Dean comes to life suddenly, twisting and spitting in his hands. He wrenches himself free and falls, down and down and down into the darkness, landing somewhere in the sand. Castiel follows him but when he reaches the ground Dean is nowhere to be seen, only a faint trail of blood leading to the west.
He finds Dean after two miles of scouring the terrain. Dean's been ambushed by demons, his organs ripped out, abdomen and chest slit open, intestines dragging behind him, coated in dirt. Dean drags himself on his belly like a snake, uses his claws for traction. It is pitiful to watch, to see how low Dean has sunk, reduced to crawling for a demonic master.
"Leave me." Dean coughs sulfur and blood, stringy bits of his innards.
"I'm here to free you." Dean won't let him touch, kicks up sand and rolls, spreading sand further in his thoracic cavity.
"I don't need to be freed." Dean is disillusioned; Dean has always been disillusioned about some aspect of his life. Dean has a subconscious craving for stability, hell as offered this to him for decades. Dean's skin begins to reassemble and soon he will try to run, inevitably he will fail. Castiel will pull him to the surface in the midst of a tantrum worthy of a child.
"This isn't where you belong." Dean's face feels softer, scales shed in this weakness. "Hell has changed you."
"Hell doesn't change anyone, not really." Dean's ribs click back together one by one. "We're all like this on the inside. People are awful creatures, they're worse than demons. At least demons don't pretend to be noble; they don't try and hide their evil. Demons are the most honest beings in the world. We're bad inside, broken maybe, but we never lie about it. Our depravity is straightforward." He can see a glimpse of the man Dean was in the words. Dean has thought this many times, alone in the dark, his brother snoring beside him in bed.
"You say words you don't understand."
"You're the one who doesn't understand." Deans escape attempts are feeble, laden down with his burden. "I don't want to go. I belong here."
"You belong in the land of the living." Dean succumbs beneath his fingertips, losing consciousness, muscles going slack. Dean is a dead, pliable weight easy to carry.
"I'm already dead." Dean says, eyelashes fluttering, features morphing from black and warped to normal, shedding his outer, evil skin layer by layer. This Dean is dying, his goodness reborn.
The sun is bright against the blue afternoon sky.
