Castiel is rooted to the spot by the sight of Alistair, air enters his lungs in a rush,
"Dean!" he shouts, eyes never leaving the man in front of him. As he feared, there is no answer.
"He's not coming." Alistair moves a little closer, blue shirt spattered with blood that Castiel prays is from the man's torn knuckles and not from Dean. "You think I'd let us get interrupted?" he tuts, producing a knife from his back pocket. "You know I like to take my time."
Castiel feels his skin go cold, he remembers the last time he was with Alistair, the whip lashing against his skin, cutting it raw and bloody, the necklace of bruises around his throat from being choked when he'd tried to call a stop to it. His eyes go to the knife and Alistair's smile widens sickeningly.
He could beg him, but Alistair wouldn't let him go. He could fight, but he'd lose. Shout for help, but no one would hear.
Panic fills his throat with sand.
"You're wondering what I'm going to do to you..." he advances a little and Castiel can feel parts of his brain closing off, Castiel is being locked in a room somewhere and parts of James are taking over. The parts that can take pain and cruelty, the parts that don't care whether he lives or dies because James never had anything to live for but the next trick.
He backs up until his legs hit the burnt edge of the urine soaked mattress. Alistair raises the knife lazily and presses the point of it to the V of exposed skin at Castiel's shirt collar.
"Are you not scared of me, Beautiful?" he wonders out loud and Castiel keeps his eyes unfocused on the wall behind Alistair's head. The knife trails down, an insisted pressure that makes his heart skip a beat. Alistair pokes sharply and the knife jabs him, Castiel hisses and a thin trail of blood wets the front of his shirt.
Alistair shoves him onto the bed and cuts through the front of Castiel's shirt in one vicious swipe. Peeling the cotton sides away from his pale chest, he presses the knife to his bare skin, cold and lightning sharp, circling his way around a nipple and then letting the cold steel lance white hot pain across the nub, raising a line of blood and making Castiel cry out in startled pain.
Alistair crouches over him, legs on either side of Castiel's hips, humming softly as he traces the knife over his chest, digging and slicing when he feels Castiel least suspects it. He's chocking on fear and the stench of burning and urine and Alistair's excited sweat as it beads and falls onto him. Castiel's heart beats quick as a rabbit's, breath coming fast and eyes wide and scared like those of a cornered animal. He looks like what he is, prey.
"You know he's not coming, right?" Alistair says conversationally. "Your lover, he's either dead or still bleeding out...but I'm gonna cut you slowly anyway...let you feel your time running out..." He chuckles wetly. "You're going to last for hours, Angel face... thinking any minute now...any...minute...now..." he jabs on each word and Castiel feels pained tears well up in his eyes. "Someone's going to come and save you..." he leans down, foul breath and wet lips close to his ear and whispering poisonously. "But they're not."
He sinks the knife into the flesh of Castiel's hip.
He screams, his body moving of its own accord as it fights the searing pain, he can feel the blood wetting his shirt, can smell it. But Alistair just holds him down, not losing his perch on him even as he jerks the knife free and Castiel bucks, screaming again as the pain surges, then clenches his teeth and produces a horrible choking sound as he tries not to throw up or scream his throat bloody.
Alistair laughs, pressing one hand to the front of his own bloodstained brown pants and squeezing the bulge there.
"You always made such pretty sounds." He sighs, blade moving lightly again as Alistair shuffles back and opens Castiel's pants, pulling them down his legs, as pale and stiff as a dolls.
Castiel closes his eyes.
The knife trails over his thighs, inside and out, pricking lines of blood out on the white skin. He can feel the pressure of it, wincing at the sharp sting of each cut, followed by the wet sensation of blood, the burning throb of the open wound. His head feels cottony, and he hopes that he'll pass out before Alistair decides to get on top of him.
Though what does it matter really? If he's not leaving this bed alive.
Alistair presses the blade between his legs, the sharp edge driving alertness through his padded brain as it ticks against his balls, then behind them on the sensitive skin.
The wound in his hip blazes with pain and he whimpers despite himself.
Alistair deals him a blow to the face, cutting across the stinging flesh of his cheek so that blood runs down his face to pool in the hollow of his neck.
"Be quiet now Angel." Alistair admonishes, pushing Castiel's legs open. A hundred cuts blaze a net of fire over his skin and he knows that worse is coming, that Alistair will fuck him, then cut him, over and over until he gives out. He will not tire of it, he will not stop, he will not relent.
There will be no rescue.
In that instant he knows he's going to die here, and Castiel, the real him, comes screaming from the safe corner of his mind, and all he can think is...
Ben...days old and wriggling under a hospital blanket, all pink fingers and wide blue eyes.
Dean...dying somewhere on his living room floor, the heartbeat he'd felt against his chest that morning stopping forever.
He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling hot tears run out from under the closed lids, bites his lip, and waits to die.
