Title: You touched me in places so deep
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Adrienne Rich.
Warnings: spoilers for aired season four
Pairings: Alistair/Dean
Rating: R
Wordcount: 530
Point of view: third
"Bleed him dry," Alistair purrs. "There's a good boy."
The knife slices into the soul's mindflesh with ease, sinking through muscle, bone, and gristle, and coming out the other side a lovely shade of crimson. The soul screams, a pretty sound, and begs for mercy, for a shred of pity, for anything but more pain. Music. Alistair sways in time to the gasps his pet wrangles from the soul, and he laughs in pleasure when the soul finally quiets, voice spent.
"Well done," he praises, taking the knife. "Let's move on down the line, kiddo."
He's never had a student learn so quickly or delight in it as much as himself. He is Hell's chief tormenter, the Executioner, the master and connoisseur of pain. Even his lord Lucifer would sometimes flinch back from the worktable, back when his lord was around.
And this boy, this newcomer to the Pit—he fought well, but beneath Alistair's unending attention, he broke. Time has no meaning and Alistair had never bothered to count, but he thinks his pet lasted a very long time.
"Show me what you can do," Alistair invites, slouching, hands in his pockets. They are the masters here; they can wear whatever form they want. So his pet's appearance… Alistair studies as his boy goes to work. He's wearing the clothes his earthly body died in, shredded and bloody, and always has blood splatters on his face, coating his hands. And his eyes—Alistair doesn't know what color they were in life, but down here, where he is the swiftly-rising star, his eyes are always black.
Given enough time, Alistair muses, you could evolve, kiddo. You could become like me, like Lucifer—or more. Potential, pet: you're drowning in it.
Alistair grins, eyes flashing bone-white. "Enough," he calls. "Let's get some lunch."
His pet sheathes the knife and walks back to him, waiting. The boy is still so young, seeking praise, so Alistair caresses his face. "You're a good boy, kiddo," he says, licking his pet's blood-soaked neck. He never uses his pet's human name—the man he was does not matter here.
The boy curls into him, face upturned, eyes wide and mouth open. Alistair plants biting kisses onto his pet's skin. "Beautiful," he purrs. "My favorite, so beautiful."
He places his hand on the boy's left shoulder and wills it to burn. His pet sighs in pleasure. "My mark," Alistair tells him. "All of Hell knows you're mine."
Smiling, his greatest student leans in to kiss his neck, whispering, "Lord, master, let me worship you."
Alistair shoves the boy down and takes him, again and again and again, and finally sated, he offers his hand to help the boy up. "Hungry?" he asks.
His pet smiles, willing his clothes back to their previous condition, and his eyes are a shade lighter. Alistair grins and has to make his favorite of every Hellbound-soul bleed just a little more.
His pet—so beautiful, so sadistic, so much potential… "You could be the greatest," Alistair says.
And his boy preens, purrs, presses in close, submits with pleasure when Alistair can't resist taking him again.
They never do make it to lunch.