cado in nusquam, Superntatural, NC-17
Jan. 3rd, 2009 02:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phantismaFandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Alistair/John/Dean
Other Characters: Sam
Rating: A very serious NC-17
Word Count: 5076
Summary: Alistair is determined to break Dean, and he'll use any means at his disposal to do it, including a certain other Winchester who spent a few years on his rack too.
Warnings: This is maybe the darkest thing I've ever written, and those of you who have read my work know I don't say these things lightly. This at the very least rivals the "P!Verse"...in some ways it goes darker places than that. There is rape/non-con, dub-con, there is torture, both physical and mental. This part of this fic does not contain any real comfort.
A/Ns: This began as a comment fic prompt that simply wouldn't leave me alone. Then I was surrounded by dirty, filthy enablers (I'm eyeing![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
varkelton and denyce specifically here). I haven't seen fandom really address the issue of John and his year in hell in light of Dean's revelation that 4 months was like 40 years...and if Dean broke in 30 years, how much longer could John have held out? In my mind for this, John escapes hell in "All Hell Breaks Loose" but isn't necessarily the John we remember...and what happens after he kills his enemy is murky at best...what if he was just far enough gone that he never could come back?
Dean shivers, seeking relief even though he knows there won't be any…there never is…not until it's almost too much, not until he's sure he can't stand it, sure he'll break…then suddenly there's a small reprieve…an hour or two of silence, a moment or two with no pain…a stretch of time when he isn't being touched, fucked, slowly broken open and pulled apart.
"You know I had your Daddy right here…on this rack…naked and chained here…just like you are now…"
Dean's eyes squeeze shut, because he doesn't want to hear…doesn't want to feel that hand close around his cock, doesn't want his head filled with the images of his father where he is now, enduring this…but Alistair's voice slithers into his head, the same way his hands and lips slither over his skin.
"He begged for mercy…" His forked tongue laps at Dean's chin as he presses his body against Dean's. "He begged me to let him come…"
Dean screams as Alistair fucks into him, but there is no sound, none but Alistair's voice. "He was mine, just like you will be…I fucked him, bled him, made him cry, made him scream…and when I let him come…when he gave himself to me, when he asked to serve me, I licked his tears and watched the black fill his eyes as I set him free."
Dean jerked awake, gasping for air and searching frantically around him for something, anything to tell him where he was and what was happening.
He could still feel the demon all over him, under his skin, in his blood. His heart thundered and he felt his way to the edge of his bed, retching into the dark carpeting until there was nothing left to bring up.
The room was dark and quiet. Standard shitty motel room. Sam was asleep on the next bed. The clock by the bed read 2:13am. Dean struggled to breathe, sitting up, and trying to remember.
Sweat slicked his skin as he slowly climbed to his feet. It felt like blood and he swiped at it as he stumbled across the room, into the bathroom, slamming a hand over the light switch and turning on the water in the sink, letting it run cold. He cupped his hands under the stream and splashed it up over his face, onto his shoulders and let it run down his bare chest.
He breathed slowly and pushed up, his hands on the porcelain. He jumped at the reflection the mirror showed, his eyes dark and sunken, his skin pale white and stretched thin over his bones. Red lines of wounds only recently healed marked his skin, marks of claws and blades…some already forming scars, some still scabbing over…they marked his face, his chest, his legs…Dean closed his eyes and felt them….felt his skin split open, his guts dumping to the floor, his cock hard, wanting, his mouth and ass violated.
He fell to his knees and retched again, throwing up nothing more than bile into the toilet. When the convulsions passed, Dean stood, shaking as he moved again to the sink, avoiding the mirror now as he rinsed his mouth.
He remembered hell. He remembered dying and the endless fall. He remembered the pain and torment. He didn't remember anything past it. Clearly this wasn't hell.
Somehow he'd gotten loose. Sam had found a way.
Dean shook his head, stepping back into the bedroom where Sam slept peacefully, his body splayed out over the bed, blankets pulled down to expose his long torso, one arm cast casually over his face.
It didn't feel right. Sam wouldn't be asleep if he'd just pulled Dean out of hell…unless…Dean tiptoed to the bed, touched his brother, a hand over his heart. He held his breath, afraid he'd find Sam cold, dead…but he was warm, his heart beating up at him as Sam shifted in his sleep.
"'S okay Dean…go back to sleep." Sam mumbled, pushing Dean's hand away. "You'll remember in the morning." Sam turned on his side, shutting Dean out and leaving him to stand alone in a room that was too small, and getting smaller the more he stood there.
He was free.
The air in the room was stale, stifling. It smelled of sweat and fear and old blood. Dean swallowed and rubbed his hands over his skin. It was too cold. Too close. He needed air. Needed to feel the fresh air in his lungs.
He opened the door, a balmy southern night greeted him, beckoning him like a lover, wrapping moist wind around his waist, tugging him out into the night.
The Impala sat in front of the door, shining under the single streetlight. He reached out to touch her, his hand trembling as he slid it up over her hood with reverence. "God I missed you."
He stood next to the car, breathing in the night air, the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle heavy. The silence stretched out around him, only the distant sound of the wind and the casual hum of the neon light filling the air. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, vaguely realizing he is only wearing thin, worn boxers that hang from his thin hips. He considered going back inside for pants, but the warmth of the car behind him was comforting and he tilted his head back against the roof and looked up into the dark sky. No stars or moon, no clouds…just an endless expanse of black stretched out above him.
There was a low moan. At first Dean wasn't sure he heard it, the sound slid in under the hum and breeze and rose slowly like a blush up under his skin. It was a familiar sound…intimate and it raised the hair on his arms and neck. He stood upright, turning toward it…toward the dark alley between buildings where the streetlight spilled over dirty concrete and broken glass but didn't penetrate the shadows.
He stepped on bare feet away from the car, drawn by the sound, by guttural noises and whispers. He inched through the dark, hugging the wall of the building until he could see, leaning around a corner to find the source.
Two men in the dark. One leaned against a dirty wall, tall and lean, his head tilted back into the brick, his hands lost in the dark hair of the other who knelt before him. The sounds came from the one on his knees, his mouth full of cock as he moaned, his body writhing as if the act of sucking this other man's cock were orgasmic for him too.
Dean started when he realized he was being watched. His eyes moved up to the standing man…and everything narrowed down. "Alistair."
His smile was slow, his eyes glowing in the dark. The man on his knees looked up, then slowly turned. Dean stared, stumbled though he was sure he wasn't moving.
"Dean."
He stood, casually wiping dirt and bits of glass from his knees. He took two steps toward Dean.
"Dad." Dean's chest constricted as the air was pulled from his lungs, then his father was pulling him into a tight hug. It was impossible. His father was gone. Dead. Dean had burned the body. "Dad?"
His father held him at arm's length, looking over him. "You look rough, Son."
"No. No." Dean looked over his father's shoulder to where Alistair watched them, a vague smile on his lips. He tried to step back, to go back to the car, to the room, to Sam…back to the place where he was free.
"It's okay, Dean." His father's voice was soothing, real and he wanted it to be true…he wanted to let it be okay, to let it be his father…wanted to fold up into his arms and let his father comfort away the memories of hell.
"Dad. I—" He looked at his father's face and his eyes flooded with black. Dean pulled away, almost succeeding but fingers dug deep into his shoulders, breaking skin as his father hauled him into the alley, turning until Dean was stuck between them, Alistair's hands joining his father's on his skin, holding Dean's hips tight while his father closed the space between them, his face looming over him.
Blood flowed down Dean's arms. His father leaned in, licked up Dean's arms, then offered his tongue to Alistair. Dean held his breath as they kissed over his shoulder.
"No." Dean's voice whined out of him, his knees failing. This couldn't be real…he was free…Sam freed him. His father's face was rough, brushing across Dean's face. Dean squirmed, but he was held firm between them, his father's lips bruising as they took Dean's, his tongue pushing into Dean's mouth.
"My boy." He was petting over Dean, his hands, his lips touching Dean.
"Dad." Dean's voice broke as a big hand delved inside his boxers, closed around his betraying cock, working over it while Alistair chuckled in Dean's ear.
"You won't ever escape me, boy." Alistair's voice burned against his skin as Dean's body jerked up into his father's hand.
"Be a good boy for Daddy, Dean." His father licked his lips, twisting his hand around Dean's cock until Dean was coming, yelling, but coming and falling harder against Alistair's lean body.
Dean watched his father lift his come covered hand, lick it clean, and once more leaned in to offer his tongue to Alistair. Dean started sliding, falling as they kissed, tongues wrestling as the come moved from mouth to mouth, his father moaning like a whore.
"Shh….Dean…it's okay…it's okay."
Dean isn't breathing, can't make the air move. Sam's hand rubs over his chest, his body presses up against Dean's back, holding him while he whispers reassuring words. "Right here, Dean."
"Sam?" He forces the word out and drags air in, pulling away. Sam follows him, still whispering, still rubbing his chest.
"Nightmares." Sam says softly.
Dean jerks his body away from Sam, his hands rubbing over his skin…the horrible scars are gone, his skin is pale and no more marked than as if he had never…He runs for the bathroom, blinking in the sudden light. His face is normal, his eyes a little dark, the black circles under them testifying a lack of sleep, but no signs of the torture, the endless torment. He feels over his face, half expecting the scars and scabs to return if he just looks hard enough.
Sam appears behind him, leaning on the door frame, rubbing at his eyes blearily. "They're getting worse."
"What?" Dean blinks, looks up at his brother in the mirror.
"The nightmares. The closer we get, the worse they are."
"Nightmares?" Dean shakes his head. No. It was no dream. If anything was a dream it was this. Hell, the heat, the fire, the smell, the burn, the blades, the demons, Alistair…It was real. Very real. He knows it was real. "Closer we get?" He turns, his back to the lying face in the mirror, his hands bracing on the sink to keep him from sinking to the floor. "How?" He wants to shake Sam, wants to demand answers…but he remembers the last time he thought he'd gotten out. He remembers his father's eyes flooding with black. He remembers Alistair and the blood and the come.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe. "Tell me Sam, how did I get out?"
Sam scowls at him. "It was just a dream, Dean. We still have two days until the deadline."
Dean knows better. "No, Sam…no…I was…was there." His skin remembers…the feeling of blood, flesh ripping open…howls of pain that seem inhuman but he knows are coming from his mouth…Alistair laughing as he fucks Dean into oblivion. "This is just a trick…this is…him."
Sam reaches for him, his big hand on Dean's shoulder…the shoulder Dean knows was ruined over and over again by the meat hook Alistair used to haul him out to the rack. Dean shivers.
"Come to bed Dean. Sleep a while. In the morning we'll see if Bobby's found anything."
Sam is so convinced, so positive and warm. His hand is solid. His eyes stay the same beautiful green as they look into Dean, filled with worry, fear, concern. Dean can't help but want to believe him. They still had time. Two days. It was all a dream. It was all a horrible dream.
Dean's hands tremble as Sam slides his hand down his arm, hooking his fingers in Dean's and tugging, whispering soft words that sound like home, like what home is supposed to sound like with "come on" and "love you" and "safe" and Dean lets it lull him, lets it lead him to the one bed, all mussed and tousled from where they've laid before he woke them.
The sheets are cool against his skin. Dean lets Sam lay him down, and Sam smiles at him, though the worry and fear is still there in his eyes. He turns off the light and slides into bed, pulls Dean to him, anchoring him there in the bed with those big hands on Dean's chest. Solid, real. Sam. It was all for Sam anyway.
He was nothing without his brother.
"It's okay, Dean." Sam murmurs, his breath hot on Dean's skin. His hands rub over Dean's chest. His legs brush against Dean's legs and his lips moved over the skin of his neck as he whispers.
It's soft and comfortable…warm…
Dean's eyes drift closed and he lets himself relax against his brother, lets himself believe. Two days. Sam's breathing is deep and rhythmic. Dean guides one of his brother's hands to his lips, kissing it lightly. He'd never say it in front of Sam, not when Sam could hear him, not when Sam could know how terrified he is. "Love you Sammy."
"Sam?"
The dark shifted, turned upside down and dropped him six feet to the hard, rocky ground.
"Sam?"
"Isn't that sweet? He wants his brother." Familiar voices…soon to be followed by familiar hands and familiar teeth…demons, Alistair's demons.
"No." Dean curled up tight as he could, knowing what came next. "Sam!"
Pain lanced through his shoulder, flesh ripping open, blood spurting up around him, over his face as the point of the hook emerged out of his shoulder and the first jerk made him involuntarily uncurl. His arms flailed out around him for something, anything to hold onto.
Hands, claws tore at him as he was dragged, ripping the illusion of clothes from his skin, ripping gashes into the illusion of skin until his voice boomed out and scattered the minions.
Alistair squatted next to Dean in his own illusion, grinning. "Good morning Dean. Are you ready to start again?"
His hand fell possessively on Dean's cock and it was instantly hard. It was one of the first things he'd learned here. Dean controlled nothing but his own determination not to succumb, not to give in. He owned nothing but his response to the question asked of him every time this started and every time it stopped.
"Or are you ready to submit?" Alistair stroked Dean's cock lazily, looking down at him with this paternal expression, as if he cared about Dean. "Just say the word, Dean…it gets so much easier once you give in…the pleasure I can offer you…oh, Dean…you have no idea."
"Sam." Dean closed his eyes, clinging to the memory of Sam's hands, the solid feeling of his arms around Dean, holding him. Of course, it was an illusion, like so much was here.
"Your brother isn't going to save you Dean." Alistair's mouth was on his ear. "Soon, he'll be joining you."
"No." Dean thrashed, screaming as the hook in his shoulder dragged him, bones cracking, blood oozing…up onto the rack. Hands positioned him, nails digging into his skin as they turned him, lifted his arms over his head and chained them down, legs spread until his hips hurt, ankles closed up in metal restraints…so tight his feet went cold and dead.
Alistair's hand ghosted down his body, then Dean felt it rest against his flesh, on his side, just above the hip. It was warm as it sat there, unmoving, waiting…Dean held his breath…the pain would start…and it would go on forever…until he was dumped from the rack and dragged back into the dark, into the dreams, only to wake up, his skin restored, the illusion of his body perfect so they could begin again.
Fingers pressed into his skin, pressure…then the sharp bite as the skin gave way, the warm flush as blood rushed there and out of him, filling the air with that coppery smell. His long fingers pushed into Dean, until his hand was inside, grabbing, pulling.
Dean's hands fisted and released in the chains, his voice lost in the roar of voices and screams as all around them other souls lay on other racks, their flesh ripped open, their throats torn and bloody, their bodies violated in the most obscene ways.
Knives or nails or razors carved skin from his back, peeling him open, exposing his spine, his organs.
"Sam." Dean closed his eyes and tried to picture his brother. This was for him. He was here so that Sam could be free, could live out his life. Sam's face wobbled in his mind as something invaded him…a hand moving up his ass to meet the one reaching down from inside his back. "Sam."
"It can all be over." Dean lost Sam in the haze of pain and darkness. "I can show you how good it feels, Dean…show you what it feels like to orgasm from the taste of blood and fear." Alistair's voice was alive inside him, burning away the memories of anything outside hell…Sam shriveled up and fell to ash. "All you have to do is submit. Step down off the rack, pick up the knife…so simple, so easy…"
"Please." Dean whispered the word, feeling it scrape out of his throat and into the fetid air.
Alistair leaned in, his breath putrid, his bloody hand fisting in Dean's hair to pull his head up. "What is that, boy?"
"Please." He couldn't stop himself. Tears burned against his skin. "Please."
"Please what, Dean?" Alistair asked, the words dripping with false concern.
Dean wanted to shake his head, wanted to pull away, wanted to offer up some defiance, but his will was fading, his bravado burned and stripped away. "Sam." It was little more than a whisper.
Alistair's smile was frightening. "You want Sam? You want your brother?"
A hand circled around his cock, yanking hard. Dean's body convulsed and he screamed, "Sam!"
Fire.
He can taste sweet, cool air, but only behind the acrid bite of the smoke.
He's laying down, on a pyre…burning.
Just like they burned their father. Dean sits up fast, pulling at the confining wrappings that he knows are soaked in lighter fluid and laced with salt. A proper Winchester send off…He has to let Sam know he's there…that he isn't dead.
"Sam!"
Dean manages to free one hand and tears at the fabric around his face. The fire surrounds him, flames already licking to the top of the pyre.
"Sam!"
He can't see past the flames, the red heat making everything beyond it black. He struggles, pulling away as the fire reaches for him, throwing himself off the stacked wood, rolling into the dirt to put out the flames.
"Sam!"
It seems to take forever to get out of the shroud, and when he does he discovers he's naked, but he's out…somehow…he only remembers screaming Sam's name over and over…only recalls falling and falling and then suddenly waking up here in the fire.
"Sam!"
He figures since he was burning, he must have died before Sam found a way…but then why would Sam burn his body?
"Sam!"
Shadows up ahead of him move, voices soft on the night breeze. Dean fights through the dark, stopping when the Impala's headlights light up a clearing and there, in the glare, is Sam, half way to naked himself.
The other shadow turns, a smile breaking over his face. "Dad?"
Dean is confused. Their father was dead. Why was he here? Why was his hand on Sam's bare hip? Why was he pulling Sam in and kissing him?
Dean shakes his head to quell the buzzing and dizzying questions. "What?"
Sam holds out his hand, and Dean moves to him, like he can't not go to Sam when he calls for him. Sam's mouth is hot and tastes like smoke as he kisses Dean. "Sam?" He's breathless and uncertain…dreaming…he must be dreaming.
"I told you he'd come." Sam says softly. His hands curl around Dean's hip possessively, guiding him between Sam and his father. Lips press to his, a tongue sliding over them until he opens his mouth, distracted by the scruff of his father's beard on his neck as his lips touch Dean's skin too.
"Sam?"
"Shh…Dean." Sam kisses his eyes closed. His father's hands slide over his skin, pull him back against his naked chest, and Dean can feel that his chest isn't all that's naked.
"Dean." His father's voice is deep, comforting and it lulls him. "My boy. My good soldier. You take care of your brother."
"Yes sir." Dean murmurs reflexively, not even realizing his father is guiding him to his knees. John's finger pushes into Dean's mouth, opening it as Sam steps closer.
"Take your brother."
Dean pulls back as Sam's cock touches his lip, but his head only goes as far as his brother's cock. "Anything for me Dean, right?" Sam asks as he flexes his hips, his cock sliding into Dean's open mouth alongside their father's finger.
Dean gags, but doesn't fight…can't hurt Sam. Bodies close around him as they kiss above him. This can't be real…Dean tries to remember…but there's nothing…just the falling, falling…dying…burning…
"That's good Dean." Sam murmurs as they pull apart. His long fingers stroke the side of Dean's face. "I knew you'd come for me…knew you'd give yourself, sacrifice yourself…it's what you do…"
His father's hands were on his hips, pulling back, dropping Dean forward so that his neck stretched and his head fell back to keep his mouth open for his brother. Dean recognizes too late why, whimpering around the cock in his mouth as John penetrates his ass with two fingers.
"I trained you for this Dean." John says now, his fingers withdrawing as he positions himself for the long, slow fuck into his son's body. His fingers strum down Dean's spine. "This is who you are…where you belong…nothing without us…nothing…"
"Pretty though." Sam whispers, his fingers still petting along Dean's face.
Their words are soft, stinging along the tears that slip from his eyes. Nothing…anything for Sam, take care of Sam, obey Dad…give himself to the cause, to the fight, bleed, break, die…They kiss each other, but they fuck him…and he takes it…always takes it because he is nothing without them.
His vision narrows down to a spot between Sam's navel and his cock. He hears them whisper, feels their cocks, their hands…feels them…and he knows they're right, knows this is who he is…
Sam comes with a low moan, filling his mouth with heat and his father isn't far behind. They pull away, leave him on the ground, cold, alone. Footsteps take them away.
"Sam? Dad?" Dean reaches out…afraid of the dark, of being alone. Sam squats beside him, brushes a hand over his face, gentle…his smile soft.
"It's okay Dean. We'll come back when we need you."
"I need you, Sam." Dean's fingers scramble at his skin, trying to find something to hold on to. "Don't leave me alone."
His father is there now too, his smile just as tender. "You've always been alone, Son. All alone until we need you."
Dean feels the tears, feels the truth of his words and drops his eyes. "I don't want to be alone."
His father's fingers grasp his chin, tug and pull until he looks up. "You know how to make that happen." John's eyes flood with inky black. Dean starts, but can't pull away.
"Let go, Dean." Sam says. Dean looks at him, watching in horror as his eyes also go dark.
"No…"
Sam's smile seems out of place under those black eyes. "All your sacrifice, Dean…and what was it worth? Look at me…I'm everything you died to stop…you died for nothing Dean."
Hell hounds aren't gentle, not that Dean had expected them to be. They dragged him out of his skin, chewed through sinew and bone to drop him into the abyss…and he fell.
He fell forever, but it wasn't an easy descent. Rocks and glass scraped and cut as he went, tearing at the tender parts that the skin usually kept safe. Fire caressed him as he tossed and turned and fell…fell…fell…
All thought left him, all ability to think or move or breathe or feel was gone as the falling stopped and he slammed into the chaos. He blinked, his mouth open as slowly the pain started to register…broken bones, nerves cut open, raw flesh. His fingers scrabbled against nothing, trying to feel something beyond the screaming, raging fire of his blood covering him.
He almost didn't feel the first hook, through his side, yanking him until the mutilated flesh gave way. The second ate through bone as it claimed his shoulder, his arm dangling away uselessly.
A groan gurgled up out of his throat, spilling blood over his lips as he was pulled, dragged and once more he was falling, jerking on the end of the hook before he was dropped.
His body crumpled, useless, lifeless. There were two feet there…a person. Dean forced himself to look. "Hello Dean. My name is Alistair. You and I will be spending some quality time together."
He thinks maybe he's going crazy, maybe that's what hell really is.
His body isn't a body, it's just an illusion…one they fuck with, fuck over, fuck into…they tear, rip, cut, they eat him, tiny mouths biting into him…and perversely it makes him hard…makes his cock swell with need.
He never comes though…they use him, they masturbate them until he's begging, pleading for relief…but Alistair reminds him that this is hell…and if he wants relief, Dean needs to mean it, needs to succumb, give in, submit.
Dean clings to himself, to his denial, clings to a sliver of memory…stubborn, even as he's given to a swirling mass of demons to be fucked repeatedly, bruised, battered, raped, cut open and left a quivering pile of nothing covered in blood and reeking of sulfur and sex.
Gentle hands touch him, wiping the muck from him and leaving only clean, pure skin in their wake. Dean rolls to his back, opens his eyes.
John Winchester smiles at him softly. "Shh…let me…" Tenderly he cleans Dean until he can no longer feel the wounds, the blood gone. John helps him sit, lifts him, carries him to a soft bed. "Easy, Dean."
They lay together in the softness, his father's body curled around his protectively. "How much more can you take?" His father's voice is small, hurt. "I hate watching you go through this."
Dean holds his father's hand to his chest, reveling in how safe it feels, though that too is an illusion. "What else can I do?"
His father kisses over his shoulders and sighs. "I held out Dean…for years…I fought like you are now…endured the unthinkable."
Dean can feel his father's arousal against his ass. His mouth was close to Dean's ear. "No one survives, Dean. No one outlasts him. Even now he owns you, like he owns me. He can make it hurt in ways you can't imagine, or he can make it feel so very good."
John shifts, rolling them enough that his cock slipped into Dean and Dean is partly on his stomach. His father's hand slips over his hip, circling around his cock. "You've never felt the kind of orgasm that comes when you surrender Dean."
He rocks them together. "Surrender…he'll give you to me, Dean…we can be together…we can have this…" His hand strokes Dean while his words sooth him.
Dean closes his eyes and lets the feeling build, need, arousal, craving for this…for the respite, for the reward. "Please…Dad…"
"Come to me Dean. Come to me."
"Please…" Blood dripped from his lips as he pulled himself to his knees, reaching out to them.
Alistair turned, his fist in John's hair, pulling him off Alistair's cock and they both turned to look at Dean. "Please…"
But he couldn't make the words come. No more…he couldn't take any more. He dragged his reaching hand back to hold the intestines spilling out of him. "Please…"
"Please?" Alistair stopped in front of him, his cock right in Dean's face. John slid to his knees, his hands cupping to Dean's face.
"You have to say the words, boy."
Dean tried to focus his eyes on his father's face, tried to force the words out of him, shame and fear and agony warring inside him until he could barely form thought. "No more."
John's smile started small, but grew. He nodded encouragement.
"Please, no more." Dean's face burned with his shame. "I…I'll…do whatever you want."
Alistair raised an eyebrow as he considered Dean's words, then he offered his cock to Dean. It wasn't forced, it was just there, waiting. Dean looked to his father, then back at Alistair. Slowly, he licked his lips, opened his mouth.
Alistair's laughter echoed around them. John's hand reached under Dean, rubbing at his cock, his breathe hot on Dean's skin. Alistair's come was bitter with sulfur, filling Dean's mouth and forcing him to swallow, the heat of it pooling in his stomach and making his cock harder. Alistair's hand in his hair pulled his head back. "Come for me, Dean. Make yourself mine."
His whole being quivered as it started, fire in his blood, in his stomach, exploding out of him, out of his cock, into his father's hand. Dean collapsed to the ground as it ended and John stood, holding up his come filled hand to Alistair who licked and sucked his fingers clean.
"He's all yours, boy. Don't disappoint me."
Alistair snapped his fingers as he disappeared and Dean's body was whole again. His father turned to him, eyes flooding black. His smile was evil as he squatted beside Dean.
"Well then. Let's get started."
I almost never put end notes on fic, but I feel that this requires a few other notes. 1) This is not the end of this piece. This is where I take a break from this piece. 2) The next piece might ultimately be even darker, as it will deal with the ten years Dean spends in hell as his father's apprentice. 3) The last piece might actually end up being multiple pieces as it is beginning to look as though I will be re-writing season 4 to date as this would have changed it...I won't go into details...hopefully, that is where we will get at least a little bit of comfort and such for the poor boy. Also, for those playing the home game, the title is Latin. It means "Falling into Nothing".
Pairing: Alistair/John/Dean
Other Characters: Sam
Rating: A very serious NC-17
Word Count: 5076
Summary: Alistair is determined to break Dean, and he'll use any means at his disposal to do it, including a certain other Winchester who spent a few years on his rack too.
Warnings: This is maybe the darkest thing I've ever written, and those of you who have read my work know I don't say these things lightly. This at the very least rivals the "P!Verse"...in some ways it goes darker places than that. There is rape/non-con, dub-con, there is torture, both physical and mental. This part of this fic does not contain any real comfort.
A/Ns: This began as a comment fic prompt that simply wouldn't leave me alone. Then I was surrounded by dirty, filthy enablers (I'm eyeing
varkelton and denyce specifically here). I haven't seen fandom really address the issue of John and his year in hell in light of Dean's revelation that 4 months was like 40 years...and if Dean broke in 30 years, how much longer could John have held out? In my mind for this, John escapes hell in "All Hell Breaks Loose" but isn't necessarily the John we remember...and what happens after he kills his enemy is murky at best...what if he was just far enough gone that he never could come back?Dean shivers, seeking relief even though he knows there won't be any…there never is…not until it's almost too much, not until he's sure he can't stand it, sure he'll break…then suddenly there's a small reprieve…an hour or two of silence, a moment or two with no pain…a stretch of time when he isn't being touched, fucked, slowly broken open and pulled apart.
"You know I had your Daddy right here…on this rack…naked and chained here…just like you are now…"
Dean's eyes squeeze shut, because he doesn't want to hear…doesn't want to feel that hand close around his cock, doesn't want his head filled with the images of his father where he is now, enduring this…but Alistair's voice slithers into his head, the same way his hands and lips slither over his skin.
"He begged for mercy…" His forked tongue laps at Dean's chin as he presses his body against Dean's. "He begged me to let him come…"
Dean screams as Alistair fucks into him, but there is no sound, none but Alistair's voice. "He was mine, just like you will be…I fucked him, bled him, made him cry, made him scream…and when I let him come…when he gave himself to me, when he asked to serve me, I licked his tears and watched the black fill his eyes as I set him free."
Dean jerked awake, gasping for air and searching frantically around him for something, anything to tell him where he was and what was happening.
He could still feel the demon all over him, under his skin, in his blood. His heart thundered and he felt his way to the edge of his bed, retching into the dark carpeting until there was nothing left to bring up.
The room was dark and quiet. Standard shitty motel room. Sam was asleep on the next bed. The clock by the bed read 2:13am. Dean struggled to breathe, sitting up, and trying to remember.
Sweat slicked his skin as he slowly climbed to his feet. It felt like blood and he swiped at it as he stumbled across the room, into the bathroom, slamming a hand over the light switch and turning on the water in the sink, letting it run cold. He cupped his hands under the stream and splashed it up over his face, onto his shoulders and let it run down his bare chest.
He breathed slowly and pushed up, his hands on the porcelain. He jumped at the reflection the mirror showed, his eyes dark and sunken, his skin pale white and stretched thin over his bones. Red lines of wounds only recently healed marked his skin, marks of claws and blades…some already forming scars, some still scabbing over…they marked his face, his chest, his legs…Dean closed his eyes and felt them….felt his skin split open, his guts dumping to the floor, his cock hard, wanting, his mouth and ass violated.
He fell to his knees and retched again, throwing up nothing more than bile into the toilet. When the convulsions passed, Dean stood, shaking as he moved again to the sink, avoiding the mirror now as he rinsed his mouth.
He remembered hell. He remembered dying and the endless fall. He remembered the pain and torment. He didn't remember anything past it. Clearly this wasn't hell.
Somehow he'd gotten loose. Sam had found a way.
Dean shook his head, stepping back into the bedroom where Sam slept peacefully, his body splayed out over the bed, blankets pulled down to expose his long torso, one arm cast casually over his face.
It didn't feel right. Sam wouldn't be asleep if he'd just pulled Dean out of hell…unless…Dean tiptoed to the bed, touched his brother, a hand over his heart. He held his breath, afraid he'd find Sam cold, dead…but he was warm, his heart beating up at him as Sam shifted in his sleep.
"'S okay Dean…go back to sleep." Sam mumbled, pushing Dean's hand away. "You'll remember in the morning." Sam turned on his side, shutting Dean out and leaving him to stand alone in a room that was too small, and getting smaller the more he stood there.
He was free.
The air in the room was stale, stifling. It smelled of sweat and fear and old blood. Dean swallowed and rubbed his hands over his skin. It was too cold. Too close. He needed air. Needed to feel the fresh air in his lungs.
He opened the door, a balmy southern night greeted him, beckoning him like a lover, wrapping moist wind around his waist, tugging him out into the night.
The Impala sat in front of the door, shining under the single streetlight. He reached out to touch her, his hand trembling as he slid it up over her hood with reverence. "God I missed you."
He stood next to the car, breathing in the night air, the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle heavy. The silence stretched out around him, only the distant sound of the wind and the casual hum of the neon light filling the air. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, vaguely realizing he is only wearing thin, worn boxers that hang from his thin hips. He considered going back inside for pants, but the warmth of the car behind him was comforting and he tilted his head back against the roof and looked up into the dark sky. No stars or moon, no clouds…just an endless expanse of black stretched out above him.
There was a low moan. At first Dean wasn't sure he heard it, the sound slid in under the hum and breeze and rose slowly like a blush up under his skin. It was a familiar sound…intimate and it raised the hair on his arms and neck. He stood upright, turning toward it…toward the dark alley between buildings where the streetlight spilled over dirty concrete and broken glass but didn't penetrate the shadows.
He stepped on bare feet away from the car, drawn by the sound, by guttural noises and whispers. He inched through the dark, hugging the wall of the building until he could see, leaning around a corner to find the source.
Two men in the dark. One leaned against a dirty wall, tall and lean, his head tilted back into the brick, his hands lost in the dark hair of the other who knelt before him. The sounds came from the one on his knees, his mouth full of cock as he moaned, his body writhing as if the act of sucking this other man's cock were orgasmic for him too.
Dean started when he realized he was being watched. His eyes moved up to the standing man…and everything narrowed down. "Alistair."
His smile was slow, his eyes glowing in the dark. The man on his knees looked up, then slowly turned. Dean stared, stumbled though he was sure he wasn't moving.
"Dean."
He stood, casually wiping dirt and bits of glass from his knees. He took two steps toward Dean.
"Dad." Dean's chest constricted as the air was pulled from his lungs, then his father was pulling him into a tight hug. It was impossible. His father was gone. Dead. Dean had burned the body. "Dad?"
His father held him at arm's length, looking over him. "You look rough, Son."
"No. No." Dean looked over his father's shoulder to where Alistair watched them, a vague smile on his lips. He tried to step back, to go back to the car, to the room, to Sam…back to the place where he was free.
"It's okay, Dean." His father's voice was soothing, real and he wanted it to be true…he wanted to let it be okay, to let it be his father…wanted to fold up into his arms and let his father comfort away the memories of hell.
"Dad. I—" He looked at his father's face and his eyes flooded with black. Dean pulled away, almost succeeding but fingers dug deep into his shoulders, breaking skin as his father hauled him into the alley, turning until Dean was stuck between them, Alistair's hands joining his father's on his skin, holding Dean's hips tight while his father closed the space between them, his face looming over him.
Blood flowed down Dean's arms. His father leaned in, licked up Dean's arms, then offered his tongue to Alistair. Dean held his breath as they kissed over his shoulder.
"No." Dean's voice whined out of him, his knees failing. This couldn't be real…he was free…Sam freed him. His father's face was rough, brushing across Dean's face. Dean squirmed, but he was held firm between them, his father's lips bruising as they took Dean's, his tongue pushing into Dean's mouth.
"My boy." He was petting over Dean, his hands, his lips touching Dean.
"Dad." Dean's voice broke as a big hand delved inside his boxers, closed around his betraying cock, working over it while Alistair chuckled in Dean's ear.
"You won't ever escape me, boy." Alistair's voice burned against his skin as Dean's body jerked up into his father's hand.
"Be a good boy for Daddy, Dean." His father licked his lips, twisting his hand around Dean's cock until Dean was coming, yelling, but coming and falling harder against Alistair's lean body.
Dean watched his father lift his come covered hand, lick it clean, and once more leaned in to offer his tongue to Alistair. Dean started sliding, falling as they kissed, tongues wrestling as the come moved from mouth to mouth, his father moaning like a whore.
"Shh….Dean…it's okay…it's okay."
Dean isn't breathing, can't make the air move. Sam's hand rubs over his chest, his body presses up against Dean's back, holding him while he whispers reassuring words. "Right here, Dean."
"Sam?" He forces the word out and drags air in, pulling away. Sam follows him, still whispering, still rubbing his chest.
"Nightmares." Sam says softly.
Dean jerks his body away from Sam, his hands rubbing over his skin…the horrible scars are gone, his skin is pale and no more marked than as if he had never…He runs for the bathroom, blinking in the sudden light. His face is normal, his eyes a little dark, the black circles under them testifying a lack of sleep, but no signs of the torture, the endless torment. He feels over his face, half expecting the scars and scabs to return if he just looks hard enough.
Sam appears behind him, leaning on the door frame, rubbing at his eyes blearily. "They're getting worse."
"What?" Dean blinks, looks up at his brother in the mirror.
"The nightmares. The closer we get, the worse they are."
"Nightmares?" Dean shakes his head. No. It was no dream. If anything was a dream it was this. Hell, the heat, the fire, the smell, the burn, the blades, the demons, Alistair…It was real. Very real. He knows it was real. "Closer we get?" He turns, his back to the lying face in the mirror, his hands bracing on the sink to keep him from sinking to the floor. "How?" He wants to shake Sam, wants to demand answers…but he remembers the last time he thought he'd gotten out. He remembers his father's eyes flooding with black. He remembers Alistair and the blood and the come.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe. "Tell me Sam, how did I get out?"
Sam scowls at him. "It was just a dream, Dean. We still have two days until the deadline."
Dean knows better. "No, Sam…no…I was…was there." His skin remembers…the feeling of blood, flesh ripping open…howls of pain that seem inhuman but he knows are coming from his mouth…Alistair laughing as he fucks Dean into oblivion. "This is just a trick…this is…him."
Sam reaches for him, his big hand on Dean's shoulder…the shoulder Dean knows was ruined over and over again by the meat hook Alistair used to haul him out to the rack. Dean shivers.
"Come to bed Dean. Sleep a while. In the morning we'll see if Bobby's found anything."
Sam is so convinced, so positive and warm. His hand is solid. His eyes stay the same beautiful green as they look into Dean, filled with worry, fear, concern. Dean can't help but want to believe him. They still had time. Two days. It was all a dream. It was all a horrible dream.
Dean's hands tremble as Sam slides his hand down his arm, hooking his fingers in Dean's and tugging, whispering soft words that sound like home, like what home is supposed to sound like with "come on" and "love you" and "safe" and Dean lets it lull him, lets it lead him to the one bed, all mussed and tousled from where they've laid before he woke them.
The sheets are cool against his skin. Dean lets Sam lay him down, and Sam smiles at him, though the worry and fear is still there in his eyes. He turns off the light and slides into bed, pulls Dean to him, anchoring him there in the bed with those big hands on Dean's chest. Solid, real. Sam. It was all for Sam anyway.
He was nothing without his brother.
"It's okay, Dean." Sam murmurs, his breath hot on Dean's skin. His hands rub over Dean's chest. His legs brush against Dean's legs and his lips moved over the skin of his neck as he whispers.
It's soft and comfortable…warm…
Dean's eyes drift closed and he lets himself relax against his brother, lets himself believe. Two days. Sam's breathing is deep and rhythmic. Dean guides one of his brother's hands to his lips, kissing it lightly. He'd never say it in front of Sam, not when Sam could hear him, not when Sam could know how terrified he is. "Love you Sammy."
"Sam?"
The dark shifted, turned upside down and dropped him six feet to the hard, rocky ground.
"Sam?"
"Isn't that sweet? He wants his brother." Familiar voices…soon to be followed by familiar hands and familiar teeth…demons, Alistair's demons.
"No." Dean curled up tight as he could, knowing what came next. "Sam!"
Pain lanced through his shoulder, flesh ripping open, blood spurting up around him, over his face as the point of the hook emerged out of his shoulder and the first jerk made him involuntarily uncurl. His arms flailed out around him for something, anything to hold onto.
Hands, claws tore at him as he was dragged, ripping the illusion of clothes from his skin, ripping gashes into the illusion of skin until his voice boomed out and scattered the minions.
Alistair squatted next to Dean in his own illusion, grinning. "Good morning Dean. Are you ready to start again?"
His hand fell possessively on Dean's cock and it was instantly hard. It was one of the first things he'd learned here. Dean controlled nothing but his own determination not to succumb, not to give in. He owned nothing but his response to the question asked of him every time this started and every time it stopped.
"Or are you ready to submit?" Alistair stroked Dean's cock lazily, looking down at him with this paternal expression, as if he cared about Dean. "Just say the word, Dean…it gets so much easier once you give in…the pleasure I can offer you…oh, Dean…you have no idea."
"Sam." Dean closed his eyes, clinging to the memory of Sam's hands, the solid feeling of his arms around Dean, holding him. Of course, it was an illusion, like so much was here.
"Your brother isn't going to save you Dean." Alistair's mouth was on his ear. "Soon, he'll be joining you."
"No." Dean thrashed, screaming as the hook in his shoulder dragged him, bones cracking, blood oozing…up onto the rack. Hands positioned him, nails digging into his skin as they turned him, lifted his arms over his head and chained them down, legs spread until his hips hurt, ankles closed up in metal restraints…so tight his feet went cold and dead.
Alistair's hand ghosted down his body, then Dean felt it rest against his flesh, on his side, just above the hip. It was warm as it sat there, unmoving, waiting…Dean held his breath…the pain would start…and it would go on forever…until he was dumped from the rack and dragged back into the dark, into the dreams, only to wake up, his skin restored, the illusion of his body perfect so they could begin again.
Fingers pressed into his skin, pressure…then the sharp bite as the skin gave way, the warm flush as blood rushed there and out of him, filling the air with that coppery smell. His long fingers pushed into Dean, until his hand was inside, grabbing, pulling.
Dean's hands fisted and released in the chains, his voice lost in the roar of voices and screams as all around them other souls lay on other racks, their flesh ripped open, their throats torn and bloody, their bodies violated in the most obscene ways.
Knives or nails or razors carved skin from his back, peeling him open, exposing his spine, his organs.
"Sam." Dean closed his eyes and tried to picture his brother. This was for him. He was here so that Sam could be free, could live out his life. Sam's face wobbled in his mind as something invaded him…a hand moving up his ass to meet the one reaching down from inside his back. "Sam."
"It can all be over." Dean lost Sam in the haze of pain and darkness. "I can show you how good it feels, Dean…show you what it feels like to orgasm from the taste of blood and fear." Alistair's voice was alive inside him, burning away the memories of anything outside hell…Sam shriveled up and fell to ash. "All you have to do is submit. Step down off the rack, pick up the knife…so simple, so easy…"
"Please." Dean whispered the word, feeling it scrape out of his throat and into the fetid air.
Alistair leaned in, his breath putrid, his bloody hand fisting in Dean's hair to pull his head up. "What is that, boy?"
"Please." He couldn't stop himself. Tears burned against his skin. "Please."
"Please what, Dean?" Alistair asked, the words dripping with false concern.
Dean wanted to shake his head, wanted to pull away, wanted to offer up some defiance, but his will was fading, his bravado burned and stripped away. "Sam." It was little more than a whisper.
Alistair's smile was frightening. "You want Sam? You want your brother?"
A hand circled around his cock, yanking hard. Dean's body convulsed and he screamed, "Sam!"
Fire.
He can taste sweet, cool air, but only behind the acrid bite of the smoke.
He's laying down, on a pyre…burning.
Just like they burned their father. Dean sits up fast, pulling at the confining wrappings that he knows are soaked in lighter fluid and laced with salt. A proper Winchester send off…He has to let Sam know he's there…that he isn't dead.
"Sam!"
Dean manages to free one hand and tears at the fabric around his face. The fire surrounds him, flames already licking to the top of the pyre.
"Sam!"
He can't see past the flames, the red heat making everything beyond it black. He struggles, pulling away as the fire reaches for him, throwing himself off the stacked wood, rolling into the dirt to put out the flames.
"Sam!"
It seems to take forever to get out of the shroud, and when he does he discovers he's naked, but he's out…somehow…he only remembers screaming Sam's name over and over…only recalls falling and falling and then suddenly waking up here in the fire.
"Sam!"
He figures since he was burning, he must have died before Sam found a way…but then why would Sam burn his body?
"Sam!"
Shadows up ahead of him move, voices soft on the night breeze. Dean fights through the dark, stopping when the Impala's headlights light up a clearing and there, in the glare, is Sam, half way to naked himself.
The other shadow turns, a smile breaking over his face. "Dad?"
Dean is confused. Their father was dead. Why was he here? Why was his hand on Sam's bare hip? Why was he pulling Sam in and kissing him?
Dean shakes his head to quell the buzzing and dizzying questions. "What?"
Sam holds out his hand, and Dean moves to him, like he can't not go to Sam when he calls for him. Sam's mouth is hot and tastes like smoke as he kisses Dean. "Sam?" He's breathless and uncertain…dreaming…he must be dreaming.
"I told you he'd come." Sam says softly. His hands curl around Dean's hip possessively, guiding him between Sam and his father. Lips press to his, a tongue sliding over them until he opens his mouth, distracted by the scruff of his father's beard on his neck as his lips touch Dean's skin too.
"Sam?"
"Shh…Dean." Sam kisses his eyes closed. His father's hands slide over his skin, pull him back against his naked chest, and Dean can feel that his chest isn't all that's naked.
"Dean." His father's voice is deep, comforting and it lulls him. "My boy. My good soldier. You take care of your brother."
"Yes sir." Dean murmurs reflexively, not even realizing his father is guiding him to his knees. John's finger pushes into Dean's mouth, opening it as Sam steps closer.
"Take your brother."
Dean pulls back as Sam's cock touches his lip, but his head only goes as far as his brother's cock. "Anything for me Dean, right?" Sam asks as he flexes his hips, his cock sliding into Dean's open mouth alongside their father's finger.
Dean gags, but doesn't fight…can't hurt Sam. Bodies close around him as they kiss above him. This can't be real…Dean tries to remember…but there's nothing…just the falling, falling…dying…burning…
"That's good Dean." Sam murmurs as they pull apart. His long fingers stroke the side of Dean's face. "I knew you'd come for me…knew you'd give yourself, sacrifice yourself…it's what you do…"
His father's hands were on his hips, pulling back, dropping Dean forward so that his neck stretched and his head fell back to keep his mouth open for his brother. Dean recognizes too late why, whimpering around the cock in his mouth as John penetrates his ass with two fingers.
"I trained you for this Dean." John says now, his fingers withdrawing as he positions himself for the long, slow fuck into his son's body. His fingers strum down Dean's spine. "This is who you are…where you belong…nothing without us…nothing…"
"Pretty though." Sam whispers, his fingers still petting along Dean's face.
Their words are soft, stinging along the tears that slip from his eyes. Nothing…anything for Sam, take care of Sam, obey Dad…give himself to the cause, to the fight, bleed, break, die…They kiss each other, but they fuck him…and he takes it…always takes it because he is nothing without them.
His vision narrows down to a spot between Sam's navel and his cock. He hears them whisper, feels their cocks, their hands…feels them…and he knows they're right, knows this is who he is…
Sam comes with a low moan, filling his mouth with heat and his father isn't far behind. They pull away, leave him on the ground, cold, alone. Footsteps take them away.
"Sam? Dad?" Dean reaches out…afraid of the dark, of being alone. Sam squats beside him, brushes a hand over his face, gentle…his smile soft.
"It's okay Dean. We'll come back when we need you."
"I need you, Sam." Dean's fingers scramble at his skin, trying to find something to hold on to. "Don't leave me alone."
His father is there now too, his smile just as tender. "You've always been alone, Son. All alone until we need you."
Dean feels the tears, feels the truth of his words and drops his eyes. "I don't want to be alone."
His father's fingers grasp his chin, tug and pull until he looks up. "You know how to make that happen." John's eyes flood with inky black. Dean starts, but can't pull away.
"Let go, Dean." Sam says. Dean looks at him, watching in horror as his eyes also go dark.
"No…"
Sam's smile seems out of place under those black eyes. "All your sacrifice, Dean…and what was it worth? Look at me…I'm everything you died to stop…you died for nothing Dean."
Hell hounds aren't gentle, not that Dean had expected them to be. They dragged him out of his skin, chewed through sinew and bone to drop him into the abyss…and he fell.
He fell forever, but it wasn't an easy descent. Rocks and glass scraped and cut as he went, tearing at the tender parts that the skin usually kept safe. Fire caressed him as he tossed and turned and fell…fell…fell…
All thought left him, all ability to think or move or breathe or feel was gone as the falling stopped and he slammed into the chaos. He blinked, his mouth open as slowly the pain started to register…broken bones, nerves cut open, raw flesh. His fingers scrabbled against nothing, trying to feel something beyond the screaming, raging fire of his blood covering him.
He almost didn't feel the first hook, through his side, yanking him until the mutilated flesh gave way. The second ate through bone as it claimed his shoulder, his arm dangling away uselessly.
A groan gurgled up out of his throat, spilling blood over his lips as he was pulled, dragged and once more he was falling, jerking on the end of the hook before he was dropped.
His body crumpled, useless, lifeless. There were two feet there…a person. Dean forced himself to look. "Hello Dean. My name is Alistair. You and I will be spending some quality time together."
He thinks maybe he's going crazy, maybe that's what hell really is.
His body isn't a body, it's just an illusion…one they fuck with, fuck over, fuck into…they tear, rip, cut, they eat him, tiny mouths biting into him…and perversely it makes him hard…makes his cock swell with need.
He never comes though…they use him, they masturbate them until he's begging, pleading for relief…but Alistair reminds him that this is hell…and if he wants relief, Dean needs to mean it, needs to succumb, give in, submit.
Dean clings to himself, to his denial, clings to a sliver of memory…stubborn, even as he's given to a swirling mass of demons to be fucked repeatedly, bruised, battered, raped, cut open and left a quivering pile of nothing covered in blood and reeking of sulfur and sex.
Gentle hands touch him, wiping the muck from him and leaving only clean, pure skin in their wake. Dean rolls to his back, opens his eyes.
John Winchester smiles at him softly. "Shh…let me…" Tenderly he cleans Dean until he can no longer feel the wounds, the blood gone. John helps him sit, lifts him, carries him to a soft bed. "Easy, Dean."
They lay together in the softness, his father's body curled around his protectively. "How much more can you take?" His father's voice is small, hurt. "I hate watching you go through this."
Dean holds his father's hand to his chest, reveling in how safe it feels, though that too is an illusion. "What else can I do?"
His father kisses over his shoulders and sighs. "I held out Dean…for years…I fought like you are now…endured the unthinkable."
Dean can feel his father's arousal against his ass. His mouth was close to Dean's ear. "No one survives, Dean. No one outlasts him. Even now he owns you, like he owns me. He can make it hurt in ways you can't imagine, or he can make it feel so very good."
John shifts, rolling them enough that his cock slipped into Dean and Dean is partly on his stomach. His father's hand slips over his hip, circling around his cock. "You've never felt the kind of orgasm that comes when you surrender Dean."
He rocks them together. "Surrender…he'll give you to me, Dean…we can be together…we can have this…" His hand strokes Dean while his words sooth him.
Dean closes his eyes and lets the feeling build, need, arousal, craving for this…for the respite, for the reward. "Please…Dad…"
"Come to me Dean. Come to me."
"Please…" Blood dripped from his lips as he pulled himself to his knees, reaching out to them.
Alistair turned, his fist in John's hair, pulling him off Alistair's cock and they both turned to look at Dean. "Please…"
But he couldn't make the words come. No more…he couldn't take any more. He dragged his reaching hand back to hold the intestines spilling out of him. "Please…"
"Please?" Alistair stopped in front of him, his cock right in Dean's face. John slid to his knees, his hands cupping to Dean's face.
"You have to say the words, boy."
Dean tried to focus his eyes on his father's face, tried to force the words out of him, shame and fear and agony warring inside him until he could barely form thought. "No more."
John's smile started small, but grew. He nodded encouragement.
"Please, no more." Dean's face burned with his shame. "I…I'll…do whatever you want."
Alistair raised an eyebrow as he considered Dean's words, then he offered his cock to Dean. It wasn't forced, it was just there, waiting. Dean looked to his father, then back at Alistair. Slowly, he licked his lips, opened his mouth.
Alistair's laughter echoed around them. John's hand reached under Dean, rubbing at his cock, his breathe hot on Dean's skin. Alistair's come was bitter with sulfur, filling Dean's mouth and forcing him to swallow, the heat of it pooling in his stomach and making his cock harder. Alistair's hand in his hair pulled his head back. "Come for me, Dean. Make yourself mine."
His whole being quivered as it started, fire in his blood, in his stomach, exploding out of him, out of his cock, into his father's hand. Dean collapsed to the ground as it ended and John stood, holding up his come filled hand to Alistair who licked and sucked his fingers clean.
"He's all yours, boy. Don't disappoint me."
Alistair snapped his fingers as he disappeared and Dean's body was whole again. His father turned to him, eyes flooding black. His smile was evil as he squatted beside Dean.
"Well then. Let's get started."
I almost never put end notes on fic, but I feel that this requires a few other notes. 1) This is not the end of this piece. This is where I take a break from this piece. 2) The next piece might ultimately be even darker, as it will deal with the ten years Dean spends in hell as his father's apprentice. 3) The last piece might actually end up being multiple pieces as it is beginning to look as though I will be re-writing season 4 to date as this would have changed it...I won't go into details...hopefully, that is where we will get at least a little bit of comfort and such for the poor boy. Also, for those playing the home game, the title is Latin. It means "Falling into Nothing".
