fic: like a wrecking ball through your mind
Title: like a wrecking ball through your mind
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam, Dean/Alastair, slight Dean/Bela
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: torture, self-harm, asphyxiation/breath play, rough sex, dark subject matter.
Summary: Every time he says your name as a question you wonder if this is going to be the last question, the last conversation - if he's going to figure out how twisted you are, how much of you is still down in the pit.
Notes: 1,783 words. Second person pov (Dean's), because I love writing it so. Three separate fills written for blindfold_spn, combined into one. Main title from Interpol. Thanks to getyourguns for the beta.
i. the first cut
Her arms stretched high above her and legs pinned in an obscenely spread-eagle fashion, Bela Talbot looks nothing like the arrogant bitch you once knew up top. For a few minutes, you watch her from afar, see how her shoulders hunch and her eyes track every demon that walks by. Even naked, bloody, and exhausted, there's still an air about her that you can't wait to break.
Alastair whispers a few pointers in your ear before he hands you his favorite knife, patting you on the ass and sending you on your merry way. For a brief moment you wonder what the fuck you're doing, but then you look down at the knife in your hands and remember how it felt as Alastair sliced through your intestine, and it doesn't take much to put one foot in front of the other.
Her eyes track you like they track every other soul that passes by her, but you see the glimmer of recognition in them when you step out of the shadows. Her mouth forms your name but she can't actually say it; you'd watched Alastair rip out her vocal cords hours earlier. (When he'd asked you how you wanted her, you couldn't decide if you'd rather hear her scream or not so he'd made the choice for you.) She shivers when you step close and tears slide down her face. Fuck it, you think, and glance back to where Alastair is lurking from the shadows, silently asking for him to return Bela’s voice. You hear him sigh grandly, and then Bela is gasping your name.
You don't have pity, not anymore, but as she's looking at you and blubbering an apology for things she did you barely remember. You feel the slightest spark of disappointment that this is where the two of you have ended up.
"Hello, Bela," you finally say, and watch as her gaze drifts down to the knife in your hand, already covered with her dried blood from when Alastair played earlier.
"Dean," she pleads. You step closer to her, brush her hair out of her face. "Please," she says, as your hand slides down to her waist, then past it.
She screams, and it becomes your guide. A whimper means push harder, slice deeper; a gurgle means you've cut too deep. A good old scream though, the type schoolgirls give in haunted houses, means you're right on target. After awhile she even stops tracking you as you circle around her, dragging Alastair's favorite knife along her curves, between her breast and down her hipbone, nicking the sensitive flesh as you go. (Alastair's favorite knife is now yours as well.)
ii. take a slice
He tries to help you, you know he really does. He's always watching you like he’s waiting for you to slip up; waiting for you to speak, waiting for something, anything, remnants of the brother he once knew to smile and laugh and fuck with the best of them. You know better though. That brother's back in the pit and he's stuck with you, this shell with burn marks on its wrists and long snaking scars on its thighs.
He tries so hard some days. "Dean," he'll say, voice calling to you through the bathroom door you're cowering behind. His voice wavers when he speaks. "Come on, pizza's here. This one has those peppers on it you like." He doesn't leave you alone often anymore, and those peppers you once liked have become trivial, motel after motel of ordered-in food. When you don't respond, he calls out again, more demanding this time, "Dean, come eat."
Your hand shakes while you run water over the fresh ribbon of blood trickling down your arm. You've used up the last of the bandages Sam bought last week, taped to your hipbone where you pressed too hard, first time with an unfamiliar weapon (Sam takes them away soon as he finds them, but you always find more).
The bleeding slows as your world starts to sway, and you rest your other arm on the stained porcelain sink, old faded etches of cuts long past made glaring up you as you steady yourself. "Be there in a second," you force out, buying that extra ten seconds before you know Sam's going to come pounding on the thin door, demanding to be let in.
When you open the door, his face looks up at you, concern and disappointment both passing over it quickly before he glances back down at the pizza. There's two pieces of it missing already. You clear your throat. "Pizza's good then?" He nods as you reach for a piece with your working arm, the other one hanging stiffly at your side, probably still a little pink since you'd been in a hurry.
He tracks your every move until you sit on the bed next to him, forcing him to scoot over slightly so the pizza doesn't slide off the box and onto the bedspread. "Not bad," you mumble after taking a huge bite of the slightly cold slice, trying to hold on to that façade, but he's not dumb and most days you're surprised he even allows you to take a shit with the door closed.
When there's only two pieces of pizza left and the CSI rerun you've both been halfheartedly watching ends, Sam sighs loudly and you brace yourself for what come next. "Do I need to buy more bandages tomorrow?" he asks instead, and you're startled by the question so you turn to face him straight on and catch him staring at that arm. It started bleeding again where you rubbed it the wrong way against the bedspread. You look from your arm to him and back down to it and you wish you could feel guilty, feel something under the weight of his stare as it bores into you. Instead you nod.
iii. it's always sweeter in the end
"Dean-o," Alastair would sing while long, bony fingers wrapped around your neck and squeezed. Or around your wrist, your thigh, sometimes around your cock. Those were the best times. "Speak for me, Dean," he'd say, well fucking aware that the only sounds you could make were gasps and pants, sometimes in pain, sometimes... not. You got used to his hands, got used to him. If pressed, you might have even admitted to him that you'd enjoyed it, once you got off the rack and started using your own hands for the same things. But your hands could never as good as his.
"Dean?" Sam asks, looking up at you from crotch level with his hair over his eyes, one hand spread across your stomach, other one wrapped around your dick, lazily stroking up and down. His hands are similar to Alastair's - long finger and big knuckles - but they're rough on the tips where Alastair's were smooth, tan where the demon's were pale. "You with me?" he asks.
You nod. "Harder," you rasp out, pretending your throat's scratchy from Alastair's hands, your breathing unsteady.
Alastair would start slow, superficial. He'd make a slice, sometimes two. Sometimes big enough for a hand to fit through, but sometimes he'd make one small on purpose only to force it bigger. He’d wiggle a finger in and then another, stretching you open. He really loved stretching all your holes open. Secretly, and sometimes not so, you really loved it too.
Sam's rough as he fucks you, manhandles you around like you're nothing - flips you over and pulls you up on your knees, fucking into you full throttle. You've changed since going to hell, of course, but so has he. He’s gained another sixty pounds on you. You feel like he towers over you all the time, and it's good, you like him in control. But it's not always enough. "Harder," you repeat.
Sam pauses behind you and for a moment the world falls out, you think maybe you've pushed too far, blurred that line, please don't stop now, Sam, I'll do anything, anything at all on the tip of your tongue. But then he starts thrusting again, entire strength of his muscular body rippling along with him. His hands clench the sheets around yours. You picture his fingers red up to the knuckles with your blood, then push back up to him, meeting him thrust for thrust. Underneath your knees start shaking, weakening under the combined weight.
Alastair would've laughed at you now, back when you first met each other. "Oh, Dean-o," he'd have said in that sing-song voice of his, "Weak in the knees? You ain't seen nothing yet." And then you would've ended up on your knees for days - or, one time, a full year - with his hands clenched around your head, forcing his dick down your throat again and again.
Sam grunts behind you, speeds up his pace like he's getting close to the finish. Fuck it, you think, reaching for one of his hands and pulling it up to you. It forces him to shift his weight and his pace falters. "Dean?" Every time he says your name as a question you wonder if this is going to be the last question, the last conversation - if he's going to figure out how twisted you are, how much of you is still down in the pit. You're tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You pull his hand up around your throat, feel his fingers flex and twitch around your racing pulse. He starts to say your name again, but you shake your head, cut him off. He stills and you hold your breath. You wish he was more of a talker during sex, missing the constant narration Alastair used to give. "Such a sweet hole," he'd say, "such a pretty neck, smooth skin." Sam fucks in grunts and monosyllabic words.
"Do it," you whisper, half-hoping he won't hear you, afraid you've pushed too far. His hand moves then, one finger at a time wrapping around your neck slowly, and then he starts thrusting again, hand tightening with each push. You rock back into him best you can, his hand holding your head up like a noose, the world going black around the edges. You hope, maybe, that you'll pass out as you come, but he pulls his hand off at the last minute while you come together and the world rushes back in blurry Technicolor. You rasp out a thank you as he pulls out and rolls to the side of you on the bed and your knees finally collapse. Neither of you mention how Alastair's name slipped through your lips as you came.
Prompts:
1. "The first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch...that was the first seal." Bela is that girl on the table. And for a brief, stupid moment, she thought he was here to save her (and maybe he lets her think that for a little while longer before getting to work.)
2. I'm actually not looking for a 'healing cock' scenario, although if you want to take it in that direction, I'm sure I'd love that too. What I was thinking was the more realistic scenario, where Dean is screwed up to the point that there isn't much Sam can do to help him. But he's a good little brother, so he's going to try his best.
3. Hand!kink: Dean is back from Hell, and now the only way Dean can get off is to imagine that Sam is Alastair, with particular focus on the hands...Alastair's fingers were long and sharp and knew Dean inside and out, guts included, were oh so good at tweaking Dean's nerves just so...Sam's hands are huge, but they don't slice him open, and Dean wants more. Bonus if Sam gets a little freaked by Dean's hunger, more bonus if Dean is a little insane.
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam, Dean/Alastair, slight Dean/Bela
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: torture, self-harm, asphyxiation/breath play, rough sex, dark subject matter.
Summary: Every time he says your name as a question you wonder if this is going to be the last question, the last conversation - if he's going to figure out how twisted you are, how much of you is still down in the pit.
Notes: 1,783 words. Second person pov (Dean's), because I love writing it so. Three separate fills written for blindfold_spn, combined into one. Main title from Interpol. Thanks to getyourguns for the beta.
i. the first cut
Her arms stretched high above her and legs pinned in an obscenely spread-eagle fashion, Bela Talbot looks nothing like the arrogant bitch you once knew up top. For a few minutes, you watch her from afar, see how her shoulders hunch and her eyes track every demon that walks by. Even naked, bloody, and exhausted, there's still an air about her that you can't wait to break.
Alastair whispers a few pointers in your ear before he hands you his favorite knife, patting you on the ass and sending you on your merry way. For a brief moment you wonder what the fuck you're doing, but then you look down at the knife in your hands and remember how it felt as Alastair sliced through your intestine, and it doesn't take much to put one foot in front of the other.
Her eyes track you like they track every other soul that passes by her, but you see the glimmer of recognition in them when you step out of the shadows. Her mouth forms your name but she can't actually say it; you'd watched Alastair rip out her vocal cords hours earlier. (When he'd asked you how you wanted her, you couldn't decide if you'd rather hear her scream or not so he'd made the choice for you.) She shivers when you step close and tears slide down her face. Fuck it, you think, and glance back to where Alastair is lurking from the shadows, silently asking for him to return Bela’s voice. You hear him sigh grandly, and then Bela is gasping your name.
You don't have pity, not anymore, but as she's looking at you and blubbering an apology for things she did you barely remember. You feel the slightest spark of disappointment that this is where the two of you have ended up.
"Hello, Bela," you finally say, and watch as her gaze drifts down to the knife in your hand, already covered with her dried blood from when Alastair played earlier.
"Dean," she pleads. You step closer to her, brush her hair out of her face. "Please," she says, as your hand slides down to her waist, then past it.
She screams, and it becomes your guide. A whimper means push harder, slice deeper; a gurgle means you've cut too deep. A good old scream though, the type schoolgirls give in haunted houses, means you're right on target. After awhile she even stops tracking you as you circle around her, dragging Alastair's favorite knife along her curves, between her breast and down her hipbone, nicking the sensitive flesh as you go. (Alastair's favorite knife is now yours as well.)
ii. take a slice
He tries to help you, you know he really does. He's always watching you like he’s waiting for you to slip up; waiting for you to speak, waiting for something, anything, remnants of the brother he once knew to smile and laugh and fuck with the best of them. You know better though. That brother's back in the pit and he's stuck with you, this shell with burn marks on its wrists and long snaking scars on its thighs.
He tries so hard some days. "Dean," he'll say, voice calling to you through the bathroom door you're cowering behind. His voice wavers when he speaks. "Come on, pizza's here. This one has those peppers on it you like." He doesn't leave you alone often anymore, and those peppers you once liked have become trivial, motel after motel of ordered-in food. When you don't respond, he calls out again, more demanding this time, "Dean, come eat."
Your hand shakes while you run water over the fresh ribbon of blood trickling down your arm. You've used up the last of the bandages Sam bought last week, taped to your hipbone where you pressed too hard, first time with an unfamiliar weapon (Sam takes them away soon as he finds them, but you always find more).
The bleeding slows as your world starts to sway, and you rest your other arm on the stained porcelain sink, old faded etches of cuts long past made glaring up you as you steady yourself. "Be there in a second," you force out, buying that extra ten seconds before you know Sam's going to come pounding on the thin door, demanding to be let in.
When you open the door, his face looks up at you, concern and disappointment both passing over it quickly before he glances back down at the pizza. There's two pieces of it missing already. You clear your throat. "Pizza's good then?" He nods as you reach for a piece with your working arm, the other one hanging stiffly at your side, probably still a little pink since you'd been in a hurry.
He tracks your every move until you sit on the bed next to him, forcing him to scoot over slightly so the pizza doesn't slide off the box and onto the bedspread. "Not bad," you mumble after taking a huge bite of the slightly cold slice, trying to hold on to that façade, but he's not dumb and most days you're surprised he even allows you to take a shit with the door closed.
When there's only two pieces of pizza left and the CSI rerun you've both been halfheartedly watching ends, Sam sighs loudly and you brace yourself for what come next. "Do I need to buy more bandages tomorrow?" he asks instead, and you're startled by the question so you turn to face him straight on and catch him staring at that arm. It started bleeding again where you rubbed it the wrong way against the bedspread. You look from your arm to him and back down to it and you wish you could feel guilty, feel something under the weight of his stare as it bores into you. Instead you nod.
iii. it's always sweeter in the end
"Dean-o," Alastair would sing while long, bony fingers wrapped around your neck and squeezed. Or around your wrist, your thigh, sometimes around your cock. Those were the best times. "Speak for me, Dean," he'd say, well fucking aware that the only sounds you could make were gasps and pants, sometimes in pain, sometimes... not. You got used to his hands, got used to him. If pressed, you might have even admitted to him that you'd enjoyed it, once you got off the rack and started using your own hands for the same things. But your hands could never as good as his.
"Dean?" Sam asks, looking up at you from crotch level with his hair over his eyes, one hand spread across your stomach, other one wrapped around your dick, lazily stroking up and down. His hands are similar to Alastair's - long finger and big knuckles - but they're rough on the tips where Alastair's were smooth, tan where the demon's were pale. "You with me?" he asks.
You nod. "Harder," you rasp out, pretending your throat's scratchy from Alastair's hands, your breathing unsteady.
Alastair would start slow, superficial. He'd make a slice, sometimes two. Sometimes big enough for a hand to fit through, but sometimes he'd make one small on purpose only to force it bigger. He’d wiggle a finger in and then another, stretching you open. He really loved stretching all your holes open. Secretly, and sometimes not so, you really loved it too.
Sam's rough as he fucks you, manhandles you around like you're nothing - flips you over and pulls you up on your knees, fucking into you full throttle. You've changed since going to hell, of course, but so has he. He’s gained another sixty pounds on you. You feel like he towers over you all the time, and it's good, you like him in control. But it's not always enough. "Harder," you repeat.
Sam pauses behind you and for a moment the world falls out, you think maybe you've pushed too far, blurred that line, please don't stop now, Sam, I'll do anything, anything at all on the tip of your tongue. But then he starts thrusting again, entire strength of his muscular body rippling along with him. His hands clench the sheets around yours. You picture his fingers red up to the knuckles with your blood, then push back up to him, meeting him thrust for thrust. Underneath your knees start shaking, weakening under the combined weight.
Alastair would've laughed at you now, back when you first met each other. "Oh, Dean-o," he'd have said in that sing-song voice of his, "Weak in the knees? You ain't seen nothing yet." And then you would've ended up on your knees for days - or, one time, a full year - with his hands clenched around your head, forcing his dick down your throat again and again.
Sam grunts behind you, speeds up his pace like he's getting close to the finish. Fuck it, you think, reaching for one of his hands and pulling it up to you. It forces him to shift his weight and his pace falters. "Dean?" Every time he says your name as a question you wonder if this is going to be the last question, the last conversation - if he's going to figure out how twisted you are, how much of you is still down in the pit. You're tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You pull his hand up around your throat, feel his fingers flex and twitch around your racing pulse. He starts to say your name again, but you shake your head, cut him off. He stills and you hold your breath. You wish he was more of a talker during sex, missing the constant narration Alastair used to give. "Such a sweet hole," he'd say, "such a pretty neck, smooth skin." Sam fucks in grunts and monosyllabic words.
"Do it," you whisper, half-hoping he won't hear you, afraid you've pushed too far. His hand moves then, one finger at a time wrapping around your neck slowly, and then he starts thrusting again, hand tightening with each push. You rock back into him best you can, his hand holding your head up like a noose, the world going black around the edges. You hope, maybe, that you'll pass out as you come, but he pulls his hand off at the last minute while you come together and the world rushes back in blurry Technicolor. You rasp out a thank you as he pulls out and rolls to the side of you on the bed and your knees finally collapse. Neither of you mention how Alastair's name slipped through your lips as you came.
Prompts:
1. "The first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch...that was the first seal." Bela is that girl on the table. And for a brief, stupid moment, she thought he was here to save her (and maybe he lets her think that for a little while longer before getting to work.)
2. I'm actually not looking for a 'healing cock' scenario, although if you want to take it in that direction, I'm sure I'd love that too. What I was thinking was the more realistic scenario, where Dean is screwed up to the point that there isn't much Sam can do to help him. But he's a good little brother, so he's going to try his best.
3. Hand!kink: Dean is back from Hell, and now the only way Dean can get off is to imagine that Sam is Alastair, with particular focus on the hands...Alastair's fingers were long and sharp and knew Dean inside and out, guts included, were oh so good at tweaking Dean's nerves just so...Sam's hands are huge, but they don't slice him open, and Dean wants more. Bonus if Sam gets a little freaked by Dean's hunger, more bonus if Dean is a little insane.