Ficlet: Disintegration (SPN, Dean-centric), R
Title: Disintegration
Fandom/Pairing: Dean-centric gen(ish), various implied noncon
Rating/Warnings: Hard R. Torture. Very dark content.
Summary: After thirty years of torture in Hell, Dean stands up.
Note: Written for the lovely fleshflutter for More Joy Day with love.
Disintegration
Dean stood up.
He turned around and looked at his table. Examined its glossy-smooth surface for any sign of the things they'd done to him. Looked for scratches where his nails had dug into the smooth surface, stains where he'd been bled over and over.
There wasn't anything; the bright yellow surface was flawless. "What the hell is that made of, Formica?"
"It's not really a table. One day, if you're good - and you, my friend, will be very, very good - you'll see it for what it really is." Alastair's white eyes met his, his gaze intimate, challenging.
"A Brady family reject?" He grinned at his demon, his best friend, sharing the sarcasm he hadn't been able to muster for years - with the only one whose torture he had grown to understand was a special kind of love.
Alastair laughed, a sibilant, jagged sound of melted hate that would have been lost on mortal ears. It was soul music to Dean.
But then silence fell, and Dean shifted his balance from side to side, not quite sure what to do with limbs that were intact, skin not shredded, bones not splintered. He carefully counted his fingers: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. A complete set. He began to count again, just to make sure.
"Time to earn your keep," Alastair singsonged, interrupting him, making him lose count. "It's not too late to back out - you can still go back to your table."
Dean stared at it. Thirty years, and he hadn't even left a mark.
He shook his head.
"Bring her in, boys," Alastair called. A long, slow scratching sound, and something was clawing its way in through the fabric of the Void. A long tear ripped open in a wall that did not truly exist.
Dean looked down, away from the slit and the things that were pushing their way through. They'd made him watch before; he'd gone through whole weeks of torture that were no more than that: eyelids torn off, being forced to watch the obscene violation of natural space, over and over.
He heard a soft, almost human sniffling interspersed with fragments of indiscernible speech. The slap of flesh against the table - his table - and the familiar sound of restraints clicking shut told him it was safe to look again. Shuffling closer, he looked at his first victim, wondering whether he would feel pity or horror or sadness - or whether he would feel nothing at all.
She was beautiful, with long, dark hair and the double black eyes of a young demon, naked skin unmarked, flawless. Hand shaking, he gently stroked one tense thigh as he leaned in more closely and breathed in her scent. Fear and musk hid beneath a strong, complicated jasmine perfume that stirred something in his memory, reminded him of being alive.
"Bela." The word left his mouth before he'd realized he knew her.
"Dean." She wiggled on the table in false fear and seduction and submission, licking her lips. "You're not going to hurt me, are you Dean?"
Had they had sex, before? Had they been in love? He wasn't sure; life seemed very far away, unreal. His hand moved up her thigh, slipping in between her legs. She was already wet for him.
"Remember what I've taught you, Dean. Remember your very first lesson," Alastair whispered in his ear. "Make me proud, boy."
Dean giggled. He remembered his lessons, every single one of them, but especially the first: rape of the mind could be so much worse than rape of the body.
All things being equal, which they never were.
"You should be so lucky," he said to Bela, removing his hand from her skin as though from something unutterably foul.
The Void would respond to him, he knew. It would respond to anyone not strapped down to the table. He could do things to her he once would not have been able to imagine.
Dean slipped into Bela's mind, grabbed an image and concentrated, changing the reality of his own form to match. His hair became gray; his clothes became a dated but expensive suit, complete with power tie.
"Daddy's missed you, sweetheart."
Fandom/Pairing: Dean-centric gen(ish), various implied noncon
Rating/Warnings: Hard R. Torture. Very dark content.
Summary: After thirty years of torture in Hell, Dean stands up.
Note: Written for the lovely fleshflutter for More Joy Day with love.
Disintegration
Dean stood up.
He turned around and looked at his table. Examined its glossy-smooth surface for any sign of the things they'd done to him. Looked for scratches where his nails had dug into the smooth surface, stains where he'd been bled over and over.
There wasn't anything; the bright yellow surface was flawless. "What the hell is that made of, Formica?"
"It's not really a table. One day, if you're good - and you, my friend, will be very, very good - you'll see it for what it really is." Alastair's white eyes met his, his gaze intimate, challenging.
"A Brady family reject?" He grinned at his demon, his best friend, sharing the sarcasm he hadn't been able to muster for years - with the only one whose torture he had grown to understand was a special kind of love.
Alastair laughed, a sibilant, jagged sound of melted hate that would have been lost on mortal ears. It was soul music to Dean.
But then silence fell, and Dean shifted his balance from side to side, not quite sure what to do with limbs that were intact, skin not shredded, bones not splintered. He carefully counted his fingers: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. A complete set. He began to count again, just to make sure.
"Time to earn your keep," Alastair singsonged, interrupting him, making him lose count. "It's not too late to back out - you can still go back to your table."
Dean stared at it. Thirty years, and he hadn't even left a mark.
He shook his head.
"Bring her in, boys," Alastair called. A long, slow scratching sound, and something was clawing its way in through the fabric of the Void. A long tear ripped open in a wall that did not truly exist.
Dean looked down, away from the slit and the things that were pushing their way through. They'd made him watch before; he'd gone through whole weeks of torture that were no more than that: eyelids torn off, being forced to watch the obscene violation of natural space, over and over.
He heard a soft, almost human sniffling interspersed with fragments of indiscernible speech. The slap of flesh against the table - his table - and the familiar sound of restraints clicking shut told him it was safe to look again. Shuffling closer, he looked at his first victim, wondering whether he would feel pity or horror or sadness - or whether he would feel nothing at all.
She was beautiful, with long, dark hair and the double black eyes of a young demon, naked skin unmarked, flawless. Hand shaking, he gently stroked one tense thigh as he leaned in more closely and breathed in her scent. Fear and musk hid beneath a strong, complicated jasmine perfume that stirred something in his memory, reminded him of being alive.
"Bela." The word left his mouth before he'd realized he knew her.
"Dean." She wiggled on the table in false fear and seduction and submission, licking her lips. "You're not going to hurt me, are you Dean?"
Had they had sex, before? Had they been in love? He wasn't sure; life seemed very far away, unreal. His hand moved up her thigh, slipping in between her legs. She was already wet for him.
"Remember what I've taught you, Dean. Remember your very first lesson," Alastair whispered in his ear. "Make me proud, boy."
Dean giggled. He remembered his lessons, every single one of them, but especially the first: rape of the mind could be so much worse than rape of the body.
All things being equal, which they never were.
"You should be so lucky," he said to Bela, removing his hand from her skin as though from something unutterably foul.
The Void would respond to him, he knew. It would respond to anyone not strapped down to the table. He could do things to her he once would not have been able to imagine.
Dean slipped into Bela's mind, grabbed an image and concentrated, changing the reality of his own form to match. His hair became gray; his clothes became a dated but expensive suit, complete with power tie.
"Daddy's missed you, sweetheart."