The Gift 1/5
Title: The Gift
Pairings: Alastair/Dean, Meg/Dean, Demons/Dean, Sam/Dean, Hellhounds/Dean
Rating: NC/17
Genre: Slash, AU
Word Count: About 22,000
Summary: The Boy King is coming. Hell prepares the perfect gift to offer him on his arrival.
Warnings: non-con, dub-con, torture, cbt, oral sex, anal sex, bestiality, knotting.
A/N: Written for the
slaveexchange for the prompt: Alastair trains Dean for Sam.
This fic was meant to be done by now, but it just won't stop. I have one more chapter to work on, but the end is finished so it all should be posted by early next week. My artist suffered a debilitating chicken coop related accident over the holidays so the art is postponed for a bit also. I'll put up a Masterpost when everything is where it should be, but I wanted to post at least something on time. Sorry OP!
Additional A/N: This is AU in that there are no angels, no vessels, just Sam as Hell's new king.
Many thanks to my betas, the lovely smidgeson who caught a multitude of errors and the talented lylithj2 without whom Dean would never have had his dirty talking skills. Thanks so much, ladies!
Word comes down in the months before the deal comes to its fruition. He’s coming. We’ve got him. He’ll bring us everything we’ve been waiting for. Hell holds its collective breath as the time of death nears. The boy king’s brother will be theirs to break to what they hope is his will.
There’s very little to look forward to in the pit, and Dean Winchester’s imminent arrival has created anticipation like none the demons have ever known. All want him on their racks, but the higher-ups won’t give him to just anyone; this sort of breaking requires a master’s touch. There are four demons on the short list to train the boy king’s brother, but by the time the hell hounds begin their work only one remains. Alastair stokes his fires and strops his blades, the competition spattered over the walls of his workroom.
There’s an offer made to each soul the moment they appear; impaled upon their respective racks. Some are craven enough to accept immediately. Most hold out for a few days, maybe a month. The truly stubborn, righteous or insane might last a year. John Winchester is legend in the pit for the hundred years he held strong before managing to actually escape his torment. Winchester’s eldest will be the first exception. How long he would have held out before picking up a knife will have to remain the stuff of arguments. Torture or be tortured will never be a choice he’s given.
As Dean draws his last, agonized breath above, Alastair hones his final blade to a razor’s edge then hangs it from a peg on the wall. A place for everything and everything in its place: Alastair hates a cluttered workroom. He’s impatient for Dean to take his place and his fingers drum irritably on the empty wooden frame that will be Dean’s home for however long it takes for him to accept the offer he is made. Alastair jerks on the manacles in the four corners of the box though he knows they won’t give way. Dean Winchester won’t be his first rodeo, and the demon growls at the image that thought generates. He closes his eyes and watches his newest project, dangling from meat hooks, suspended in the void. Eventually, he stops looking. The meat hooks are a fine method of impaling someone, but to do it like that is too impersonal. Alastair likes to swing the hooks himself, solid flesh and bone giving way before them; feel the spray of blood as the points emerge through newly broken skin. He doesn’t stop listening though. Dean’s terrified cries are broadcast throughout the cavernous underworld and Alastair sighs contentedly. “Yes,” he thinks. “Screaming for Sam is a very good start.”
Alastair glances around the room in satisfaction and frustration. There are no more preparations to be made; now all that’s left to do is to wait. Dean’s going to be hanging in the void for the foreseeable future; alone with his fear as lightning cracks and sizzles down the chains. His screams ring in Alastair’s ears and the demon’s itching to rip someone to shreds, but this room is Dean’s and Dean’s only. With a snarl he heads for one of the less private workrooms, where the racks stretch into infinity and there are a multitude of souls to work on. That none of them are the one he craves will only make this more unpleasant for them. Determined to get what enjoyment he can from the day, Alastair grabs a mallet from the communal table and gets to work. No matter how hard he tries though, the screams of the souls in front of him can’t drown out the sweet music of Dean’s pain.
Finally...finally the day when Dean’s due to make his debut on the rack arrives. Alastair makes himself wait for hours, imagining his newest victim locked tightly into his restraints. When he can’t stand the suspense any longer, the demon makes his way into the workroom. The sight that greets him is everything he’s hoped for. Dean’s spread eagled in the wooden frame, haggard and bloody, clothes hanging in tatters over his torn flesh. His lips are chewed raw and Alastair wants to maul them further, but he forces himself to wait for that too. Ragged gasps crawl from Dean’s throat and his eyes dart everywhere, finally coming to rest on the creature standing in the doorway. He stills as Alastair approaches and those eyes are all Alastair can see at first; green and luminous and filled with pain and terror.
“What the fuck are you?” Dean rasps; voice hoarse from screaming. “The welcome wagon? It’s about fucking time. I thought you were going to leave me hanging there forever.”
Alastair stops in front of Dean and grips the other man’s chin. Dean tries to jerk away, but claws dig into his flesh, holding him still.
“What am I?” Alastair smiles nastily. “Head torturer is my job description; Alastair is my name. You can consider me the welcome wagon, because I’ve been waiting a very long time to greet you, my boy.”
“I’m not your boy, you fugly asshole,” Dean spits at the nightmare looming over him, and the demon laughs.
“That’s right you were John Winchester’s boy. Daddy made quite a name for himself in these parts, but he’s not here anymore. You’re my boy now, until I decide to pass you on to someone else. And that won’t be for a very long time, if ever. Get used to it.”
“Fuck that.” Dean tries not to shrink back as the demon lowers its head, but he can’t help the shudder that runs through his body. “Get away from me.”
“Fuck what?” Alastair smiles nastily. “Do you have a preference? It’s not possible for me to get away from you, my boy. You’re my assignment. My project, you might say. I’m going to be your companion until the time comes for me to let you go. We’ve got a lot of work to do before that moment arrives, though.” The demon gestures to the walls where his implements hang, lips curling up at the expression on Dean’s face as he takes them all in. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
There’s a table to either side of the frame Dean’s stretched out in and Alastair lays a variety of items out on each. “Most souls are given a choice here, Dean; an opportunity to step off of the rack. Not right away, of course. Nobody gets out of here without an appropriate amount of suffering.”
Dean eyes him incredulously. “Step off and do what?”
Alastair plucks a dagger from the wall and circles behind the rack. Dean’s neck twists trying to keep the demon in sight, and Alastair stops at his back, dragging the knife through the blood crusted fabric of Dean’s shirt. Dean bites back a gasp as the shirt is peeled from his body, flesh from the wounds it had been embedded in ripping free along with the fabric. Alastair presses against Dean’s bare skin, and scrapes his knife down the other man’s chest to dig into the hole the meat hook has left in his side. Dean stifles a hurt cry and attempts to jerk away from the pain, but the motion pushes him back into Alastair, who wraps an arm around Dean’s waist, holding him still. As the knife tunnels into Dean’s wound, hot blood begins to flow over the demon’s knuckles. The arm that’s keeping Dean immobilized begins to slide up and down, razor sharp nails digging furrows through Dean’s skin.
“Let me go, you asshole,” Dean pants, but the demon just laughs and bares his fangs, gnawing deep into the muscles of Dean’s shoulder. Dean screams between locked jaws and Alastair bites harder, while ripping his claws through Dean’s flesh.
Alastair sucks the blood from Dean’s neck and runs his tongue over the other man’s ear. “Step off and do this,” he whispers. Alastair pulls the knife from Dean’s abdomen and paces around to the front, running the razor sharp blade through the blood soaked waistband of Dean’s jeans. The knife cuts through the stiff denim like paper, slicing to the inseam, then along it; the edge leaving a thin trail of blood down Dean’s leg. When what’s left of the jeans is lying next to ragged bits of flannel and cotton at Dean’s feet, Alastair circles him again. This time it’s the measured tread of a predator sizing up its prey.
Dean keeps his eyes up, and locked on Alastair whenever the demon’s in his line of sight, the tension in his muscles betraying his blank expression. Alastair’s eyes wander, his leering gaze cataloguing every inch of Dean’s body.
“Oh, very nice, my boy,” he breathes. “So many lovely freckles on that lily white skin. Shall we get to know each other a little better by playing a round of connect the dots? Games are such a nice icebreaker, don’t you think?“
“Why don’t you let me off of here, and we can play kill the perverted demon,” Dean pants. “I outgrew connect the dots when I was four. Let me know when you’re ready to leave pre-school.”
“Oh, yes,” the demon’s voice drips with false sympathy, “you outgrew so many things when you were four. Having a mother. A home. A father that cared about you in any parental way. Childish games were the least of the things you lost that year. Since I can’t give you back your mother, your father or your home, the least I can do is try to give you back the sense of wonder you had before everything went to hell.” Alastair traces the knife around Dean’s nipple, then up to the nearest freckle, digging the point in when he reaches it.
“That the best you got?” Dean grunts as the knife begins to slice shallow furrows into his skin, Alastair slowly and deliberately connecting each freckle to the next with a thin line of blood. “My last girlfriend put more scratches on me than that.”
“Mmmm, she must have been a wildcat,” Alastair murmurs as he continues his work, breath hot on Dean’s hip as he works down the front of his leg. “I’ll bet she didn’t do this, though.”
Alastair connects four freckles into a box then digs in with the flat of the blade, peeling a square of skin from Dean’s thigh. He smiles fondly as Dean bites back a scream. “That was nicely done my boy, but see if you can’t manage a little more volume for the next one. If they can’t hear you in the farthest circles, they might think I’m not doing my job right.”
As more strips of skin litter the cell’s blood soaked floor, Dean manages plenty of volume, Alastair praising his efforts with each pass of the blade. Finally, when just a few scraps of skin remain, the demon pauses to admire his handiwork.
“Oh, my pet. While your outward appearance is absolutely stunning, let me be the first to tell you that your beauty is more than skin deep.” Alastair appreciatively watches the meat of Dean’s pectorals rise and fall with each tortured gasp. “More than muscle deep too, I suspect, and that’s one of the myriad things we’ll have eternity to discover together. First things first, though.”
The demon’s forked tongue flicks out and laps the blood from the only bit of skin remaining on Dean’s torso: a thin strip of white running between his nipples. With practiced ease, Alastair slips the knife point under one nub and slides it across to the other, gaze never leaving Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes are rolling in their sockets, wild with pain and fear, but there’s defiance there too. Alastair steps in close as he slides this latest strip of flesh off his blade and into Dean’s gasping mouth and digs his talons into the muscles of Dean’s throat.
“Some of my proudest moments have been when my students develop a taste for human meat,” he hisses. “I expect the high points of my time with you will also involve a great deal of flesh in your mouth, but it won’t be human and I think that you won’t find it appetizing at all.” The demon shifts his grip to Dean’s hair, pulling it hard before peeling the scalp beneath it off in a few skillful strokes. Alastair grabs a spike from the table and pins the blood drenched matt of hair to the rack. “My first scalp from you Dean,” he murmurs into the spot where Dean’s ear used to be, “but not my last. When we run out of room on the rack, we’ll hang them from the walls.”
Dean’s breath is whistling out in keening gasps as Alastair drops to his knees. “Saved the best for last,” he grins, palming Dean’s genitals. The demon’s got a fresh knife for this: sharper, smaller and with a much finer point. Dean’s flesh is slippery with a thick coat of congealed blood, and Alastair probes through the gore to find the spot where the remains of Dean’s skin meet bare muscle. Finally he just licks a broad swath around Dean’s balls and slips the knife quickly under the edge of skin his cleaning has revealed. The blood’s flowing so freely that it’s impossible to see again almost immediately, but Alastair can work by touch now. Tiny, delicate thrusts separate the skin of the scrotum from Dean’s testicles and hoarse cries erupt from a throat already screamed raw. Inch by inch, the demon slowly peels Dean’s skin back, taking care to keep it all in one piece. Eventually, he stands and dangles his trophy in front of Dean’s face.
“That’s always my favorite part,” Alastair growls, tossing the skin onto the table. “Bet it used to be your favorite part too.” He steps back and takes a good look at the blood drenched man hanging in front of him. “Oh, yes, so very pretty. But I think we can go ever further. What do you say, Dean? Should we delve deeper?”
Gurgling moans are all Dean can respond with as Alastair selects a heavy leather whip from the selection on the wall. The first strike rips flesh from Dean’s back, leaving strips of muscle hanging from his shoulder blade.
Alastair spreads the lashes out over Dean’s body; chunks of meat joining the puddle of gore beneath their feet. Dean’s nothing more than a quivering mess of sinew and bone when Alastair whispers again. “Step off and do that. Torture other souls. Rip them to shreds. Cause them unimaginable agony. You’d be surprised how good it makes you feel to be able to do it to someone else.”
Alastair takes his time rebuilding Dean. Putting things back not quite right can be just as agonizing as removing them in the first place.
When he’s whole again, Dean growls hoarsely, “I’ll never do that. You can’t make me.”
Alastair smiles and presses a soft kiss to Dean’s newly remade lips. “Oh, my boy,” he murmurs, his breath mingling with Dean’s, “I’ll make you do a great many things. But you’re right. That will never be one of them.”
Part Two