Destiny Interrupted

Supernatural. Alastair/Dean, Sam/Dean, some John/Dean. Dub-con. NC-17. ~1100 words.

Most nights he’ll take the sweet slowness that the fucker prefers

Supply and Demand

“This is your here. This is your now.”

This is my here. This is my now.

“This is your everything yet to come.”

Alastair has a sinuous way about him. He’s not the serpent in the garden; there are others who move like that, graceful steps predatory with intent. Alastair reflects a darker something, a scourge that fouls a room like the wet spill of intestines.

“Shall we?” he asks, and the puppet face he wears today smiles in Dean’s direction.

*

“What’s his name? Why is he here?”

Alastair strokes a slender hand over the trembling soul’s thin hair, loose curls so blond they might as well be white. His hooded eyes raise to meet Dean’s, and the soul on his table twists against the bonds. Flesh pales then purples where wrapped wire bites skin. “You always ask, why is that?”

“Sometimes you answer.”

“Touché.” Alastair produces a set of needles. They bristle long and gleaming between each of his fingers. He shifts his hand to make the points quiver, catch the greenish lights sputtering in his mockery of an operating room. “Not today, my boy,” he murmurs, and Dean can’t tell if the comment is for his benefit or if the child-shaped soul on the rack has been offered the same deal as he.

Can’t let him have it.

Dean steels himself against baby blue eyes that plead wetly with him—in Hell, he reminds himself, appearances are deceiving. The rack shifts to fit any form, even one like this: vulnerable and small and not at all as innocent as those big, teary eyes would have him believe. Ten isn’t too young to sin, but it is also a comfortable age. Dean has lost count of how many hysterical souls he’s watched regress into the false safety of childhood, the bravado of adulthood shrinking into narrow throats that scream for mommy.

“What did you do to deserve this?” Dean asks. “Were you greedy for money? Power? Or was it sins of the flesh.” Somehow, asking always makes them struggle harder. It must have been something, though, and Dean doesn’t flinch when Alastair passes him the first needle.

When he’s done and the soul dragged from the room by its chains, Alastair praises him.

God help him if that praise ever brings him pleasure. One by one, Dean cleans each of Alastair’s favourite implements. His muscles are relaxed, but there is a tingling in his guts, a subtle buzzing of fear and relief and queasy gratitude.

God help him if he ceases to worry that it will.

*

“Oh, Dean, I thought you brighter than that.” Alastair’s newest visage, Dean knows, is entirely for his benefit. Alastair at his cruelest likes to get to know his playthings inside and out and find ways to hurt them beyond the skin.

“Hell is punishment,” Dean says, and knows, fucking knows, he shouldn’t find solace in this.

Alastair smiles, an oilslick on the perfect lines of Sam’s face. “Hell is far more than the meagre handful of places that you know, Dean. It is at the core a machine,” he says, his hands cupped to Dean’s sides, his thumbs brushing soft just under the darkness of Dean’s nipples. “A beautifully performing factory.”

Dean shivers. The darkness inside him wants to believe it really is Sam pressing a kiss against his neck. Alastair knows better, and a soft, hungry sound crawls under Dean’s skin.

“Your daddy figured that out quick enough,” Alastair says. Teeth scrape against the jump-flutter pulse in Dean’s neck. “Carved up a few souls and knew that punishment had hardly a thing to do with our business.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s almost not listening, his muscles going taut and desperate under gentle caresses. “’Cause your business is what, your pleasure?”

“Isn’t it though,” Alastair purrs. He pushes up on his wrists, and here, with the shadows deep on the planes of Sam’s face, Dean can almost believe. He bucks his hips in soundless begging. He moans when the weight of his brother’s body lowers onto him, smothers him with skin and kisses. Alastair’s silence and the illusion only lasts long enough for Dean to forget and call Sam’s name. “But that’s not it. That’s not it at all. Use that big noggin’ of yours…. Unless the apple’s rolled so far from the tree you shouldn’t be permitted to lay claim to the name Winchester.”

Dean twists, his hands wringing the ink black sheets. Most nights he’ll take the sweet slowness that the fucker prefers. It lets him—escape—cling to reality, because Sam wouldn’t be like this; Sam’s always been awkward and hesitant over the stupidest things but never so methodical. Sam would suck marks onto his skin, fuck him spread open until there was come leaking messy on his thighs, and it would be perfect until dawn came and showed them what they’d done.

“Can’t—” Dean locks eyes with Alastair to whisper a plea. More. The bastard takes it at face value.

“A factory,” Alastair repeats. He curls over Dean, the shape of Sam’s body almost protective as his arms frame Dean’s face. And Dean pretends not to recognise it as a trap to keep him from turning his head. The change will come; Alastair will never grant him what he wants unless there’s more to be gained. For now, he wets his lips and moans at the slick push of Sam’s cock buried to its length inside his willing body.

Please.

“One more beautifully constructed than even the body,” Alastair says. His hips snap forward, eyes losing their pupils to flare demonic as his perversity soaks up the way Dean calls out and meets the thrust. “It’s far more simple than that mess of organs and arteries.”

Dean might be able to tune out Alastair’s taunting, but he can’t look away from the slow ripple when it happens. The pressure of wide hands on his temples goes firm, and Alastair digs thumbs into the soft fleshiness above Dean’s eyes. Better than needles, or clamps, or not having lids at all. Dean fucks himself against Alastair desperately, trying to beat the change, but as usual, Alastair’s timing is impeccable.

As is his rhythm. The fucker knows Dean’s body so well he holds Dean on the vertigo edge of orgasm twice before Dean is forced to throw weak arms around the shape of his father’s back and plead for release.

Alastair is so very charitable when the stretch of his smile scrapes Dean’s face just so. “Souls come in,” he says, cock slamming deep. “Soldiers go out.”

*

This is my everything yet to come.

“Shall we?” Dean asks.

*

End