How About Tonight?
Title: How About Tonight?
Author: Kat
Reader Gender: N/A
Word Count: ~1500
Summary: Some snippets of Dean’s time in hell.
Warnings: graphic violence, blood, torture, deaths, language, angst, feels
A/N: Written for @mysaintsasinner’s 666 Follower Celebration. My prompt was: “What, I meant it as a compliment.” Thanks to @torn-and-frayed for reading it through. Apologies in advance for the feels!
Character: Dean Winchester
—
Tags:
@deans-princess-crybaby @bloodysideofhell @space-cats-in-purgatory @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @mrswhozeewhatsis @mamaimpala @timewoundsallheals1210 @the-mrs-deanwinchester @aprofoundbondwithdean @queenofhellisafangirl @jensen-jerk-ackles @anastasiarosez @ackleholic96 @mama-impala @mamapeterson @redlittlefox @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki @beautiful-disaster143 @deanwinchester-af @adaisinwonderland @theweirdymcweirderson @oh-jesus-sammy @jencharlan @blacktithe7 @winchesterforever12 @johngirl-207 @iamflanneltrash @blushingsamgirl @winchesterenthusiast @deandoesthingstome @mrsjohnsmith @samtomydeanwinchester @sis-tafics @ackleslaugh @fangirling-instead-of-working @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @for-the-love-of-dean @lipstickandwhiskey @salvachester @skybinx-blog @loveitsallineed @shipping-people-writing-things @spectaculacular-sammy @superbluhoo2 @winchesterswoonathon @iwantthedean @crzcorgi @ilostmyshoe-79 @supernatural-jackles @impalapossible @jotink78 @hillface89 @kittenofdoomage @nichelle-my-belle @percywinchester27 @whit85-blog @rizlow1 @bringmesomepie56 @atc74 @cici0507 @gemini75eeyore @kristaparadowski @mayasmedberg @prncss-nefelibata @the-jette
—
“How about tonight, Dean?” Alistair asked snidely, hovering over him. “Same deal as always, you get off, no more pain, and I’ll show you how to put one on.”
Screams echoed through the rooms, penetrating Dean’s thoughts. He was splayed out, tied down with chains wrapped in barbed wire. They bit painfully into his flesh every time he moved. Dean raised his head, ignoring the tearing at his throat, to meet Alistair’s gray eyes with his own piercing green.
He breathed in, gathering all the spit and blood he could at the front of his mouth. Then, he spat everything into Alistair’s face. The thick spit mixed with blood dripped down his face in slow streams.
“Bite me,” Dean snarled, his voice raw and haggard from his own screams of pain.
Alistair wiped the spit from his face, looking livid. For a moment, Dean faltered in fear of what Alistair would do to him, but then he remembered that no matter what, he would be ripped apart anyway. Alistair moved to Dean suddenly, pressing a palm over his mouth and nose tightly. Dean couldn’t breathe. Alistair lowered his head until his lips met Dean’s ear.
“Do that again, Dean, and I’ll cut your tongue out, fry it up, and we’ll eat it together,” he hissed.
The edge of Dean’s vision was going dark and his lungs were burning when Alistair finally removed his hand so Dean could suck in a breath and shoot him a loathing glare.
“What? I meant it as a compliment. I wouldn’t eat just anyone’s tongue.”
“Fuck you,” Dean spat out, unable to contain his anger and pain.
Alistair’s face broke out into a leering grin as he pulled out a pocket knife and flipped it open. He motioned to his guards who immediately stepped forward and held Dean’s head in place. He struggled as much as he could, feeling the barbs snagging and ripping his flesh. One of the guards forced his mouth open and Alistair pinched his tongue painfully between two fingers.
The first slice was harrowing, Dean tried to pull away but it was futile. The pain seared through, cutting out everything else from his mind but the sound of tearing flesh and the pain of each movement of the knife. Blood rushed into his mouth and down his throat; he couldn’t breathe again. The pain reached an apex and his vision went dark. He choked on his own blood for a few more moments before the lack of air and excruciating pain overwhelmed him into unconsciousness and death.
—
“Well, Dean? How about tonight?”
Dean was slumped in his restraints. His time in hell had broken something. He barely had any fight left in him, barely any voice. The pain had consumed him in ways he never thought possible. For the first time in ten years, Dean paused to consider Alistair’s offer. He thought about the pain he’d endured, the pain he felt deep in his fading soul. Dean thought about inflicting pain on another. The thought almost excited him.
“Go to hell,” Dean moaned. He didn’t even have the strength to lift his head and glare at Alistair.
“Oh, but we’re already here, Dean. Remember?”
Dean knew nothing except the pain that had consumed him; the tiredness that plagued him. He begged silently for death. Suddenly, a low pulsing siren sounded. It wormed through the rooms as it gained volume and pitch. The sound imbedded itself into Dean’s head until he was screaming. Dean thrashed against the chains as the sound heightened into an electric-sounding whistle.
“Throw him in with the dogs for the night while I find out what the hell is going on!” Alistair snarled to the demon guards as he stormed from the room. The guards ripped Dean from his restraints and dragged him to the coliseum.
He had only been there once before. It was built as a replica of the Roman Coliseum, the arena was built with a rocky terrain and was used to exercise the hellhounds. Souls were thrown in to serve as prey for the hellhounds to chase, eat, rip apart and repeat once the soul had reconfigured itself. Other torturers, Alistair, and trainees could sit around and watch for entertainment.
Dean landed on his back, breath knocked from his lungs. He gasped in pain. Dean heard a low snarl and rolled over to his stomach in an attempt to get up and run. A heavy, albeit invisible, body landed hard on his back and Dean could smell the hellhound’s vile breath as it panted and growled in his ear. He passed out when the jowls closed around the back of his neck.
—
“Heaven. I’m in heaven. And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak,” Alistair sang as he strapped Dean to a St. Andrew’s Cross. Dean groaned as Alistair continued singing, having heard the song so often in the past twenty years.
He was in pain, always in pain, and his entire body throbbed with his heartbeat, sending more pain through his head. Dean wanted it to end. He begged out loud for Alistair to kill him, to burn him, send him away to feel nothing eternally. Alistair laughed and continued the song while carving Dean’s ribs from his chest.
A low whine hummed through hell. Alistair halted and as the sound gained volume, covered his ears. The sound heightened quickly to deafening pitches. Dean couldn’t cover his ears and he felt his eardrums shatter. Even then, the sound was imbedded in his head, playing on a loop. Dean could feel the screams ripping from his chest, begging for the song to resume and begging for the sound to stop. He didn’t even notice Alistair storm from the room.
—
Alistair unleashed three of his trainees on Dean, all of whom Dean had personally sent to hell in his years on earth. They destroyed him and they reveled in it. They ripped him, tore him, carved him, skinned him and completely pummeled him more times than Dean could have hoped to count. As the day neared an end, Alistair stopped his trainees and made his way to Dean’s broken body, strung in the air by chains.
“I’ll do it,” he gasped loudly. He hung his head in shame and spoke softly, “I’ll do it. Stop the pain and I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
Alistair faltered, smile fading for a moment before a grin split his face into a terrible smile.
“I’m glad you’re finally seeing things my way after thirty years, Dean.”
The next day, Alistair stood next to a stoic Dean as a man was dragged into the room and hung on the rack. Dean pretended not to feel his guts wrench and squirm at the thought of what Alistair was about to have him do.
“Do you recognize him?” Alistair asked.
“Should I?” Dean retorted, confused.
“Oh, you were about eight. Daddy had you and Sammy at a sleazy truck stop in Birmingham. There was a man sitting at the counter, he kept staring at you and little Sammy?”
A far distant memory sprang up in Dean’s mind and he nodded.
“Creepy guy,” Dean commented. “Dad told him to get the hell away from us before he put a bullet in his head.”
“That man killed four little boys in the next two years. They all looked like little Sammy.”
Anger and hatred rushed through Dean’s veins. He was angry that the man had killed innocent children, angry that it could have been Sammy. He hated the man for what he’d done in life and decided he should feel the pain in death. The pain Dean had endured to rescue his little brother was nothing compared to the pain this man should feel.
“How does it make you feel?” Alistair asked, teasingly.
“Sick,” Dean spat. It was the truth. What he felt like doing made him sick, the smell of death, blood and fire made him sick, and the man strung up in front of him made him sick.
“Show him how sick he makes you,” Alistair jeered, handing Dean a knife and keeping one for himself. “First one to get a bullseye wins.”
Dean glared at Alistair for a moment before drawing the knife back and hurling it at the screaming figure. The noise was abruptly cut off as the knife lodged itself in the man’s skull - directly through his eye.
“Bullseye,” Dean growled, glaring at Alistair loathingly.
“Bring in the next one!” Alistair called to his guards.
Eventually, Dean didn’t need their stories, he didn’t care what they’d done. Alistair taught him, trained him. Dean reveled in the satisfaction, in the adrenaline that surged through his body as he ripped apart soul after soul. He lost count after the second day, lost count of the souls he strung up, lost count of the bodies he ripped apart and he began to enjoy what he did for Alistair.
One day, years later, a low whining siren rang throughout hell. Dean covered his ears as the volume and pitch increased to deafening levels. The sound embedded itself in Dean’s entire body. He lowered himself to the ground in an attempt to seclude himself from the noise. Suddenly, he felt himself lifted and the world around him faded into darkness.
Dean coughed, breathing in a musky smell. He could barely move. Reaching into his pocket, he found a lighter and flicked it open, lighting the flame. He was in a pine box.
