when what they sung for is undone - R, SN, AU, Alistair/Dean

[tigriswolf]

Title: when what they sung for is undone
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Dickinson
Warnings: mentions of torture; non-con; spoilers for everything aired; AU
Pairings: Alistair/Dean
Rating: R
Wordcount: 845
Point of view: third
Prompt: partnership

Dean’s Hell is cold, ice and snow and an Arctic wind snarling from the north. In his dream, he’s there again, naked beneath Alistair’s blade and Alistair’s cock, which were so often the same thing, broken and bleeding and begging. He begged so much, harder and more and please, until he had no voice and no throat, until he was only a gaping maw, an orifice for Alistair’s pleasure. And still he begged, too much and not enough, so pathetic and needy.

On the surface, alive and Above, he is still cold. Frozen where he should have a soul. He broke in Hell. Submitted and surrendered. Gave Alistair all his shattered pieces and let Hell’s connoisseur of pain crazy-glue him back together so very wrong.

Sam can’t see it, or Bobby. Castiel doesn’t know what to look for. But Dean can feel that he’s not right anymore.

(Remember, my dear. Remember and awaken. Let me out to play. You know me so well.

Remember. Awaken. I’m so very hungry, and you need me, Dean. You need me just as much as I want you.)

In his dream, he’s in Hell again, spread wide for Alistair, but someone else is there, someone so familiar, so beautiful and dark, with bloody, ashy wings. “Careful, Alistair,” the stranger (no, my dear, not a stranger at all) says. “Don’t want to break him too much.”

“Not your concern,” Alistair responds, skinning Dean to the bone. “My time and my workroom here.”

Just a dream. (Not a dream. A memory. Remember and let me free to play.)

Caged and leashed and chained, Dean was Alistair’s favorite toy. But now he’s free and dreaming and can wake whenever he wants.

(No, Dean. Think back. I waited for you in Hell. Why’d you leave me behind? You’re not supposed to leave people, but I’ll never leave you.)

In his dream, Alistair yields before the newcomer, angry and bitter and afraid. “Oh, Dean,” he purrs while Alistair’s fingers tighten on the hilt of his blade. “You look so pretty like this.”

(Not) Just a dream. Wake up. (Awaken for me.)

And while Dean tortures Alistair, he feels something in his mind stirring, a chain loosening, but it falters when Alistair breaks free.

Until Lucifer rises, Dean can pretend. But then, then—

In his dream, the newcomer kisses him, and they have the same face. The newcomer’s wings are bloody and soot-stained, and he says, “Open your eyes, kiddo. I’m waiting. Let me free for you. It’ll be glorious, me and you together.”

Dean opens his eyes and hears a chain snap as everything slots into place. He slowly sits up, glancing over at Sam, then past him to Castiel, leafing through Dad’s journal.

Castiel freezes as Dean stands and stretches his wings. “Michael?” he whispers.

“Not exactly,” Dean answers. (‘bout time.)

Dean’s Hell was cold, but he wasn’t alone there, and now he folds his wings around himself, trying to get warm. As he moves toward Sam, Castiel lunges to get between them, and Dean pauses.

“You think I’d hurt him?” Dean asks. He doesn’t know whether to be offended or not. “The two’a you are probably the only people in the world safe from me.”

That’s a good idea, actually. Two years out of Hell and he’s still cold. Maybe it’s time to start lighting things aflame.

(Alistair taught us well, dear one. Shouldn’t we go share with my brother and all the rest?)

Dean smiles at Castiel and carefully moves him aside. Gently, he touches Sam’s shoulder, marking him, and then turns to the angel who saved him. (Too late.) “You burned some sigils into my bones, Cas. Only fair to let me return the favor.”

Castiel stands strong when Dean marks him, too. Dean’s impressed. But Castiel is still weakened away from Heaven’s grace, and Sam’s suffering through the last of withdrawal, and even with Michael’s brand warding them, they’ll need some extra protection while he goes to clean the world.

“Gabriel,” Dean calls. “To me, little brother.”

(We have so much work to do. The beginning’s always the best place to start.)

“Holy shit,” Gabriel whispers when Dean’s summons yanks him into the room. “This is not what I expected. At all.”

“Keep them safe while I’m away,” Dean commands.

(We learned so much beneath Alistair. Let’s go share the knowledge. First the angel that left us there, that hurt Sammy, that ordered Castiel’s death.)

In his dream, Alistair cringes away from someone with Dean’s face, someone with wings that blot out Hell, someone who smells like gunpowder and sunlight.   “No,” Alistair whispers. “That’s impossible.”

“Make him ready for me,” the someone says. “Twist him and break him. He must fit me. I’ll fill him up and we’ll be whole again, my soul and me.”

(Mine, Dean. Mine and yours and us and ours, I and you and me, together us whole complete. Eternally.

Us mine yours we together whole forever. One.

Who is ours? Brothers. Protect defend save. Sammy. Cas.

Alistair. I thank you. We fit perfectly.)