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Dean lies on a soft towel, arms behind his head, basking in the hot, mid-afternoon sun. He's not felt this relaxed in a long time. Around him he can hear children running around on the sand and splashing in the ocean's waves. No one is here but himself, no one to keep an eye on or defend. No monsters or creatures to gank.
It's almost surreal.
If he closes his eyes he can imagine being here with someone. That they'd lie next to him, kiss his neck despite the sand and trail fingers over his skin, making him shiver.
Imaginings come true when he opens his eyes to clear blue skies and turns his head to see a woman beside him, blonde hair and an indescribable face. It's… weird, like he can't quite see it. Maybe he needs glasses. Not like he's ever been able to afford to get his eyes tested since he was a kid.
A sharp, blinding pain hits Dean in the chest. His heart seizes, and he clutches at his chest.
"Dean?" the woman beside him says, concern in her voice. It's not enough to focus on, or to take away the pain.
It hits again and Dean sits up, only to find that he can't and he's plunged back into reality. Here there's no soft towel, or children playing, no woman he loves. Instead there's cold, dark walls and a metal table that he's restrained to.
No, no, no!
Arms out to the sides, they're pinned down with solid metal cuffs not giving him any leeway. He flexes his fingers but they clench up as he catches the sight above him. Alastair stands there with an electric prodder, pushing it against his chest in random intervals and making his entire body convulse.
"Nice vacation?" Alastair asks when Dean looks at him.
Snippets of warm sand float back to Dean, but they're whisked away quickly as the prodder is jabbed at his thigh. Dean doesn't respond with words. Hasn't done in days… years, maybe. Dean doesn't care anymore.
Alastair chuckles and runs fingers down his chest and Dean finds himself trying to reach into them. A simple moment of ease when all he's known is pain and hurt. Nothing Alastair does is easy and everything is worse than the day before.
At first Alastair would just stand before him and ask him to take his knife, and every day Dean would refuse him. Then Dean was forced to kneel, was tied up in a myriad of uncomfortable positions, was forced to be awake until he was delirious, then a cock was forced down his throat and it only got worse from there.
Now, Alastair circles the table. The finger that runs down his bare arm sends shivers down his spine and Dean can see the smirk on Alastair's face. He knows exactly how Dean reacts to him and he hates it. Hates that he's so desperate for a bit of affection, a soft touch, that he'll take it from Alastair given half the chance.
"Close your eyes, Dean. I've got a treat for you today. Two in fact, but one a time." He strokes a hand through Dean's hair and Dean’s eyelids droop before they close again.
A treat is always worse than it sounds and the weight of it sits heavy in his stomach. If he'd eaten any time recently he might have heaved and thrown up.
Sunshine warms his cheeks… no, he can't be here again. This isn't what Alastair is giving him.
"No!"
Dean tears his eyes open again and he's back. Alastair is right in his face, breath hovering in his ear, the slight raspy wheeze irking him to his core. "Oh, he speaks," Alastair croons. "Anything else you'd like to say to me?" Dean purses his lips and shakes his head the little he can with the restraints holding him firm. "Such a shame."
Alastair clicks his fingers right by Dean's ear and he flinches hard, body aching. Between his spread legs is a large machine with a rotating device and an arm protruding from it.
"See, this is going to do a lot of the hard work for me. I know how much you hate other people in here with us." He says it like he's doing Dean a favour and not planning the best ways to hurt and humiliate him.
Dean hears a faint whirring noise start up and then something nudging against his hole. Nudging, nudging and then penetrating… penetrating further to discomfort.
"Thought you might like a big one; heard about how much you loved it last time when one of my guards fucked you."
Maybe Dean can think about the beach now… do it of his own volition and not something forced on him to trick him.
Beaches. Breathe.
Sand between his toes. I'm fine… I'm fine.
Waves crashing against the shore. Slow breaths, I'm not there — I'm not there.
Stepping forward and feeling the wind on his face.
Slap!
Dean falls and his eyes snap open.
Alastair looks displeased. Oh fuck .
"Oh, my dear boy. You're disappointing me today. One of my guards had a fresh apple for you."
The machine pushing the dildo inside of him pulls back out slowly until only the tip remains inside of him. It pauses for a few seconds but then moves forward faster than it had the first time, all the way in further than he can cope with. The whimper that falls from Dean's throat is unbidden but seems to please Alastair.
An erratic rhythm starts up: fast, slow, he can't keep up. It hits his already sensitive prostate — he doesn't know if it was hours, days, or months ago when Alastair left the small toy inside him. He let him cum more times than he can count.
Even now, when he's sore and exhausted, his body is responding. A low coil of arousal and his cock perking up at the motions. But that's all there is, all he tries to tell himself. It's just his body going through the motions and it doesn't mean anything.
He drifts for a moment, tries not to think of anything aside from the feel of the dildo going in and out, in and out in and out…
Alastair doesn't let it go on for long before he's touching him again, distracting him from his daze, from his way to serenity when he's stuck in Hell.
He touches his cock, making it stand up straight and sliding his fingers down the shaft. Dean grits his teeth, trying not to make a noise.
"Are you ready for your second treat? I think you’ll like it." The fucking machine slows to a steady pace, sliding all the way in and all the way out to the tip again. Dean's not sure if this is worse.
Alastair holds up a case, opening the zip carefully and showing Dean the contents. Inside is a row of long steel rods with a curve at one end going up in sizes from something skinnier than a pencil to ones thicker than a finger.
"These are some of my favourite items. Do you know what they do?"
Dean's not stupid, he can take a guess.
"No?" Alastair assumes with Dean's lack of words. "Oh, so naïve." He grins again, and it makes Dean's stomach turn. "Let me show you."
The outcome would have been the same whether he'd answered or not, so Dean remains quiet, just waiting for this so-called treat to end.
The case is set down by Dean's hip, then Alastair reaches for something else — a small syringe with a blunt tip. He stands Dean's cock up again, the nozzle end dips into Dean's slit and he can feel it there, foreign and strange… only getting stranger when the barrel is emptied and lube slides down his shaft the wrong way. Alastair slides the first sound out of the case, the skinniest one which Dean is relieved by, but there's no preamble as Alastair slides it in.
Dean holds his breath, the sense of discomfort weighing on him. He gasps when Alastair begins to move it up and down, fucking him with it.
"Seems a little easy for you. Maybe I should have forgone the lube. Seems a little kind considering your lack of cooperation." Dean's breath hitches in his throat. He knows that Alastair can take that away from him, can make it hurt more than it is.
Dean shakes his head, and Alastair looks at him softly. Instead of taking away the lube, he skips over a few sounds and lands on one twice the width of the one he was just using.
When it slides in, Dean feels the unnatural stretch instantly and he tenses around the dildo pumping in and out of his ass slowly. His toes curl and he closes his eyes, swallowing hard.
He endures . For the next however long as Alastair selects a new width and shoves it inside Dean's cock, he takes it all without a whimper or a sound.
Around half way through the case, Dean cums from the stimulation. He hadn't even felt it coming, but between the dildo prodding his prostate, and the sounds eliciting something unexpected from Dean, he can't help it. The hitched gasp that falls from his lips as cum squirts out around the sound makes Alastair smile and stop what he's doing for a few moments.
He rounds the table, a hand stroking down Dean's outstretched one, and leans down next to Dean's head. Dean keeps looking upwards, ignoring how close the demon is to him. He can feel the breath on his neck and then Alastair presses a kiss just below his ear.
"That was beautiful," he croons, and kisses Dean again.
Irritable rage fills Dean and he growls at Alastair, letting him step away and return back to what he's doing to Dean.
The sound that made him cum is removed and the next one — with a few more skipped — isselected.
The space above Dean has a weird sense of unending darkness. There's no definitive ceiling. Vertigo jabs at his brain, making him feel dizzy every so often, but it beats watching what Alastair is doing.
The only issue is that he misses the moment Alastair stops talking him through what he's doing and picks up something else.
"Let's have a change of pace, shall we?"
Dean's eyes flicker to Alastair, who's holding a small black box in his hand with three long leads trailing from it. One goes somewhere beneath the table that Dean can't see, but one of them clips onto the top of the sound.
He should have guessed it wouldn't be that easy, that he couldn't just drift away and not think about anything other than the unending ceiling while his body betrays him.
The second wire has a crocodile clip attachment and Alastair holds it up menacingly, like he knows Dean's going to hate every second of what's coming next.
"Tell me, Dean. Where do I clip this end to? I'll give you a choice. I can clip it to your balls… or one of your nipples. Choose."
Dean's mind fills with curses. He doesn't know, doesn't want either, but he'll have to choose or no doubt suffer worse consequences.
The words won't come out to tell him, just like they haven't come before. Instead Dean watches Alastair's hand drift down low and he curls his toes, bracing his thighs as if he could close his legs. Dean barely blinks before Alastair's clipping it onto his nipple. It bites and hurts , enough that he can almost feel his heart beating through it.
Tears form at the corners of Dean's eyes and drip down the side of his face and into his hairline. It's not something he can help. He wouldn't cry in front of Alastair if he could help it. He doesn't deserve Dean's tears.
The anticipation once the pain turns to a strange kind of numbness is tedious. Alastair has his hand over the little black box, smiling at Dean but never turning the dial. Maybe this is worse than it being on.
For a moment, Alastair leaves Dean's eye line, and he gets a chance to breathe, to blink away the tears, and swallow the bile rising in his throat. But then he's back, a hand over the box and that's torture enough—
Dean's whole body convulses, muscles straining and pulling off the table as the electricity courses through him. His vision whites out for a moment but he comes back as it's turned off again.
His chest is heaving as he catches his breath, the pinching feeling is back in his nipple, his cock feels like it doesn't even belong to him. It bobs about with Dean's struggling movements.
Dean knows it's not the end, that it's merely the beginning. It's only the beginning of his time down here but he's not giving up any time soon.
And so Dean endures once again.
As Alastair laughs at his pain. At how sometimes he can't catch his breath between shocks. At how his nipple turns purple and goes numb.
He endures several orgasms, though he doesn't feel pleasure from a single one, all forced from his body as it lies there barely able to move an inch.
He endures how his muscles bite at every shock, his hips aching deep, teeth grinding together as he tries not to call out — it doesn't work after the second one, he yells and he cries and Alastair smiles.
He needs it to stop. He needs to pass out or something . But down here nothing is as it seems. Alastair can twist his mind so he's imagining somewhere pleasant, just as much as he can keep him conscious.
He can't survive this when he's already dead. There's nothing to survive. So Dean stares at the ceiling or whatever it is that's above him, going through the motions, feeling too much — the fucking machine and its slow pace, the rod down his cock, the clip on his nipple, the restraints on his ankles, wrists, and over his forehead.
He endures every shock, every slap, every humiliating word from Alastair's mouth. He never says a word back and he denies him when he asks Dean to take his knife.
He endures the same knife he refuses to take as it cuts him deeper each time and Dean's hope begins to falter. Hope for what, he never knows.
Days, months… years, fly by. Pieces of Dean fragmenting until there's nothing left but a shell. A shell who can't refuse anything, not even Alastair's knife.