InsaneJournal

FIC: Hell-- SPN, Adult. Dark. Dean/demons, Sam/Dean
title: Hell
author: lisa roquin
rating: adult
fandom: Supernatural
characters/pairings: Dean/(demons) Sam/Dean
disclaimer: all copyrighted characters and their "universes" belong to their respective authors, writers, creators, production companies, producers and long lists of people that are so very much not me. Quite simply, if you recognize it, it isn't mine. No profit made, no harm intended, just having fun.
summary: Hell didn't break him, but his brother just might.
warning: wincest, angst, rape, torture, disturbing imagery
author's note: minimal chance to see S.3 eps. No spoilers. for dragonknyght for the birthday goodies.
word count: 2000+


Dean Winchester had never been a stranger to pain. Pain was an old acquaintaince. Familiar, comforting even if an unwelcome visitor, a reluctantly accepted companion.

Pain.

Dean had a damn vivid imagination, even if his brother might have once scoffed at that. Even if his leaps were often the warped logic borne of raised hunting the yellow eyed son of a bitch. He could imainge a lot of things.

He only had ever imagined the very surface of pain. How many months had his father been in hell, just what had they done to him.

Dad got out though, when the Gate had been opened. He'd gotten out, had been right there in front and Dean had to wonder how the hell that had ever happened. How their dad had gotten that far, fought his way to the gate through...through...

All bets were off in hell.

In some ways everything was as solid as corporeal and physical as earth. Yeah, dead and spirits and all that crap but that would defeat the whole point of torture if it couldn't be felt, if the suffering wasn't tactile, wasn't complete on every possible level. And the demons wouldn't get their rocks off near as much if it wasn't either.

~

"Dean," the voice ragged, raw and choked up like fighting breaking down bawling. Arms so tight around him he gasped for breath.

"Not again, no..." he gasped tears slipping down his cheeks.

"Dean, oh God, Dean, Shh I've got you. I've got you now."

Wet drops fell on his cheeks, tears not his own.

"Nice touch," he managed. Not this again. No. Not some damned thing taking Sam's face. Sam's voice.

~

The snap of bone was really, really...nauseating. Especially when you were feeling that snap as well. Fire. There just wasn't words to describe it. The smell oh god. The smell of meat burning. Charring and knowing it was your flesh. The pain of it. ANd worse, the sorry bastards who were burnt at the stake back when people did that sort of shit, were half dead from smoke inhilation before it got too far, because it took a fuck of a lot of firewood to do it right. And there were plenty later that had the mercy of black powder in a bag around their neck, spark fly up and hit it, boom.

There was smoke. But it just choked and burned your eyes, the lack of actually needing to breathe--the possibility of dying when you were already dead...just wasn't there.

And there sure as hell wasn't any merciful little burlap pouch of black powder to end it either.

He'd been treated to all the classics. The rack. Dunking. Boiling in oil. Catherine wheel. Hot pokers. Slivers. Tossed to hellhounds to chew apart.

A few agonizing hours later and he was good to go again for the next round of fun. Wherever Dad was, he was probably pissed as hell Dean hadn't managed to run, get loose and run.

He thought maybe they hadn't bothered with his dad as much. As much as John Winchester had pissed off the supernatural. As many evil sons of bitches as he had sent to hell...they were small time. Petty bastards. Not up in the big leagues. He had the impression his dad had been tossed at the things he'd sent to hell and forgotten about.

After all, the Yellow Eyed Bastard had gotten the Colt. And he'd gotten Sam and Dean weakened. John had served his purpose.

Or maybe they'd let him get away, get toward the Devil's Gate. After al the plan had been to open it. John had served his purpose, had provided some entertainment, and if he'd been freed from hell Sam owed the Yellow Eyed Bastard...theoretically.

The Yellow Eyed Bastard was destroyed.

All bets were off.

And Dean was the favorite toy to fight over. After all he was the key to the sanity of the man they were claiming their Prince--both the ones that wanted to use him, and the ones that wanted to destroy him to further their own agendas. At least enough of them--enough that there was something, something to that. Even if they didn't know exactly what or had been lied to as well. Something left in Sam by the yellow eyed bastard, some key, some power, some goddamned prophecy or something that left Sam as a prize even yet.

~

He was lifted up. Carried in the arms of the thing wearing Sam's face now. Dark, crickets, even smelled like sun and dirt. This was going to be a bad one. The details so real and so clear.

"BOBBY!"

"No no no," Dean rasped and then bit his tongue. Any comment, any sound made it worse. Screams fine. They could make him scream. They couldn't make him beg.

"God--Sam, How, son--"

"Don't ask, help me." Sam ordered.

Dean shuddered from Sam's arms to something soft. Water running. He shuddered as the hands moved over him, pushing aside the tattered rags of clothing that amused the fuckers so. No reason for his clothes not to be as put back together as they made him, except that it amused them. His coat scraped almost into a rag, the buttons gone from his shirt, tears in his jeans. The scent of smoke and blood and sweat and pain on the clothes, permeating them. A little bonus. A little reminder even for the little while he was left alone and could move without agony, they'd be back. And it would start again.

Voices.

They were good at voices. It sounded just like Bobby. Bobby demanding answers of how the hell Sam had managed this. What had Sam done. Sam...No, not Sam. One of them impersonating Sam again. Not-Sam answering sharp and curt and pissed off and almost on the edge of breaking. Not-Sam sounded just like Sam pissed off and ready to lose it, like had when they fought, when Sam fought with Dad.

The hands washing him big and strong and calloused from handling weapons and so gentle. There weren't any wounds. Those healed, they always healed, but left behind echoes of pain that never really went away, just buried under layers of newer pain.

The towel that dried him was old and worn but soft enough and smelled like freaking Downy or something. The attention to details was terrifying. This looked like Bobby's house. Bobby's bathroom with the chip in the sink and the hard water deposits on the faucet fixtures. The faded wallpaper that was older than Dean and had little yellow flowers. The antique bed with the painted iron frame and squeaky springs in the room Sam and Dean had always been given. Barely wide enough to be called a full size, it honestly wasn't quite, more like a super-single actually and saqueaked. Dean and Sam both had their feet hanging off the end of the bed by the time they were fifteen.


~

Pain was dealable.

They could make him scream. They could cause tears he couldn't stop because the pain was that damned bad and his eyes merely watered from the sting of sweat and blood getting in them. They never made him beg.

They had made him sob. But never beg.

The first time he would have puked if he could have. Sam suddenly there, standing there watching, blood and semen running down his thighs, a massive dog-like demon in no way meant to be compatible for human physiology mounting him, fucking him. Another demon raping his mouth, stifling his screams with a cock rammed down his throat.

He might have begged then, before he realized it was just one of their tricks, one of their games if he hadn't been effectively gagged. He merely closed his eyes to Sam and waited for them to be done, waited for the few hours respite before the next torture.

He'd sobbed for days, maybe weeks when they changed their game again. Sam. Some thing wearing Sam's face raping him.

They'd liked it when he'd cried. He'd never begged. Always caught himself before he broke, before he begged for anything but being touched by something that looked like Sam.

~

"What the hell are you doing, Sam!" Bobby shouted.

That was new. They hadn't brought Bobby into these games before.

"Keeping him." Sam snarled. "No one's taking him again. EVER."

"Sam--Sam," Bobby began.

Sam's eyes went strange, glowing almost and Bobby was shoved out of the room by an invisible force, the door slammed shut. He could hear the pounding, hear Bobby shouting for Sam to not do this that this was insane.

Candles? He could smell the smoky burning thread of the wick, the slight vanilla scent mingled with hot wax. Hot wax wasn't anything they'd played with lately. Latin? Since when did these fuckers start in with the Latin?

Smoke, burning dirt and weeds, almost like someone had sat one of Missouri's DirtBalls on fire. Oil. The oil burned a little, faintly like some weak acid. The Sam-thing saying it was Blessed. Remove the taint of hell from him. The Sam-thing arranged him on the too short bed. Tears welled as the position his exhausted limbs were moved in left no doubt. Hands moved above his head, and he was told to hold onto the bars of the headboard. The Sam-thing kissed him before moving his legs apart.

"Bind you to me. Nothing's taking you from me again, Dean," Sam-thing whispered. Something wet dropped against Dean's cheek. A tear, but not his own, those were trailing down from the corner of his eyes trying to pool in his damned ears. Sam's tear. Sam--no Sam thing this couldn't be Sam--oh god no, not Sam...Sam trembled as he leaned in, kissing him again, this time his tongue tracing Dean's lips, taking advantage of the gasped sob to slide his tongue inside Dean's mouth.

Gentle. The trembling hands that moved over his body, teasing--tormenting-- were so gentle. The finger that pressed into him as Sam--Sam-thing's--tongue flicked at his nipple was slow and careful, and slick with lube. Dean gasped and sobbed as his prostate was found and stroked. A second finger working him open, slow, careful, loving.. More Latin as Sam pushed into him.

"Sam," Dean sobbed, terrified this was real.

Latin was his answer. Sam pulling his hips back and pushing forward again, his cock sliding over Dean's prostate drawing a moan out to mingle with the broken sobs. He could feel the magic, feel the binding of the ritual, spell, whatever it was Sam was doing.

His body was on fire, the magic of the binding licking at him like flames, hot, stinging, painful but Sam slowly carefully fucking him sent fire from the inside out, sparks of pleasure that made his dick throb, his hips arch up to meet Sam's careful thrusts. His hands let go of the headboard and slid around Sam, grasped at his shoulders. He lifted his head, kissing and licking away sweat and tears as Sam thrust in and out of his body reciting the Latin of whatever ritual he had found.

Close. He could feel his balls tightening, toes cruling, the very soles of his feet tingling as orgasm crept closer. Sam's voice louder, the chant and his thrusts coming faster.

"SAM!" Dean sobbed out as he came, his body clenching down around Sam who slammed into him one last time with a shout of the last of the chant, the spell wrapping around them both settling into their bones, their souls, their screams of pain twined together as the spell dove into them and Bobby beat on the door shouting their names before the world fell away in blackness.

~

"BOYS! SAM! DEAN!" came from the other side of the door. Weak and hoarse and half sobbed, and down lower than it should be as if Bobby was kneeling or sitting on the floor and had been shouting for some time.

"OH god, Sammy, what did you do?" Dean whispered.

"Got you back." Sam said fiercely.

The tears flowed freely, and for the first time since he was four Dean didn't deny he was flat out fucking crying.

"I--I had to. I--"

"I know. I know, Sammy." Dean managed to gasp out and held his brother tight to him.