denyce: (SPN: Dean's mark)
[personal profile] denyce
Title: Hell’s Angel
Author: Denyce
Fandom: AtS/SPN
Pairing: Lindsey/Dean, Alastair/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,961
Summary: Disturbing memories of hell worm their way into Dean’s dreams.
Warnings: A different kind of wing fic. Non-con, dark descriptions of hell, torture, death, and rimming. Written for the [ profile] xmas_kinkathon & for [ profile] katsa_db_lover’s prompt. Very sorry this was SO late in finishing, but I hope you enjoy :)
Disclaimers: AtS: The characters here are the copyright and intellectual property of Joss Whedon. SPN: Owed by TBTB Eric Kripke, & the CW. Not mine, zero profit, written for fun/entertainment purposes only!
Notes: ♥ goes out to the 3 people who helped/beta'd you each made a difference, thank you!!

Dean stood there long after Castiel disappeared. His words lingered: ‘Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.' Each word echoed through him and the weight of them, of what they meant, held him in place.

Exactly how long Dean just stood there before he turned to go help Bobby he couldn’t say, but he froze completely as another man suddenly appeared, just beyond Bobby’s unconscious body. He was rugged in appearance, bare-chested, only jeans and boots, nothing to hide the tats covering his chest and arms. As his eyes traced the marks, he realized that the tats were actually carefully crafted symbolic welts that seemed to be burnt into the guys flesh.

His long hair was a disheveled mess that hung just passed his shoulders and even from this distance, Dean knew he was taller. The guy just stood there with his chest puffed out, proud to let Dean examine him.

Moments later, satisfied that he had Dean’s full attention, he eased his stance into a slight slouch, but Dean could tell that this guy’s nonchalant, almost harmless appearance was anything but. If he had been Peter Parker, his spider sense would’ve been tingling. As it was, his Winchester common sense told him that this guy was anything but harmless, his every instinct chiming in chorus; but somehow he still didn’t think he was in actual danger.

Then, directly behind the guy, Dean saw a spark, an unnatural shimmer of movement. “Jesus Christ!” He swallowed past the lump that was forming, as he watched a small flame appear and then grow, sprouting out from the guy’s back and connecting with others until they arched and spread out. The flames flickered and snapped, but gathered collectively they offered the image of flamed wings.

Unlike Castiel’s shadowy black wings, there was no doubt about what the hell he was staring at—fucking wings.

But right now this guy in front of him… Dean shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around what he was actually seeing. He wasn’t even sure if those things were attached to the guys back because if they were wings, well, nothing they had read from Bobby’s library even came close. Dean stood his ground even though he longed to step away from the guy, though his demand sounded shaky even to his own ears: “What the fuck are you?”

The guy appeared to laugh, though there was no sound.

This time Dean did take a step back, in the same direction where his rifle lay on the floor.

Dean’s eyes followed the sudden scrape across the floor as the rifle moved further out of reach.

Pissed, Dean glared back, his teeth grinding before he angrily spit out, “Alright who the fuck are you?”

Suddenly the smile jerked and disappeared, his face solemn. Sparks shot up as those things on his back spread out even further, and then folded over to wrap around his body—insanely, Dean thought it was like the guy was hugging himself.

Dean jumped back as sparks crackled, like a new log had been thrown on a roaring fire. The flamed wings wrapped around his body so tightly they left only the guy’s face in view. Dean just stared at the blue eyes that were trying to tell him something… For the life of him he had no idea what it was, but he felt a twinge of something. What it was he couldn’t say, but of all the things he was feeling, fear wasn’t among them.

Dean took one step forward, then another. As he moved his shoulder, the scared one started to tingle and heat up. The guy’s head tilted, silently questioning him; his eyes narrowed as he briefly glanced at Dean’s shoulder, like he somehow knew. His smile was grim as he paused, and then nodded; abruptly his wings moved, covering his face. Immediately he was engulfed in flames, and then he disappeared.

The pain in his shoulder abated. Dumbfounded, Dean continued staring at the empty space until he heard a groan. He glanced down at Bobby, dismissing everything else as he bent down to help.


Later, he told Sam and Bobby everything he knew about Castiel, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to say anything about the other guy. He couldn’t say why. A guy with flaming wings would certainly be considered noteworthy, but thinking about the guy even now made Dean nervous. He hated to admit that for some reason he couldn’t fathom, he even felt protective, which made no sense. He was sure he’d never seen the guy, or whatever the hell he was, before. Unless the guy was from hell, his inner voice mimicked back.

Dean stopped short and tried to remember if he did. He didn’t. True, he had lied to Sam, at least by omission, about not remembering hell. Not that he had really considered it a lie at the time; not while he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was actually out of hell.

What he did remember quite clearly about hell was the endless pain and torture. Thankfully, not everything was in detail. Not that his dreams weren’t trying to fix that, but there was no one that matched the description, or even the essence, of the guy with the tats. Especially no one with fucking flaming wings.

But what was really getting to Dean was the guy’s blue eyes. How they bore into him, piercing his tattered soul with their puppy-dog-sad look. A look that grabbed you by the heart. A look he had experience with.

Sam had a gift. Not the freaky ass powers he got later on, but a gift of reading people and getting them to do what he wanted. He had seen it all of his life, been exposed to the best. He’d seen Sam get everything from an extra helping of pie - Dean’s personal favorite - to bigger things like free meals or an extension on the rent. No one doubted that Sammy had a gift for getting them out of trouble—at least, human trouble. He’d just tilt his head, jut out his chin, and bat those puppy-dog eyes. It was a gift that was almost as potent as his own gift with the ladies.

Dean hated to admit it, but this guy seemed to of have a similar bag of tricks. Maybe because he couldn’t stop thinking about him. Though the real crazy thing was what he wasn’t thinking about—the danger of it, who the fuck this guy was. Of him appearing out of thin air, the tats that covered his chest, or the sparks off the guy’s back that grew and spanned out into wings. No, all Dean had on his mind were the guy’s eyes. How they had narrowed and twitched when he had stepped back. How they silently pleaded with him. He wasn’t even sure what the hell the guy was pleading for, but it was there, and as real as any heartfelt plea Sammy had ever laid on him.

The memory of guy’s eyes was haunting his every waking moment at this point, and it was getting old fast.

Although right now he was purposely thinking about flame boy, of who he was, why he showed up, and what the hell he wanted - thinking about it all was better than allowing himself to fall asleep. No matter how tired he was. Sleep was where his mind betrayed him. Where the memories of hell lay waiting.

Even as he made a list of everything, he could feel his lids getting heavier. What he wanted to do was throw the blankets off, get up, and force a pot or two of coffee down to avoid sleep as much as possible; but doing that would only worry Sam. More than he already was. As it was, Sam watched his every move, silently questioning if he was all right.

Not that Dean blamed him; he’d do the same thing if the situation were reversed. It only forced him to focus, to be normal, or as Dean normal as possible. Half the time it felt like a lie, one he wanted almost as much as Sam, but it was something he had to force to make work; it was like trying to wear Sam’s shoes - they just didn’t fit no matter what he did…


‘Dean, Dean, Dean, hmmmm.’ That voice… Startled Dean tried to turn, but his body was immobile. Degrees of pain he hadn’t felt since… Dreaming, he had to be dreaming.

Alastair came closer. ‘Tsk tsk, have you forgotten the rules already?’ Immediately Dean opened his eyes, to find himself in Alastair’s workroom. He quickly surmised that had to be the end of the day as he stood on the platform, strapped in invisible bonds held up on display. ‘Mmm, that’s a good boy. I’d hate to think all our good work had gone to waste. Tears? Hmm, though I never tire seeing a Winchester cry, you cry so beautifully, a true work of art.” Alastair turned and addressed someone else, “Don’t you think?”

Dean gasped, fear sliced through him as Alastair’s sharpened fingernails scraped and trailed down his now whole body. The body that belonged more to the Demons than it did to him. His meatsuit had been repaired, the flesh and bones clean and ready for tomorrow’s use. Though his body was magically whole, it didn’t erase or diminish the pain that continued to ricochet through him.

Alastair had spent a leisurely day of slowing cutting and slicing through several layers of skin, hacking off chunks to skewer over a fire. Beyond the point of death for a human—Alastair had slowly whittled him down to the marrow of his bones. The pain was unimaginable. His first day in hell would have driven any human insane, something he would have welcomed, but something Alastair wouldn’t allow. Somehow, just like they repaired his body, they repaired his mind—forcing him to stay sane, stay aware.

A painful yank on his genitals bought his wondering mind back to the present. Alastair grinned; his hand still gripped painfully around his dick. “Rules remember? Now my boy, tell me how we’ll start tomorrow, hmmm?” Alastair’s hand squeezed, “Should I give you a hint of what I have in mind…”

Dean shuddered with fear and revulsion as Alastair continued to stroke his dick.

His head lolled, then shook from side to side. He wanted to scream against both options—the agonizing pain of the rack, and to Alastair’s usual hideous hints of coming attractions.

Alastair’s hand never wavered in his action, and Dean responded just as he was trained, his cock hardening within Alastair’s grip. “Tell me, Dean…” Alastair leaned in flush against Dean’s body; his fist gripped tight around Dean’s rigid cock, and whispered huskily, “tell me…”

Forcibly Dean held his voice, even as invisible straps and lines pulled and stretched his limbs to a point of popping bones out of sockets, the brink of being quartered—again.

The stretch suddenly eased, Alastair’s breath warmed his ear.

A soft chuckle turned into a belly laugh directly in his ear before Alastair finally spoke, expressing his annoyance as he did. “They beg me for you all the time. They want to taste you again,” his chin jutted out, mulling it over as if he was considering the possibility. “Though it has been a while hasn’t it?” Again Alastair laughed, even as Dean cringed at the thought, his cock softening as the memories of the last time he was with the others filled his mind. Immediately Alastair felt the difference, his disobedience of allowing his cock to soften. “Tsk, tsk, will you need help?” asked as he squeezed to create pain rather then pleasure.

Fresh tears wetting his face, Dean frantically shook his head, no, as much as he was physically allowed in answer to Alastair’s question, but also in denial at the thought of what tomorrow would likely bring.

Of Alastair bringing in the others.

It always meant he was theirs in any capacity they saw fit. It also meant, most likely, that Alastair would leave him with them. He’d be theirs for far longer than a day, probably more like months.

The last time had been a few years—with ongoing sexual, physical and mental torture from them in-between his time suspended on the rack and its excruciating pain. While there in the dark abyss he’d hear the torture of numerous condemned souls, the taunt of demons—the rack held him over the edge. It was a place that whispered eternal death, a place where he’d welcome that final death, or even insanity, but was given none.

Every day Alastair would appear, even during that time Dean was with the others. He’d take his time, inspect their work, or his own if Dean was with him, and then he’d repeat Lilith’s offer. Sometimes he’d rephrase, but it was always essentially the same. Dean would have a reprieve from the rack, and others, if he’d only take the whip handle, if he became the torturer—he only had to say it.

“Hmm, that’s better.” Alastair’s grip continued with a strong rough stroke. “Good boy… now tell me…”

Dean shook away the flare to pleasure that was more from Alastair’s pleased tone than from what his body was trained to feel. Alastair’s heated breath brushed against his ear, waiting for his answer.

Everyday he’d refused, willing to go back to the rack. Everyday he’d been tortured with a hint of Alastair’s games for the next day… everyday he’d struggled with Alastair’s creativity. Everyday he’d pushed himself to step off the sanity train, only to be like humpy dumpy, where he’d be put back together again—physically and mentally. Then taunted to break again.

Alastair never repeated himself, except when he’d temporarily given Dean away as a plaything. Usually that was only because he was ordered to do so from above - either Lilith or someone even above her.

The others were never as creative as Alastair or Lilith. Though they were consistent in their games, and in order to keep him as their play toy, they’d make him an example to show that they were more than competent in the games of torture. Each demon specialized in games they had notoriety in and did best. Reasons why they were originally gifted temporary use of him as a play toy.

He couldn’t do it not again—couldn’t go back to the rack, back to being a play thing for numerous faceless demons once again. The last time had lasted a few years. A choked whisper came out, “No…”

Alastair licked away Dean’s spilled tears. His voice lowered, encouraging hopeful, “Ah… No, what, Dean? Tell me my boy, and be precise…”

His voice was dry, raspy, nearly unrecognizable to his own ears. “No, please, I’ll do it, anything…”

“Precise, Dean… don’t make me repeat myself, now tell me…”

He nodded, the words there on the tip of his tongue.

For a moment he paused, tried to think of Sam, of his father, but their images, the memories of them were faded, it had been too long. Even as tears spilled freely he could only think about now, the threat of the others overriding everything else. Recent memories filled his mind: of his existence, hanging from the rack, of being another demons’ plaything. His inner voice was silent, defeated, the soldier in him gone beaten, he no longer had the strength to fight Alastair, or Lilith… or anyone else. What he wanted was to die, a complete death, not this, but that wasn’t what was offered. What was offered he no longer had it in him to resist.

“Anything! I’ll do what you want, take the handle, deliver the punishment, be or do anything you want…”

“Mmmm, did you hear that… ah, so needy and desperate, such a lovely sound.” The hand on Dean’s cock eased, his stroke suddenly lighter, more sensuous in its sexual tease—caresses made to heighten Dean’s arousal. Alastair’s other hand stroked up and down, soothingly petting Dean’s neck.

“Ah, you’re doing such a good job… it’s almost over now, just need to prove your words with action, will you do that for me?”

Dean swallowed hard, his excitement more palpable; his hips pushed forward, his cock needing a firmer grip, seeking more friction. “Anything, anything you say, anything you want… I’ll do it.”

“Mmmm..” Alastair licked across Dean’s cheek, “Submission’s even tastier,” then pulled back, obviously directing his question to someone else. “Did you hear that Lindsey? What do you think of our boy, Dean, here?” Alastair’s fist tightened around the base of Dean’s cock. This time it wasn’t to cause Dean pain, but rather to hold him off from coming.

The pleasure built; against his will, Dean snapped his eyes closed and he moaned. Suddenly his ball sacs were pulled down and back, only to feel a tight pinch of a cock ring secured around the base of his cock.

Alastair’s hand gripped Dean’s jaw. Dean didn’t wait for the reprimand, or the order, but opened his eyes. Alastair was mere inches away, grinning, and apparently pleased. On reflex Dean nervously, slowly licked his lips just as he was trained. Instantly Alastair’s eyes dropped down to the overt action, and he chuckled. “Lindsey, I think you’ll have a good time with this one. He learns his lessons well—don’t you Dean? Ready to drop to your knees, aren’t you my boy?”

It was true. If Alastair’s straps hadn't been still been holding him rigid, he would have dropped to his knees. Though after all this time, Alastair had never allowed Dean to service him. Instead, Dean only stared, silently answering, confirming a yes to Alastair’s question. “Yes, I know my boy, but first…” Alastair stepped back, his hands letting go just as the other invisible ties that had held him let go. It was so abrupt that Dean almost perched forward, but he shakily held his ground.

Alastair silently presented him with a handle. Dry-eyed, Dean could only stare at the instrument that had been administered against him countless times since he arrived in hell. By looks alone, it was an ordinary riding crop: black, 26 inches in length, but here in the realm of hell it was more. It held power that could be directed by possessor, demon or otherwise, once they held it. Something Alastair had explained in detail over the years. Dean knew once he accepted it, he’d wield great power against another soul.

Slowly Dean reached out until he held the crop tight within his grip. Alastair didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to—the twinkle in his eyes and half smirk spoke volumes. With a brief nod Alastair looked behind Dean.

A moment later Dean saw what, or, rather who, Alastair had been talking to. Dean was surprised to see that the guy moving toward him was in human form. He was short in stature to Alastair, though not in presence. His long, free falling hair swept just past his shoulders, with tattoos decorating his bare chest and arms.

It had been a long time since Dean had seen a demon in anything other than its true form. Above they stole meatsuits to blend in—here in the pits they usually stayed in their true form.

The guy slowed, but didn’t stop until he was standing right in front of Dean, and cocked his head to the side staring at Dean like he was curious, a rare oddity, then openly ogled him, his eyes traveling down Dean’s body only to pause at the contraption that encased his jutting hard cock.

On instinct Dean knew that this guy, whatever he was, wasn’t your typical hell demon.

“Now behave yourself Lindsey, might have the Senior Partners watching.”
Alastair ambled closer, clearly addressing Lindsey. “Think you’ll be able to handle training Dean here, discipline him?”

Lindsey’s head inclined in Alastair’s direction, but didn’t fully turn around, his eyes never leaving Dean’s and grunted his accent. “Are you questioning the Senior Partners decision?”

“Not for me to say dear boy, but I’ll be watching.”

This time Lindsey smirked, “Never doubted it.”

Dean flinched back, when the guy, Lindsey, was suddenly in his personal space. He felt before he actually saw a small spark, when Lindsey touched him. Unable to stop himself, Dean looked down and watched in disbelief as Lindsey’s forefinger trailed over Dean’s knuckles, a small flame trailed in its wake until Lindsey stopped where Dean’s fist was clutched around the riding crop.

Either of them said anything not even when Lindsey’s fingers started gently raked tracing down Dean’s arm causing goosebumps before Lindsey cupped and curl his hand under Dean’s elbow. “Shall we?” Though Lindsey asked, it really wasn’t an option as Lindsey tugged hard directing Dean down from the platform where he had spent the majority of his time in the last thirty years.

Dean passively followed as he was led into another room that was adjacent to Alastair’s then up on to different platform, one he had never stood on.

Just as Lindsey let go of his arm, Dean felt a flare from the riding crop almost calling to him, heating up to the point of burning. Questioningly Dean glared down at his hand, and tried to drop the riding crop—nothing happened. The heat intensified radiating through his palm, oddly it didn’t burn with pain, but he felt the crop, marking a brand into his palm.

A definite swish sound of space, or air, something opening and quickly closing had Dean looking up, only to find the body of a beautiful young woman standing before him. Stripped of clothes and hair, even being bald didn’t mar her beauty. She appeared young, beautiful, and innocent. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen, looked like someone who should be in college, sitting in class or Daytona Beach on spring break possibly entering a wet tee shirt contest. She was someone Dean would have freely flirted with, could also possibly even spend an entire weekend with.

As Dean stood there, the crop continued to burn, calling, whispering to him, waiting for him to take action. His thumb slid rubbing leisurely over the leathered handle. His eyes never left the girls. Her eyes shone wet, wide-eyed round circles of fright, watching Dean’s every move.

He wasn’t a mad hatter, though he wanted to be, instead he knew exactly what he was doing, the choice he was making, and at that moment he didn’t care. He was only sure of what he didn’t want anymore; and that was going back to the rack, or to be used by the others—was a definite, NO. He couldn’t do it anymore. His free hand lifted, drawing a finger down over the soft curve of her breast. Even as he ran his fingers up closer to her nipple he stepped in closer. Though he was careful not to allow his cock to actually touch her body. Not that they gave him any rules, even if Dean felt Alastair wouldn’t care, but this other guy, Lindsey, the way he looked at Dean, he knew it probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

So lost in thought Dean didn’t even notice the splattering of tears dropping off her chin, down onto her chest trailing off until they disappeared and absorbed into her skin. One such teardrop slid partially down toward her nipple. Without thinking using his fingertip, Dean popped the bubbled tear then circled the areole of her erect nipple causing her to shiver. Whether it was in fear or lust, Dean wasn’t sure and didn’t ask. Then he followed the wet trail up the rest of her chest to where it initially fell.

Looking up, his head cocked to one side when he saw her head tilted down, trying to hide her face. Gently he cupped her jaw, and prodded her to lift her head, so he could look into her face. Foolishly, her eyes were squeezed shut; gently his thumb brushed her cheek wiping away some of the wetness. Licking his lips, almost hesitantly he asked, “Open.”

Thankfully she understood and quickly opened her eyes. They stood like that, long moments where Dean just stared into her pleading eyes. Then suddenly she jerked, her eyes opened further, her fear turned to shock. A thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of her mouth. Seconds, minutes blended together not that it really mattered only that it was slow. When the light in her eyes started to fade then diminish, so very slowly, leaving behind only emptiness.

Only after he realized she was dead, he leaned forward to lightly brush his lips over hers.

Her body partially slumped, only forcibly held upright by his grip of the riding crop. Dean shook his head trying to find the logic in the illogical. Finally he glanced down. Staring naively, and had to blink several times at what he saw. Of what he still held firmly clasped in his hand, instead of riding crop, in its place was a dagger knife deeply imbedded to the hilt within the girl’s stomach. Skewed in, a gash that ran vertically, his hand was covered in blood and possibly a few of her entrails.

He moved to pull the dagger out, but stopped as he did he felt Lindsey’s body directly behind him. His hands rubbed sensually up and down Dean’s arms each pass was slower, heated, and sparked with heighten sexuality. He could feel his cock twitch, the ache, and throb within the tight cockring. “Nice.” As Lindsay hissed.

Lindsey’s breath was searing hot on his neck. He should be disgusted, sick with himself for killing her, but he couldn’t. Instead he felt pleasure and was envious. Envious that he was able to give her something he had been longing for, his own permanent death.

The dagger he held finally gave way and slid from her body where she just crumbled to the floor then disappeared. At the same time the dagger turned back into the riding crop he’d been given, like the dagger was still slick with her blood. He didn’t know her, what she was, a demon in a meatsuit, or someone like himself, or even if it had given her a permanent death—only that she-like him-was another lost soul that had been thrown down to the pits.

Lindsey moved, closing the small space between them until he was flush with Dean’s back, his hands hot on Dean’s hips anchoring holding Dean in place. “But we’re not done yet.”

Once again his palm burned and another body appeared before him. Out of curiosity more than anything else, Dean glanced down and watched the riding crop change; this time he held a bowie knife.


With each death, came a new weapon each new instrument forced him to be creative. Though after thirty years under Alastair’s inventive hands, it honestly wasn’t that difficult. With each new death also brought pleasure; of Lindsey’s hands touching his heat.

At one point he had thought Alastair or someone else had joined them. Dean could see Lindsey’s hands sprawled out, the hard pressure of each digit massaging as he spread the slick blood out over his abs and into his skin, but Dean swore he felt another set of hands. Hands on his hips, fingertips bruising groping moving toward his ass.

As soon as the victim before him met death, Dean paused and twisted so he could see and looked down toward the hands he knew had to be leaving bruises. Instead of expected hands, with a body attached to them, he only found Lindsey and a wall of flames.

Jerkily within Lindsey’s grasp, Dean whipped around and just stared wide-eyed heedless of everything else around him: of Alastair who still stood watching them, or of the body waiting to be killed by his own hands.

Finally Lindsey paused and grinned, taking a step back, allowing Dean to drink in his full. Sparks ignited, like a lit match, then hopped one to another. Each sparking, growing collectively, building until they expanded and slowly started to form shape. Together they structured for all intense purposes, into the shape of wings.

They moved with fluidly, crackling like a new log that was put on a roaring campfire. They fluttered and flapped then started to move toward him. Shocked Dean stepped back only to be block by the body he was to torture behind him.

Lindsey laughed, and stepped back into Dean’s space. Lindsey’s hands quickly reasserted themselves back on Dean’s body, this time possessively mauling his body. The wings stirred the air stifling. At first it was soft light brushing of heat, then a spark crackled in his face as a feathered flame brushed against his face—it was hot, intense, but it didn’t burn his flesh.

Lindsey’s hands were suddenly holding his face then pulled him in for a kiss, at the last second he held back glaring at him. Blue eyes clear as he continued staring intently. He didn’t pull away, or raise his voice out to Alastair; no he spoke softly like Dean would be the only one to hear. “That’s enough for today—leave us.”

Alastair didn’t answer, but a bellow of laughter followed him out.

As Alastair left, Dean felt the body behind him disappear.

Lindsey didn’t waste any time as his mouth descended on Dean’s. The kiss wasn’t gentle, but devouring, consuming as Lindsey took. His tongue moved tasting Dean’s mouth, tongue and teeth leaving no crevice untouched and unexplored. Hands firmly gripped Dean’s hips, pulling him closer. Lindsey adjusted his stance to let Dean feel his arousal.

Cock against cock, Lindsey ground himself against Dean. His flames fluttered over his shoulders, descending down to create a cocoon. Small sparks flared out caressing Dean’s back, arms shoulders, down over his ass.

Each spark sizzled and flared out to lick over Dean’s skin. Building a tempo, a desire that crackled igniting more flames, warming to an inferno.

Logically Dean knew his skin wasn’t actually burning, not even damaging this meatsuit; something he had experienced, where his flesh was roasted and skewered numerous times over the years under Alastair’s watchful care. No his skin didn’t damage under Lindsey’s flamed touch. It only created a heat that got hotter and increased as he became more sexually charged. Something Lindsey was working to intensify.

The ache of want blazed through Dean, his desire built until it matched the furnace from Lindsey’s touch. Lindsey pulled away only swiping his tongue over Dean’s cheek then moved downwards over his neck and chest. Progressively moving further down as he continued licking away the splatter of blood from Dean’s flesh.

Moaning, Dean tightened his grip on the crop. Anything that’d keep his hands at his side, instead of doing what he wanted— to push Lindsey further down toward his cock.

Dean didn’t even realize the crop handled had changed once again not until he felt it slither up his arm like a snake. Freaked Dean’s hand rushed to fling it off of him, but it was too late as it circled itself around Dean’s neck. By the time Dean’s fingers reached and touched its black surface he knew it changed again and by the feel of it, it had morphed into a collar.

Lindsey never stopped licking, only added bites in-between as he descended further until he was kneeling. The heat intensified. Taking his time with each deliberate swipe, Lindsey feverishly worked his tongue to lick away the Pollack finger-paint of blood smeared allover Dean’s stomach. Though he carefully avoided all contact with Dean’s cock, his tongue detoured, dipping in then out lavishing Dean’s navel with enough wet spittle that it started to trickle down.

Lindsey dipped lower then pulled back. Suddenly intent blue eyes glared up at him, a slow wolfish grin followed, as Dean watched Lindsey’s tongue sweep across the head of his cock. Dean didn’t bother to swallow his guttural pleasure, instead just rocked his hip forward, only to have Lindsey’s tight grip hold him in place.

There was no doubt in Dean’s mind that he would have lost it already if the cock ring hadn’t been in place.

Abruptly, Dean was pushed back, and his legs pulled further apart.

It happened too quickly, falling then being held in mid-air. Restraints tightening, though not the same restraints Alastair used— those he knew were all too familiar with. These though also invisible they were lighter more flexible, offered a bit of give, the binds softer like they wouldn’t chaff his skin.

A hard pinch drew his attention back to Lindsey, who now stood between Dean’s legs. Blood rushed to his head; though his body was horizontal he was angled to where his feet and legs were elevated higher than his head. Legs spread-eagled, his cock erect, bobbing easily within Lindsey’s reach.

Leisurely as if he had all day, Lindsey petted and caressed up and down Dean’s inner thighs. Gently pushing them wider. Each pass the binds helped Dean hold position and relax him into the stretch, until Lindsey wanted more, pushing him even further apart. Hands reached under his ass and forcibly tilted Dean’s hips. Lindsey’s eyes never left Dean’s as he lowered his mouth stretching his lips over the mushroom head of Dean’s cock.

Dean wanted to buck into the heated furnace of Lindsey’s mouth, but as he tried each tied limb held him immobile, pulling tighter and allowing no movement.

Lindsey grinned then swallowed his cock down to the cock ring.

Pleasure rippled and ricocheted throughout Dean’s body, just skirting the edge of pain. This, being on the receiving end of pleasure without pain or threat of pain wasn’t something he was accustomed to. Actually here in the pit he had only been on the receiving end of pleasure in the beginning when Lust took him. Alastair had enlisted Lust, to properly train him sexually in every aspect Dean had been lacking. There wasn’t much, he had done a lot of experimenting his last year, but Dean had never engaged in gay sex, or had even been on the receiving end of a strap-on. When Lust took his virginity, appropriately in a male meatsuit, it wasn’t rape or done out of pain. Alastair had explained it wouldn’t be as fun, to just rape him, to allow Dean any righteous indication. Instead he made sure Lust had Dean ready; that Dean wanted and needed to be fucked. Where he’d he willingly bend over and spread himself, and beg to be fucked.

He did.

From beginning to end, Alastair watched, then just laughed.

After that it was years of training, literally under Lust—of getting hard while in physical pain, ignoring the pain to come on demand, to maintain an erection, to release then get hard again like he was sixteen. It helped that hell had its own law of physics. It also didn’t hurt that Lust seemed to like him; had whispered tricks, various things to help maintain an erection pass the point of human endurance. He had learned enough that if he concentrated he could maintain an erection up to the point of his death. Lists and lessons of instructions, training to serve, not that Alastair ever required or wanted his services—instead he watched, preferred the art of torture, to crave designs into his flesh, digging and pulling out entrails…

But what Lindsey was doing with his tongue and throat, was driving Dean crazy… it’d been almost thirty years, his entire time in hell since anyone had willingly given him pleasure that wasn’t a part of his training lesson, or done without accompaniment of pain. The pleasure was torturous in a way he couldn’t remember from before. Not even Lust. What he wanted and craved was to touch Lindsey. Though the more he wanted, tried to wiggle, physically encourage in any way, the more he was denied, and the binds would tightened their hold.

Dean did the only thing that was viable he voiced his pleasure, begging, and moaning for more. Each outburst was met with approval as Lindsey sucked harder taking him deeper, until he was a babbling idiot in the throes of ecstasy. His thought process zeroed down to one thought; he needed to come. His voice hoarse, begging to be fucked, be allowed to come, anything… thrashing with each word welcoming the heavy twinge of pain from the bond that held him.

Feeling as if he was about to loose control, even restrained as he was, Lindsey eased off Dean’s cock. Slowly pulling up, Lindsey’s lips tightened, purposely made a slurping sound followed by an obscene suck-pop as he pulled off completely.

Lindsey leaned back, wisps of his hair swept across Dean’s thighs; sensual tickling that elicited a sound that Dean couldn’t even begin to describe. Blue eyes twinkled, his gaze traveled back down to Dean’s cock, intentionally licking his lips, “Not even close.” then grinned mischievously.

Though he missed the customarily thud of hitting the ground from throwing his head back, Dean arched as Lindsey started to lavishly tongue his sacs. His hands gripped the backs of Dean’s thighs pushing his knees forward into his chest, nearly folding him in half. Between licks, his heated breath ghosted his sacs, tonguing his way down, flicking out over his perineum as Lindsey manipulated his body, encouraged his muscles to give, rolling with the enforced stretch. His tongue lazily circling the sides, each swipe slicker than the last, saturating the area with his spittle, his tongue teasing the puckered hole. Before he finally stabbed the center with his tongue.

Fingers dug into his flesh, pushing forward as his tongue dug in deeper.

Dean convulsed in ecstasy, a frenzy of sexual need. Ignoring the pain he rocked his hips against Lindsey’s tongue, fucking himself—it wasn’t enough, he needed.

Everywhere the heat increased, beads of sweat dripped off his brow. His voice hoarse with continue wail of please.

He barely noticed, too engrossed in need, but soft firm licks of heat played over his back until they started to pound, hard and fast. Until he felt the scorch seared into his back in rhythmic tempo to the need Lindsey was creating and its pain barely noticeable against his need.

A sudden intensity of searing heat against, first one then the other, back and forth with continuous heated flicks on Dean’s nipple instantly had him straining to see why. At first he didn’t see anything, then saw a small spark flitted across his chest. It almost danced around his areole to brush twisting in a caress around his erect nipple.

Watched in horrified fascination as more flickers of sparks appeared. They rained down, sweeping over his arms, a fluidity of motion. Spark sputtered, the noise had Dean looking up, those fire wings or whatever they hell they were, had sprouted and expanded.

Too caught up in his frenzied need, he watched dumbfounded, but did nothing more than continue fucking himself on Lindsey’s tongue.

Embers of heat, caresses and nipped at his cock, spiraling down to his sacs, traveling down to his opening. The shock had him jumping, mumbling incoherently, his sacs full and heavy. Lindsey’s fingers dug into his ass, his thumbs pushing him wider, entering increasing the pressure, his tongue diving deeper—he could feel the flickers of heat entering dancing around Lindsey’s tongue, then going further, deeper filling him.

The pleasure, his need was beyond what he could take. Shaking uncontrollably, lost in the pulse of his want, Dean closed his eyes. The heated flicks of pleasure were everywhere, the pressure felt like hands, molding, massaging, and caressing his body heightening his pleasure. A hundred small tongues of heat licked every aspect of his body. What felt like hands seemed to be everywhere, all at once. Each heated spark slithered out like a tongue on his already hot skin.

The pleasure, his need was beyond what he could take.

Suddenly, Dean opened his eyes, barely aware, or conscious of anything other than the pressure around his balls was released— that Lindsey was holding Dean.

His orgasm ricocheted through his body, his muscles clutching down belatedly realizing Lindsey was fucking him, filling him, pistoning in and out of his body. As his body convulsed, pleasure and pain mixed, Lindsey increased his pace. Fucking him harder, rougher… it was too much that Dean shook his head, and just surrendered everything he had and allowed the embers to consume him.


Warm, safe, it didn’t matter that Dean was securely cocooned within Lindsey’s arms he was still in hell. Could hear the screams— of others in the pit, on the rack. Could remember everything. Of begging Alastair not to go back to the rack, to be given to others, the riding crop, it’s burning mark, killing and more killing. The blood was everywhere. On his hands, his body, one kill after another. Feeling envious of hoping that he brought them final death. Then there was the pleasure. Flaming wings, Lindsey.

Dean fought against the insistent push to wake. He didn’t want to leave bliss he had found—but memories of before Lindsey, of Alastair coming each day… the screams intensified, the heat of Lindsey’s embrace cooling each second….


Startled Dean opened his eyes—he remembered. He was free from hell, in a bed in some motel room with Sam asleep in the other bed.

He was cold, alone. Burrowing under excess covers would do nothing to increase the wanted warmth, or relieve his ache of being alone… of being without Lindsey.



denyce: Jared waving hey~ (Default)

January 2017

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