When Alastair speaks, Dean’s soul decays sweetly, like flesh rotting in the sun. The demonic taunt is soft and drizzles like honey against Dean’s ear: “Daddy missed his favourite little girl.”
Alastair’s long, cold fingers have Dean’s jaw in an iron grip. It hurts beautifully. Dean hates himself for how that tar black darkness inside him heals beneath Alastair’s touch. He twists his neck and glares up into Alastair’s face: the mean curve of his mouth and the merciless gleam in his milky white gaze.
Dean forces himself to smile. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Alastair bares his teeth in a grin. Dean knows what it feels like to have his throat ripped out by those teeth: hot and cold all at once, demon saliva and human blood pooling in the hollow of his collarbone.
Alastair’s laughter sounds like a snarl against the line of Dean’s neck. “So jealous,” he murmurs. “Your ribcage is the prettiest one I ever tore open. If I could dream, I’d dream about your skin parting under my blade every night.”
Alastair’s fingertips are feather light and led heavy all at once where they rest over Dean’s chest. “Dean,” he breathes against Dean’s temple. “Beautiful Dean. Is your heart still sweet for me?”
Dean remembers Alastair biting into his still-beating heart, blood dripping down his wrist like juice from ripe fruit: so intensely erotic and disgustingly intimate.
Is your heart still sweet for me?
Dean thinks of Sam, lovely and warm beneath motel sheets. He wants to be soft for no one but him. “No.”
Alastair kisses the lie from his mouth and spits it back into his face. It drips from Dean’s lashes, sticky and degrading. Alastair is hard. Dean is, too.
“You can’t lie to me,” Alastair coos cruelly. “I’ve tasted your heart.”
Alastair has collected all of Dean’s secrets: he has plucked them like flowers from the bloody meadow of Dean’s insides. He knows about the noose of self-hatred Dean has carried around his neck his entire life. He knows how pretty Dean’s masochistic mewls are, knows that his ‘no’ means ‘please, more’ and he knows what the shame in Dean’s blood tastes like.
He knows what Sam and Dean do in the dark.
Alastair’s nails dig into Dean’s skin: a hell claw over heaven’s handprint. “I think your boy knows you like your lovers a little demonic, my pretty one,” Alastair whispers. “Your brother drinks the blood of demons, just like Azazel intended for the Boy King. He’s fated to walk into hell one day. For you.”
Most demons lie, but Alastair doesn’t, and Dean wonders how many times a heart can break. He drops his head to Alastair’s shoulder, and screams.
