Really think i might be the next Charles Dickens here. Not cause my stories are as good as his or shit but i just churned out a 70 word sentance with no less than five commas and one dainty hyphen. I say less words in a day sometimes.
Warnings: Torture, SPN level gore, mentions of rape/non-con, mentions of forced bestiality(nothing graphic), angst.
Summary: When Alastair disappeared after Anna’s death, he took you with him, holding you simply to torture the Winchesters. With the knowledge that angels are tracking him down, he sets out to hurt you as much as he can.
A/N: This kinda replaces the end of 04x15. Also my first work so please please please let me know how I did or anything else. Feedback is golden!
When Dean came back to life after 40 years in the pit, he had had trouble believing he was, in fact, alive. Paranoia followed him from hell, and it took a while for him to realize that his resurrection was not some cruel joke. It had taken some time, but slowly, he had accepted that this was real. That you were real.
But now you were gone. Plucked from his grasp like a child plucks a flower from the earth. It made Dean wonder if he ever left Hell.
—
Alastair hummed softly, relishing in the cries of his latest victim. It had been surprisingly easy to take his best student little pet away from him, and, though he was no where near either of the Winchesters, the knowledge that they would be driving themselves into the ground looking for you almost had him singing.
He hadn’t felt such exhilaration during a torture session as he was feeling since the righteous man had fallen onto his rack. And while he couldn’t use some of his preferred techniques, considering he wanted you alive, the knowledge that Dean was suffering at your mere absence was delicious.
Carefully selecting a pair cuticle nippers from his cart of tools, he turned with a flourish, grin falling as he realized you were unconscious. You were no fun unconscious, after all, he liked your screams.
With an aggrieved sigh, he dropped the nippers back on the table and, begrudgingly, snatched up a heavy leather collar. He sulked over to the rack where you lay unconscious and cinched it around your neck, far too tight for it to be comfortable, then stormed out of the room
—
When you flickered back into consciousness, all you could do was try and breath.
The still air chilled your bare skin, raising goosebumps along the paled flesh. The leather around your neck, though suffocatingly tight, was eerily comforting, and though it confused you, you lent into it. You needed all the comfort could could get.
Despite the freezing air and the chills that ran along your skin, the outside of your left thigh burned with a vengeance. Tears welled in your eyes as you recalled the moments before you fell unconscious.
The pain from the brand had cast all other thoughts from your mind when Alastair had seared what he called a ‘permanent reminder’ of himself into your skin.
It was all too much, the cold, the pain, your hunger, and the confusing comfort of the collar. You didn’t see it coming, but you barely had seconds before you passed out once more.
—
Alastair waking you up by pouring water on you wasn’t unusual, as a matter of fact, it seemed to be his preferred method. But each and every time the water had been icy.
This time, it was boiling.
You screamed as it awoke you, drowning out Alastair’s cruel laugh as you gasped and sobbed. Your body spasming against its restraints, desperately trying to evade the pain.
“Good morning, pet,” the sickly sweet tone of his voice sent shivers up your spine, “did you enjoy your bath?”
A slight pull choked you for a moment as Alastair undid the buckle before the collar disappeared.
“You fell asleep on me last night, quiet rude don’t you think?” He grinned as tears streamed down your face, tinting pink as they washed away bits of dried blood. “No matter, we have plenty of time for just us today!”
A flash a metal caught in the cold light as Alastair brandished the cuticle nippers once more.
Slowly, delicately, he lowered them to your face, tracing your features just as Dean used to in the wee hours of the morning. If Alastair knew this, he would rejoice knowing that the seat gesture was now ruined by his doing.
He reached your lips, then without warning, split your upper lip in half.
Your wail was music to his ears, the fading sound leaving him yearning for more. He forced you to count threatening you with harsh punishment should you refuse.
By the time they got to one-hundred, your body was shaking with sobs, voice cracking. To add insult to injury, your stomach, having gone four days now with out food, rumbled and groaned.
Humiliation flooded through you, your cheeks burning.
Through tears you spared a glance at your torturer, furrowed brow widened as you perceived the look of sadistic joy upon his face.
“Pet!” He cried, the same way a mother or parental figure does when you do something unexpected. "You should have told me you were so hungry!”
He released the nippers, letting them clatter to the ground.
“I wasn’t going to feed you just yet but I suppose we could switch things around a bit…”
The strap across your forehead prevented you from turning your head completely, but your heart dropped into your stomach when you saw the contraption Alastair selected; a long tube, open on one end with a funnel connected to the other.
In a desperate attempt at self preservation, you clamped your lips tight, ignoring the burning pain that spread across your face at the pressure on your cut lip. Alastair snorted, the corners of his smirk curling up further.
“Very well then, if you insist on being difficult…”
You cried out as he shoved the tube up your nose. It wasn’t a large tube, but good god was it to big for such a small space. You could feel it scraping away at the inside of your nose, could feel the blood trickle down to your mouth.
There was barely a warning before it entered your throat; a slight tickle at the top of your mouth, perhaps.
You coughed and gagged as he slipped it down you throat further, eyes leaking tears like a faucet.
Finally, after what felt like ages, the tube stopped moving. Sniffling, you sobbed, not bothering to muffle the sounds of crying.
“Bonne appétit, kitten.”
You couldn’t see what he poured into the funnel, part of you didn’t want to anyways. Your muscles tensed in anticipation, waiting for whatever pain you would feel next. You did not expect to feel a tickle in your chest before your body spasmed into a coughing fit.
“Whoopsie!”
Alastair’s voice sent shivers up your spine. “Wrong way. I’m so sorry, kitten, how careless of me.”
Pulling it back out was just as bad as him pushing it in, it was unnatural and you so longed to claw at your neck.
It took him a moment to actually get the tube into your esophagus, but with a sharp jab and a feel around your neck, he was pretty sure it was in the right place now.
He was halfway through, ignoring your gags in an effort to repeal the foreign device, when his head shot up, eyes gazing towards the door, before a smirk adorned his mug.
“Well, pet, it seems that we have a guest,” he reached for the collar, tightening it more than he ever had before. “You’ll be a good girl while I go and greet them, won’t you?”
With a slight bow, he disappeared from your vision, exiting somewhere behind you and slamming a door you couldn’t see. The only sounds now audible were your gags as your body fought to expel the tube from its system.
Tilted onto your back, it was excruciatingly hard for you to vomit up the tube and you needed up spewing several mouthfuls of bile onto yourself before you could spit it out.
With Alastair gone, you began to process your situation.
Naked, shorn, and weak, covered in cuts and burns and bruises, sticky with blood and bile and the filth of the dogs Alistair had set on you. Helpless. Alone. Collared, branded, and chained like an animal. For the first time in these two weeks, it hit you just how pathetic you were was.
It was the straw that broke the camels back. The loneliness. The time to think. With a shuddering gasp, you descended into tears
—
Dean sprinted through the halls of the warehouse. Slamming his hands into every door, yelling out your name. The desperation raw in his voice.
He reached the end of the hall and tried the door; locked.
At first, he backed up, trying with all his might to kick it down, and then to bodyslam it open. When his body couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed his gun.
Aiming it at the glass square in the door, he fired several times until he had a hole large enough to reach through.
Shards of glass still clinging to the door frame pierced his jacket at sliced his skin, he didn’t care, he had to check everywhere.
It was an awkward angle, and Dean could barely reach it, but he managed to twist the knob on the inside until the door swung open; revealing the carnage inside.
—
It took the Dean a moment to register that the form on the table was indeed the women he was looking for. No longer did you sport your gorgeous H/C locks, the hair barely dotting your shaved scalp as it began growing back. Your skin was so stained and burned and bruised it didn’t look human.
Hesitantly, as if approaching a frightened rabbit, Dean paced forwards.
“Y/N?” His voice as hesitant as his steps.
Your eyes flew open, fearful as a rabbit chased by dogs. The relief that flooded them as soon as you realized who it was was immediate.
“de-an?” Your voice choppy and hoarse.
“Hey there, sweetheart.” Dean struggled to blink back tears.
“s-sammy?”
“He’s okay, I’m gonna get you outta here, okay sweetheart?”
You hummed, eyes half closed as your head lolled to the side, a couple tears cutting through the grime on your cheeks and nose.
Silence hung between them as Dean fiddled with straps around your wrists, slick blood and bile. The straps had been locked so tightly that they had rubbed the skin raw and left it paled as blood smuggled to fill back in.
As the moved to your ankles he grimaced, noticing the sticky white mess that dripped down your inner thighs.
You didn’t make a sound as he adjusted your prone figure to sit forwards, letting you lean against his shoulder as he fiddled with the too tight buckle around your neck. He didn’t care about the vomit that dribbled down your chin, staining his shirt, nor did he care about the blood that seeped into his clothes.
His only focus was you.
The collar fell away from your neck leaving behind rubs and bruised skin. Dean had expected the removal of the collar to calm you, not for your breathing to speed up ten-fold, nor to be able to feel your heart pound against his chest.
“no.”
It was barely a whisper, a hint of a word, but Dean stilled, pulling back as he gripped your shaking shoulders. His mind was scrambling for answers, what had Alastair done to you? Why were you wearing t-
Oh.
He pulled you tight against his chest once more, murmuring reassurances in your ear as he hid his own tears from view.
His rage burned as he recalled his time apprenticing under Alastair; the time that monster had shown him one of his more ‘refined’ techniques.
Conditioning.
Training the victims mind into associating the removal of a collar or chains or the opening of their cage with extreme pain. It was a technique so ruthless that Dean had never been able to bring himself to do it.
Not even at his worst.
It took Dean a moment, but, as he desperately tried to banish those horrid memories from his mind, he shrugged off his jacket. Gently as he could, he draped the fabric over your shoulders and carefully guided each arm through the sleeves.
It was a bit too big, your fingers still hiding in the sleeves, but it gave you a shred of modesty and you clutched at him tighter.
When his arm wormed its way under your knees, you stifled your whimper as best you could but you could not conceal the tiniest of squeaks that escaped your cracked lips.
Deans eyes filled with pity, mouth parting to apologize but you beat him to it.
“P-please, just get me out of here.”
He hesitated a moment then steeled himself and nodded, his other arm supporting your lower back.
“Sorry about this sweetheart.”
You gasped softly as some of your injuries rubbed against his shirt and fresh tears sprang in your eyes. As he lifted you closer to his chest, you brought your trembling arms up around his neck, leaning your chin over his shoulder.
The beat of his steps both jarred your injuries and provided comforting sounds, lulling you into a more restful state. You would have fallen asleep had Dean not stepped outside moments later.
The air was crisp, slight breezing chilling you to the bone. Shivering, you burrowed deeper into Deans arms and he tightened his hold on you. As he carried you away from the hellhole in which you had been trapped, the sky came into view. And with the sky, came the stars.
They twinkled, blurring in you teary eyes and you took in a long, deep breath of fresh air.
You couldn’t help yourself; sobs wracked your body as it truly set in that you were finally free. Free from Alastair and his pain. Free from his torture. Free.
Dean didn’t say a word. He knew exactly the emotions that were coursing through you. When he had first come back, he had been hesitant and as wary as a rabbit. Not daring for ages to believe that his resurrection was not some cruel joke.
As he reached the Impala. He had to shift his hold on you to reach the passengers side handle and even then he had difficulty opening the door, but he managed. Not daring to set you down and the unforgivingly cold concrete.
Slowly ducking his head, he lowered you onto your back onto the cool leather seat of the Impala. He made to pull away but your arms tightened around his neck, terrified of losing him.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay sweetheart, I’m just gonna grab you a blanket, okay? I’m not going anywhere, okay?” He took time to check that everything he did was okay with you, letting you know everything so as not to leave you dreading something he would do, even if he knew he wasn’t going to hurt you.
Gently he took ahold of your forearms, clutching them between fingertips, and lowered them to your chest. Pulling away quickly, he opened the door to the backseat, reaching up onto the rear dash to grab one of the thick blankets they kept there. He shut the door as quietly as he could, but that didn’t stop you from reflexively tensing at the abrupt noise. Though Dean noticed, he said nothing, it wouldn’t help you right now anyways.
Carefully, he worked the blanket underneath you, then laid you back down on the leather, wrapping you up nice and tight. He ducked back, about to shut the door when the rustling of feathers sounded behind him, alarming the both of you.
Quiet as a cat, in all his trench-coated glory, was Castiel. His eye were stoic and matched Deans fiery gaze.
“What do you want now?” Dean snarled, turning completely and shielding you from the angels view.
For a moment, Castiel was silent, eyes dropping to stare at the road beneath him before he returned his gaze to Dean, stepping forwards.
“This hasn’t been easy for you.”
“Yeah no shit! What the hell do you want?”
“I’m here to help.” He nodded at you.
“Why the fuck would you do that. You’ve done nothing for us since you pulled me outta hell!” Deans voice was low and angry, yet cautiously quiet.
Behind him, you shivered as the night air crept in through the open door.
Castiel said nothing, lifting his chin to regard Dean. The look he sported was not judgmental, but perhaps slightly inquisitive. And not the type of inquisitivity that came alongside confusion, no he knew everything he wanted and needed to, but instead a type of inquisitivity that prompted Dean to stop and think.
For a few tense moments, only the stars dared to move, it seemed even the air around the angel and the hunter stilled. Then, slowly, cautiously, Dean stepped back.
“Fine, but hurry the hell up!”
Periwinkle eyes softened, a look of compassion that one might expect when they thought of an angel, and he leant over you.
At first you shrunk away, not willing to be near anyone other than Dean, but you had to trust Dean, trust that he wouldn’t let anyone he didn’t mildly trust near you.
Eyes glowing blue, Castiel pressed but two fingers to your forehead. The tenseness in your shoulders seemed to relax and the frown upon your lips softened. A wave of warmth, like a loving hug, washed through you, chasing away the pain Though the bloodstains and other substances soiling your skin remained, the physical damage was slowly washed away.
He stepped back, allowing Dean to approach you and examine his work. Though Dean still had his back to him, Castiel gave one last thoughtful comment.
“We’re not all so stuck-up, if you give us a chance.”
Dean had barely started to turn before Castiels wings rustled once more and he disappeared into nothingness.
He stared long and hard at the spot where the angel had once stood, the let his gaze wander upwards. Overhead, a patch of cloud was slowly pushed across the sky, and the moon glowed brightly. She smiled down at the hunter as he gazed at her in return.
Dean lowered his gaze.
He stood there for only a moment longer then turned, shutting the passengers door behind him and walking across the front of the car. He pulled the door open and plopped down in the drivers seat, exhausted.
He hadn’t expected it, but a soft smile graced his features as you scooted closer to him, wresting your head against his thigh.
Starting the car he pulled out from the curb, placing one hand on your head. You murmured then nuzzled into the touch.’
It would take weeks, maybe even months, but, as he sped away from Alastair’s hellhole Dean knew you would be okay.
Summary: Finally having a home to decorate, the reader sets about preparing for Christmas.
For: @that-one-gay-girl
A/N: This ended up being quite a bit shorter than I set out to write, but it just felt so natural for it to end where it did, and any edits I made made it feel to stuffy, so i left it as is. Also, this was part of the @spnsecretsantaficexchange run by the lovely @negans-lucille-tblr. Thank you for organizing this it was great fun and I hope you do this next year! And as always, please like and comment, feedback is golden! Happy Holidays!
Dean wasn’t at first sure why he was awake, his room looked, as he rubbed a hand over his eyes, perfectly normal. He was almost prompted to go back asleep when he heard it.
Faintly, a rummaging and rustling of objects. If that wasn’t enough tell, a faint, warm, light peeked in from his door, sneaking through the cracks despite it being shut.
Despite the bunkers thick walls, the layers of warding did not protect against the winter chill; Dean supposed that was a disadvantage of living in an incredibly old bunker. Still, he shrugged on his robe, neglecting his slippers in favour of silence.
Though he did not, for whatever reason, feel as though whatever or whoever was causing this disturbance was malicious in its intent, habit still had him reaching for his gun.
The light in the hall was faint, and Dean blinked in surprise at its source. Teeny tiny, itty-bitty string lights strung up to frame each door; a red ribbon around every doorknob. Cautiously, he crept through the hall.
A quick glance down the corridor at Sam’s room confirmed his brother was still asleep, or at least his door, decorated like the other, was shut. However, when he looked towards Y/N’s room, the door was ajar. Peering inside, the bed was rumpled, a corner pulled back, but empty. Your robe and slippers were also missing.
Creeping out of the room and making his way towards the library, Dean lowered his gun into his pocket. Ahead, he could see the cozy glow of the libraries lights.
He had to blink a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light. The room felt completely different. Red tinsel scalloped the edges of the tables, while the silver wrapped around the staircase behind him. Little belled pieces of mistletoe decorated the corners of the many old computers and instruments.
Despite all this, his attention glanced past them and into the library, padding forwards and into it. Yet more tinsel lined the book shelves and dropped off the table. The table itself had candles interspersed with foliage upon it. On top of the smaller book shelves were bowls of pinecones, also accompanied by candles. The light atop the table was capped with a Santa Hat.
You hadn’t noticed him yet. Your back was turned to him as you sat cross legged on the floor. One of the chairs was pulled out with a pile of paper resting on its cushion. Beside you on the floor, a growing pile of 3D snowflakes.
“What are you doing up sweetheart?”
You whipped around, nearly tipping over in haste.
“Jesus Christ Dean!” Your voice, though strong, was hushed. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Dean frowned.
“Y/N, it’s nearly one in the morning, what the hell are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep,”
Dean frowned, brow furrowed in confusion when you interrupted him.
“I mean, we’ve finally got our own place, right?” You said, turning back to your cutting, “we haven’t had a normal Christmas in ages and, well, I wanted to do something special for you guys.”
He softened, you were right after all.
You had joined the Winchester clan at the meek age of twelve, barely coming in to your own when your father, a hunter friend of Johns, got himself iced. And not once since you joined them had any of them had a proper Christmas.
With an aggrieved, albeit exaggerated, sighed as he thudded down on the floor.
“Right, hand ‘em over, Sweetheart.”
“What?”
“The scissors, hadn’t ‘em over.”
Pausing, you set the aforementioned scissors down and turned to face him.
“Why?”
“Because, the faster you get this done, the sooner you’ll go to sleep,” he retorted picking up the scissors as well as a ready triangle of paper.
“Why do you care if I sleep? We haven’t heard of any monsters in days, even if one happens to pop up, I can catch sleep in the car.”
Dean looked up, not at you, simply staring ahead of him, seemingly contemplating his words. You were perplexed when he let out a defeated sigh, the eyes that turned to you a storm of emotions.
“Because I care about you, Y/N, I care about you a lot; more than I should.”
“Dean-”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell you, I know it’s weird,”
“Dean-”
“And I didn’t want to make things awkward between us-”
“Dean!” Your voice was firm enough to make him stop and look at you once more, though it was neither loud nor unkind.
“You’re rambling, Dean. You haven’t given me a chance to speak. And you’re wrong to make assumptions about me; I care about you too.”
“Y/N…”
“Shh…” you pressed a finger to his lips. “ Just enjoy the moment, just for tonight. We can talk more about this later but please? Just… let it be?”
Those eyes, pleading and wide, reflecting the festive lights that you had put up, he couldn’t resist them, he couldn’t resist you.
He leant forwards, pausing before closing the gap.
So I’m sitting on two nearly finished Dean x Reader comfort fics. Do we want the really angsty reader!comfort fic first? Or do we want the less angsty, Dean!comfort fic first?
