SpN: Come The Night, 14/?

[roxy]

Title: Come The Night, 14/?
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2533
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5

Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.

Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. This section, non-con, drugged rape. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.


one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen





icon by fragilecat

4
Sun is up but not burning yet and he and Angel are strolling down the main drag, heading for breakfast. They buy strips of chicken cooked on wooden skewers, painted with a sauce that just stops at burning. They grin at each other and sweat, and chase each bite down with pieces of a flat savory bread, sticky with garlic and spices. In between bites, they pass a bottle of water back and forth between them. Their feet kick up little clouds of reddish dust along the dirt paths between tents and wagons, and the odd snatches of music and voices compete with the sound of birds overhead and the snap of flags in the breeze. Dean takes it all in with a smile. It's good, reminds him of the time he and Sam had played at being circus roustabouts. Of other times they'd managed to snatch a little down time between jobs, pretending normal, hanging out at local fairs.

They're just walking past a tent promising all kinds of practical items that have yet to be unpacked and stacked on shelves when Dean sees it. He chokes, almost impaling himself on the skewered chicken.

"What the fuck—why is there a fucking harpy in that cage—how is it even possible--?"

Angel looks up and glares at the hag-faced thing quivering in a too small iron cage. Wrinkled, human-like breasts protrude from the feathers thick on its deformed body; stumps of wings beat against the bars and jerk away from the touch of the iron. "Harpy spit," he snaps. "Once you boil out the gunk, it's good for wounds, knits up meat like a dream." He turns his head away from it, and barely suppresses a disgusted shudder. "Um. Yeah, I keep forgetting that you don't…know this stuff."

Dean gawps at the monster in the cage. He's sliced and diced a few, but has never seen one just sitting before. To him, it looks like a hag mashed into a hawk's body and crushed down into a hunched ball of hatred. The thing's talons are clipped away; the claws on the end of twig-like arms tucked under its wings are muffled in leather mitts. It turns to Dean and hisses, little but malice in its ice-blue eyes. They've pulled its needle-teeth, left just a raw hole in a ragged face. Unbelievably, Dean feels a jolt of pity for the nasty thing.

Angel reads his face and shakes his head. "Don't be stupid, if it wasn't in that cage, it'd be trying to take our face off, or lay eggs in our guts so…" he shrugs. "Save it for something that deserves pity."

They pass another tent, and in front of it stands a tall, black-haired man. There are snakes draped over his body, slithering over his arms, across his neck. They glide past his mouth as he smiles at Dean. Dean shivers. He's pretty sure that the guy just licked the pale belly of that snake… "What's his story?" he growls and jerks his chin in the guy's direction.

Angel gnaws on the last shreds of chicken stuck to his skewer. He glances at the guy and shrugs. "Um. Besides being clearly insane—he's a soothsayer, y'know. Just a jumped up fortune teller."

"What, ya mean fake?"

"Nah—no fakes here, bru. But so what? Fortune tellers are a dime a dozen and no one's going to tell you that your life is destined to be shitty and fucked up, right? How far would you go on that?"

Dean laughs, Angel's got a point. He's a little freaked when Snake Guy pins him with a long searching look before his eyes shoot wide. He whips around and practically flings himself into his tent. That can't be good….

~o0o~

She calls for him, almost every evening and he goes without question. Angel pulls farther and farther away, face like ice when Dean leaves. Can't help that. It's…it's just is the way it is. Dean stops asking about leaving. He stops asking Angel how his day went, stops looking at him, stops sharing a bedroll. Stops wondering what his skin tastes like, stops thinking about anything but her Majesty, Queen Will. After a while, he stops going back to Angel at all.

~o0o~

Dean's spread out on her couch, panting hard, worn out and desperately wishing he could sleep. His skin feels raw and too hot and he can't stop touching himself. He feels someone behind him, and groans. Spreads his legs and opens his arms. It's one of the hunters—George--at his back. George watches Dean writhe on the couch, and can't keep the want out of his eyes but there's disgust there, too. His mouth twists up into a sneer when he sees Dean's aware of him.

Dean doesn't like that, doesn't like the way he's getting treated lately…there's a distinct lack of respect. Dean thinks maybe he needs to do drills again. Ditch-digging's given him shoulders almost as broad as Sammy's but his other skills are getting rusty. George sneaks up on his blind side and trails fingers across his ribs and instead of getting up and clocking him like he should, Dean's dick twitches, drools, like all he is, is one big, fucking, Pavlovian response. A breathy moan he can't stop leaks out of his mouth, his knees start to lift…a tiny voice in his head is telling him this isn't him, isn't right or normal and if he stopped for a second he'd know what it was but he ignores it. Fuckin' little voice never steered him right before. Besides, he's burning, he fucking needs it, wants it…his mouth is open and something presses on his tongue, a fingernail scratches the smooth, wet, inside of his lip and he shudders right down to his curling toes.

"Oh. Shit."

A voice he doesn't really recognize breathes the word into his ear and suddenly is gone. Dean hears the tinkle of bells and then he smells her. His hips jerk up, his dick slaps against his belly.

"Get out," she says to someone not him and Dean can feel now it's just her and him and it's time….

~o0o~

She's sitting on his legs, her hand working his dick, slow, loose…not enough to get him anywhere but crazy. "Isn't it nice here? Aren't you glad to be here?" Her voice slithers under his skin, feels like rose stems being threaded under it. She lifts onto her knees and he presses his thumb against the damp material of her panties, rubs at the little nub trapped under the silk. He presses harder and her lips pout open. He's got the bump of her clit under his thumb, rocking it until her legs spread wider and she groans. Slides a finger past the slick material and sinks into her. He smiles because now, she's the one on fire; she's the one who wants.

He sits up, pushing her down, reversing their positions. Reaches over and grabs the glass tube of ass-tasting drink she'd set on the table. Her eyes track the movement.

"You've already had a glass; you shouldn't drink more, Rosebud. Could be dangerous." But her eyes spark and glitter like what she says is a joke and he drinks until the glass is empty, slides his tongue into the tube and licks what he can out. And his blood explodes, it's boiling, and he was horny before but now, he's screamingly desperate. Her hand on him is like a flaming brand—hotter even when she sets it over the weird scar on his arm. He screams, his head filled with visions of Sam cutting that thing off over and over and over and…

"Shhh, whatever you see, it's not real—you're here with me, this is happening." She bites down hard on his nipple and he bucks and precome spills on her belly. He slides down, smearing the wet between them, pries her legs apart.

"This is happening, this is real, this," he murmurs and drags his tongue between her silky, wet, lips, a thick wet stripe up the center of her, ends at her clit and sucks it into his mouth, pulls on it like it's—like he'd want her to pull on his dick, slides his fingers inside her to feel her heat, feel how wet and smooth she is--tight.

"God. Good boy," she groans, "clever boy." He sucks, hard, and she bucks up, muscles clamp down on his fingers and he can feel her throbbing as she comes. He comes too, soaking the silk coverlet draping her couch.


He's twisted in her sheets, sliding in and out of her. It happens over and over again, without stop. All he knows is this--his body's on fire, he's screaming out an orgasm and getting hard before he's even finished coming and his mind is…not connected. There's no feeling, just want, lust, a raging need to fuck her, to get off, again and again. Every time he touches her skin, it sends jolts of electricity that jerk his dick back to full hard. There's a little skittering scrape of panic in the corners of his mind. It won’t stop. He can't stop. She leaves him rolling on the couch, grinding into the rough material and screaming into the pillow. And when she comes back to him, it starts all over again.

Days later weeks months years…time is a myth a dream meaningless, he tumbles out of nightmares dreams to a voice calling out, begging the Queen's attention. Someone is calling at the curtain that closes the room off, calling for Her Majesty. She shoves him off and Dean tumbles over the edge of the couch, his knees crack against the floor and he comes all over himself. He rolls to his back, moaning, reaching out for her. His vision wavers and blinks like a fever dream, everything he sees looks unreal, everything he feels hurts him, makes him want to come…when the queen speaks, it sends his heart racing, his blood pumps into his dick and he feels like he's going to explode…die of wanting it.

"Give him the blood cleaner. Then get him out of here. I need to get ready for this Petition's meeting. We need supplies, and we might have something decent to trade."

"Where should I drop him? Not the Lock-up? You want to keep him looking nice, right?"

"Looking nice?" The way she laughs sends a shiver right through Dean, chilling the fever boiling in him for a second or two before it comes roaring back. "Sure, take him back to—to--his tent, wherever he was; I'll want him back in a few days."

The man bows. ""Deivoluntaz," he says. As your majesty wishes."

"Yeah, she damn well wishes. Fucking Chronops. It's like they know I've found a new toy. Interrupting me," She pouts, and pets Dean on the head on her way out, swivels out of his desperate grasp.

"You poor fucker," the man says. "Shame what she's going to do to you. The Boy King. They say Dys is worse than Hell on earth. At least you've got a while yet—you'll go out happy." He shoves his thumb in Dean's mouth, yanking his mouth wide and holding down his tongue as Dean tries desperately to suck on his fingers, tries to grind against the man's leg. "Stop," the man mutters, "just swallow it, damn it." He tilts Dean's head back, massages his neck until the brackish fluid slides down his throat and Dean has to swallow in order not to drown. The man grinds his hand down over Dean's mouth, an impersonal and disinterested grip that still makes Dean's eyes roll back in his head, makes his dick jump and drip.

"Hope that's enough," the man says and signals the Queen's little quartet of guards to get Dean dressed and out of the tent.

"Clean him up. Take him out the private way. Make sure he's on his doorstep—in one piece. If anything happens to him before she's through with him, she'll gift all of you to Dys in his place."

Dean ends up face down in the entrance to Angel's and his tent, a little cleaner, clothed, and fairly unmolested. His mouth is swollen but not torn, his clothes a little smeared and damp but nothing that won't wash away, nothing wrong with his body that won't settle with a night's rest. His hips still move restlessly into the press of the ground against him. Angel finds him half in and out of sleep.

"De—shit. Shit, fuck, shit—c'mon, bru, get up. Let's get inside."

Dean giggles to himself. It's not so bad, not anymore. The air's stopped feeling like ground glass and now it's cool and soothing, and Sam's hands on him are warm and soft, save for the calluses that prick pleasantly against his skin. He's always loved the way that felt, Sam touching him. Big warm hands smoothing away everything but this feeling, this need. Need. "Sammy…"

"Shut up," Sam snaps, and it makes Dean sad. He didn't mean to make him mad. It's like he's always making Sammy mad nowadays. S'okay, he knows how to fix it.

Before he can make a move, water's being poured over his head. Dean jerks at the sudden chill, startled into a yelp of surprise, but settles. Sam wants it so he'll wait until Sam's done doing…whatever it is he's doing. Good smells surround him, fresh, clean smells, not like before. Some fresh, bright-smelling herb is scenting the water and Sam is washing him, looking so serious and pissed off still, so Dean does his best to help, to cooperate. When Sam stops dousing him and starts rubbing him with the towel, Dean moans, rubs himself against Sam and pushes him down, claws the towel away. "Let me, let me, Sam—"

"De—no! Stop, stop. It's not real; it's whatever she did to you--"

Dean's not hearing it, his hand is over the hard line of Sam's dick and no way Sam doesn't want this, no matter what he claims, he wants this. Dean just has to….

He crawls over Sam, holds him down and works his pants off, his shirt. He's kind of vaguely aware that Sam punches him, but it's weak and off center. Makes him snort. He still hits like a girl.

"Sammy, Sammy." Dean bites at his mouth, licks away the sting, he grips the hot, fat shaft and jerks Sam off just the way he likes, fast, tight, palms the head and squeezes his way back down—sure, he knows what Sam likes. Sam is writhing under him, gasping and crying like it's been forever instead of a night. Dean grins and reaches behind himself, working himself open—he's slick and loose, and doesn’t remember prepping himself like that but what the fuck ever—slides down Sam's fat dick and it's so fucking perfect, he comes instantly, just like that, dick jerking and splashing them both. Sam's finally into it, grips Dean's hips so hard it hurts but fuck, it's so good too. Sam fucks him like he never plans to stop and Dean just hangs on for the ride, lets Sam fuck him stupid—comes again, and then Sam arches until Dean worries about his back. His dick jerks and throbs hard inside Dean, he feels the heat and sudden slicker slide and then Sam drops down and curses, curses, tears on his face and Dean knows he did something really wrong, just not what it was.

"Don’t cry Sammy, don’t cry. I'll make it better, okay, I'll fix it, I always do. I love you."

"Yeah, yeah, De, I love you too, it's okay, just. Sleep all right? Please? Go to sleep."

Dean does what Sam says. He only wants his brother to be happy.




15

Comments

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

Oh wow--that's the best thing you could have said about this! *Thank* you! And hugs!