Work Text:
The call to arms came when Dean was ‘mid-process’, as Alistair called it. He’d taken the eyes of the soul in front of him, then proceeded to pluck each and every hair from the soul’s incorporeal body one by one, enjoying the yips of pain it made with increasing intensity as he worked. He varied the location, of course, first grabbing a leg hair, then an eyebrow, then an eyelash, then a pube and so on. He created bloody designs along the soul’s back, tearing at each hair and making sure he took a small chunk of skin with it.
Even the news that a full garrison of Heaven’s angels laid siege to Hell couldn’t take the grin from his face.
Dean wasn’t a hunter any longer. He didn’t have to fight.
He paused, though, listening to the changing timbre of the screams from the Pit. Souls were begging to be saved now, rather than for an end to torment. He sighed, wondering what it would take to save a soul as tarnished as his own.
He set down his pliers, picked up a wicked-looking knife and tested it on himself. Long and sharp, it cut his palm more cleanly than a scalpel in an operating room back home.
Home.
He thought wistfully of Sam, of Bobby, of all he’d given up to get to this point. He hadn’t been ready. No one ever was, when the Hellhounds came calling, but he’d been given a bum deal, getting only a year instead of the usual ten.
He stared at his blood pooling in his palm. It didn’t even hurt to cut himself, unlike when Alistair used to do it. It probably didn’t hurt because he’d blackened his soul by stepping off the rack and picking up the razor. There was no going back after that.
Making a fist, he squeezed blood through his fingers for a moment before turning back to his latest victim. She howled, cursing him, cursing the devil, cursing every demon she’d ever met. He knew from the dossier Alistair provided that she’d been around at least three hundred years, so she’d had practice meeting and cursing demons.
Was he a demon now that he’d taken up the knife?
If there were angels in Hell… If angels were even real…
He slit the soul’s throat, ending her torment for the moment. She’d reconstitute, of course, but with Hell under siege, it might take a little while and she might get a small respite before she ended up on someone else’s rack.
It was a small mercy, he knew, too little, too late for it to change anything about his own stay, but it felt good to be able to make that decision, to be able to give the soul a moment of almost-peace.
“Hello, Dean,” a deep voice intoned from behind him. He slashed out, the knife sliding through the man’s palm like melted butter. The man looked at his hand, a puzzled expression on his face. “That’s not supposed to happen,” he muttered, flexing his fingers, blood coating his entire hand.
“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but we have all the best toys down here,” Dean declared with a hint of ironic sarcasm in his voice.
The man looked up and met Dean’s gaze. He blinked, turning to see the dead soul on the rack, then the room around them, the tools of Dean’s new trade, then back to Dean’s face. He seemed surprised that he was in the room, that there was a rack at all, that there was a soul in the midst of being tortured, recently killed by her tormentor to spare her a few seconds of pain.
There wasn’t much in the way of color in Hell, Dean realized, just browns and blacks and reds. He’d never have known if he hadn’t been transfixed by the blue of the stranger’s eyes.
“It’s time to go,” the man said, reaching for Dean. Dean knocked his hand away, taking a step back.
“Sorry, but no,” Dean answered. “I’m stuck here forever. Made a deal, you understand. I’m here until Alistair gives me better digs, and you’re not him, so I’m not going nowhere with you.”
Suddenly in Dean’s face, the man tore off the rags of Dean’s shirt and grabbed his arm. Fire ignited on Dean’s skin. He felt the heat of a brand, a searing pain that made him freeze for a moment. As one of Alistair’s protégées, he hadn’t been hurt or burned since Alistair last came by to check on him and correct his technique. That was ages ago, because Alistair was one of those big-shots in Hell, always in demand, never enough time to see to all his trainees.
Now he knew what cattle felt like… branded…
“We are leaving,” the man insisted. “Now.”
Dean pried off the man’s hand, grunting at the bloody handprint on his shoulder. The man shifted his wrist in Dean’s grip, slipping free only to take Dean’s hand in his, palm to palm, bloody cut to bloody cut. Fire flooded through Dean’s system, racing along his veins and arteries like lightning. He cried out in pain. And pleasure.
“Hmm, perhaps this would be a better motivator,” the man mused, letting go of Dean and snapping his fingers. He leaned in to kiss Dean, lips gentle but insistent, demanding. His hands cupped Dean’s face.
Dean hadn’t been kissed since he arrived in Hell.
The first true kindness anyone had shown him, he melted against this stranger, feeling naked skin against his own. Warm flesh under his hands as he ran his palms up the man’s back, along his spine. He felt the flush of arousal, matched by the hardness between the man’s legs. It rubbed against his dick and he groaned with excited pleasure. This was forbidden. Shameful.
Wonderful.
He’d never allowed himself to think about men before, never admitted that sometimes, occasionally, very rarely, he was attracted to their strength or stubble or smell.
Dean was straight. Hunters were straight. John Winchester was straight and would beat anyone who said otherwise — or who suggested his sons weren’t 100% into women. Dean had seen it growing up, when one of his father’s hunter friends had commented that a 12-year-old Sammy was looking faggy with his too-long hair and thin frame. The man needed an emergency room after John was done with him.
Dean repressed any worrying thoughts or feelings and focused on being the masculine ideal. Straight. Strong. Crude. Angry.
A womanizer.
Being sodomized and raped in Hell didn’t count against his straightness.
Responding to the stranger’s kiss, however…
He couldn’t help himself, not with the fire running rampant through his veins and an erection sliding against his own. All his suppressed desires flared to life in a single moment, forcing him to clutch at the man and pull him even closer. He wanted this man. He wanted to fuck this man. He wanted to be fucked by him. He wanted to get on his knees and worship his cock, choking it down as the man took his pleasure from Dean’s mouth and tongue and throat.
“Would you like more of this?” the man purred against Dean’s neck, tongue lapping at sweat.
“Yes!” Dean exclaimed, running his fingers through the thick, dark hair, pressing the man’s face against him, trying to encourage him to kiss harder, to suck a bruise into his skin.
He hated when women gave him hickies. He didn’t want the reminder of his one-night stands. They were around for a moment of stress-relief, not anything resembling permanence. But with this man? He wanted a reminder, even if it was just a few stolen kisses while Hell burned under the attack of celestial forces.
“Come with me,” the man urged, more insistent. One of his hands cupped Dean’s ass, a finger slipping down his crack. “Come with me and I’ll show you all the pleasures this form can provide.”
“Yes, God, please, yes!” Dean moaned, feeling the excited electric feeling of desire at the intimate touch, rather than the slimy revulsion when Alistair and his demons had done it. “Please,” he begged.
A finger circled his rim, slick, wet. Dean didn’t question, he simply spread his legs to give the man better access. The ground shook and explosions radiated throughout Dean’s body as the man began pressing against his prostate with two long, skillful fingers.
Alive with a pleasure he couldn’t quantify, or even qualify, it was so different than when he slept with women, Dean’s body accepted the stranger’s dick with no more than a minimal stretch and burn at the intrusion.
“Wrap both legs around me,” the man instructed. “I can hold you.”
Dean did as he was told, trusting the man to live up to his word. The dick pressed in farther, rested against his prostate, making him shiver and shake with new sensations. He clutched at the man’s neck, grabbing one wrist with the other hand to lock himself in place around him.
“Good,” the man praised, kissing him. He shifted his weight and started thrusting up into Dean. Dean choked on a sound he didn’t think he’d ever made in his entire life, it was so raw and needy. “Good, just hold on and don’t let go, no matter what happens.”
“You, too,” Dean responded, overwhelmed, resting his forehead against the man’s shoulder for a moment while he got used to every new thing happening between them. “Don’t let go of me. Never let go.”
“I promise, Dean Winchester, I will take you from this place and make you mine.”
Wings exploded from the man’s back, large, dark things that Dean wished he had time to admire except the man had launched them into the sky, what there was of it in Hell, and they were flying, soaring, the man — angel? — continuing to thrust into him as he flapped his wings to gain altitude.
All around them angels battled demons, feathery appendages versus leathery bat-wings flying through the air with no care for the souls begging for salvation or release down below. Silver sparks cascaded from the bright knives of the angels against the cruel, twisted weapons of the demons. Blinding blue-white light poured from dying angels’ eyes, orange fire flickering and fading from dying demons’.
And still they rose, flying and fucking, freeing themselves from the fire and brimstone and sulphur of the Pit.
“Close your eyes,” the angel hissed. “I must be in my true form to break through the gates.”
Dean did as he was told, yet again for the angel, squeezing his eyes closed as he squeezed his body around the angel, arms and legs and ass, a silent prayer that they’d make it out of Hell so he could have his angel, have his new life as a celestial’s lover, have the freedom to accept the pleasure the angel offered freely and without guilt or shame.
White light, so pure and clean it clove through the darkness of Hell pressed against Dean’s closed eyes, making them burn with the afterimage of feathered wings and soulful blue eyes and messy, dark hair. He felt the movement of the angel’s muscles as he flapped his wings faster and faster, felt the sudden, jarring thrust of his hips, a new staccato that told him the angel was close to coming, felt the crest of his own orgasm coming closer and closer.
“Dean, Dean, we’re almost there! Hold on, just a few more seconds!”
Wingbeatandthrust, wingbeatandthrust, squeezesqueezesqueeze around the angel. Wingbeatandthrust, wingbeatandthrust, squeezesqueezesqueeze around the angel. Wingbeatandthrust, wingbeatandthrust, squeezesqueezesqueeze around the angel.
Dean screamed through his orgasm, long pulses of cum slipping and sliding where the angel’s thrusts mashed Dean’s dick between their bellies. It’d been over 40 years since his last orgasm, and Dean felt the relief of finally feeling pleasure fill his body with lassitude.
He couldn’t relax yet, though. He had one more thing to accomplish before he passed out.
Wingbeatandthrust, wingbeatandthrust, squeezesqueezesqueeze around the angel.
Light and sound and touch meant nothing as the angel’s pleasure enveloped Dean in a supernova of victoryjoywantneedmineonlymine.
Dean Winchester is Saved, sang the celestial choir in Dean’s head.
Dean woke with a gasp, tears drying on his cheeks, a fading memory of all-encompassing blue-white light the only remnant of his escape from Hell.