And I did it again. This has absolutely nothing to do with The Hand of Sorrow Verse. I'm having a massive family drama, my mum is really sick and for some reason this helped to relax me enough to go back to writing the next chapter of my current fic. It's Dean/Cas again, and there is torture in this, you have been warned. Reviews would be most appreciated, especially given my family situation at the moment.

Disclaimer: If I owned this we would get more than eye fuckery, there would be actual fuckery, since there is not, it is safe to conclude that it is most certainly not mine.

The Rack and Savior.

Dean is on the rack in the deepest pits of Hell, he is in so deep that the screams of the other souls barely reach him now and all he knows is the pain and the agony and the anguish of Alistair's knife. At the end of each day he is asked the same question over and over, asked whether he would like to get off the rack, asked if he would like a turn at doing this himself.

He struggles against the bonds, the cuffs made of iron, or something like it, struggles to be free, struggles to get away from the rack and from the knife, the whips and chains and the implements that he does not know the names for but that Alistair seems to enjoy above all things. He struggles even though he knows this is a memory, a memory locked in a dream that is locked in a memory and he cannot break free. Cannot break free of the dream or the memory and is not sure whether or not the screams and cries he utters in this Hell are audible in reality or if they are just locked in his head, in his mind. Wonders if, in the real world, they simply blend with the screams that come from the panic room as Sam goes through his second detox from demon blood in as many weeks.

Alistair slashes and cuts, whips and tears and when Dean can stand it no more, when he screams for Sam and for Bobby, for his father and for Ellen and finally, when he can scream no more, for Castiel. By this point his voice is hoarse, a weak tremor in a sea of cries and he knows that he will not be heard, whimpers the name of the angel each time Alistair's razor slashes, sobs when it cuts through delicate skin once more, eyes closed tight against the horror almost as though he hopes it will make it all go away.

The feel of dry lips against his throat cuts the frightened whimper short, gentle hands tracing their way down blood slick sides that makes his breath catch, but in a way that is completely unassociated with the pain. Inexplicably he feels himself becoming hard and he whines against the wrongness of that, against the arousal that he feels from soft kisses along his collar bones and the trail of hands and fingers that explore unbroken skin that is sensitised purely by the agony that races through his nerves.

Even though he is still on the rack, even though he can still hear the screams of others in the background, he feels almost safe, feels the swirl of a delicate tongue against his skin, lips that trail ever downwards. He dare not open his eyes, dare not look and see that this is just another twisted torture of Alistair's, of his memory. The sigh that escapes him as that same tongue brushes over first one nipple and then the other, as those questing fingers flutter gently against his thigh, going so close to the place he desires to be touched and yet so far from it, is broken, a wrecked sound that draws a soft noise of comfort from the one doing this to him, his name uttered in that husky voice that he could place on the darkest of nights and in the deepest of pits. His name a breath of desire on the lips of an angel.

When Castiel's lips and tongue settle over the first seeping gash, Dean jerks, in pain, in helpless desire, because something about the way that the angel simply cleans the blood from the wounds with lips and tongue and the soft rumble of a purr is beyond arousing at this point. He is so hard that he aches and he strains against the cuffs, feeling his broken skin knit and the nip of gentle teeth where the wound once lay.

So it continues, with Castiel teasing and cleaning and healing Dean, the screams of phantom memories in the background, though all that either really hears is the way that Dean's voice breaks when he whispers the angels name, the clink of chains as he tries to free his hands, tries to reach out and touch the one who is ministering to his wounds and cleansing him of his fear with each kiss and each lap and each soft bite, and finally, finally, when Castiel reaches Dean's aching erection, it is all the hunter can do not to weep.

It feels right, even though Dean knows that this is wrong, so very wrong, when Castiel places a soft kiss there, on the underside, before closing his lips around him, taking him deep into his mouth and listening to the man keen with the feel of it. Just the heat, the warmth of the angel, the way that his tongue swirls and his lips move, makes Dean forget where he is, forget why he cannot touch and cannot move and he gives himself over to it wholly, allows himself this simple pleasure.

When the orgasm hits him, it is hard, blindingly so, the angel's name ripped from him in that moment in a scream that he is certain, later, could be heard across the universe itself.

The bonds are gone, Dean discovers, when he comes back to himself, when he falls back into his own being and opens his eyes for the first time since before Castiel kissed him, looks up into the understanding blue of the one who betrayed Heaven for him. Reaches out and pulls the other down, kisses him with all of the passion and all of the ecstasy that he has left to give him. Lips meeting for the first time that Dean can remember and the taste of himself is there, of his blood and his essence, mixed with something ethereal and wonderful and he feels the dream leaving him as the angel responds.

When Dean's eyes open again he is on the couch at Bobby's, his jacket over him and his boots still on his feet. That does not change the fact that he feels satisfied, whole and complete for the first time since he emerged from Hell and though he knows that it cannot last, that come morning he will return to being little more than a shell, he cannot help but smile, a smile that turns into a smirk when he hears the beat of ghostly wings and the brush of disturbed air.

In the morning he may be a wreck and tomorrow night he may be back on the rack, or standing over it, but somehow he knows that Castiel will be there too, will be there to pull him from the brink, and he is good with that. He almost looks forward to it.