A/N: For the hoodie_time tags challenge, for the tag shower/bath sharing. Set during 4.06, “Yellow Fever.” Thanks to kalliel for handholding. <3
Warnings: overtones of quasi-pedophilia, dub-con, what am I even doing
Summary: Souvenir t-shirt: I went to Hell and all I got was this lame demonic raping.
“Maybe you should take a shower,” Sam suggests, after Dean’s spat up another few wood chips into the sink, and the thermometer breaks double digits.
Dean shakes his head slightly.
“What now.” Sam’s tone is a mixture of pander, annoyance, and a bit of amusement. “You scared of water?”
“The… showerhead…” Dean blinks past images- blood not dripping but running, upside-down crucifixions- and shivers, hard.
“What, did Hitchcock do a number on you, too?”
Dean’s eyes dart to the windows. “There aren’t any birds out there, are there?”
Sam sighs. “Come on. How about a bath, then. If you can manage to drown in ten inches of water, you can say I told you so.”
Dean surveys him solemnly, his eyes overbright, Batsignal beacons that shine into the dark corners of Sam’s heart. “But then I’d be dead.”
Sam gives his brother a slight push in the middle of his back. “Dude, just go. You can haunt my ass all you like, after you get that fever down.”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s dangerous to fall asleep in the tub?” Hands on her hips, 3-D pout pasted on.
Dean starts awake, his elbow slips from where it’s perched on the edge of the tub, and he bangs his head against the shower stall wall.
She smiles, and he remembers that smile. Birthday candle flames in her mouth for teeth, eyes deep enough to drown in. They could drag the depths of them for years and never find his body.
She twirls around, flaring the skirt of her dress out. Dean shudders, and then she’s climbing over the edge of the tub, her dress floating and then soaking up water and billowing around his thighs.
“Don’t be a prude, Dean. It’s just us girls here.” The corner of her mouth twitches up, but like always, the smile never touches her whirlpool eyes.
His teeth are chattering, and she’s leaning in until their foreheads touch.
The faucet drips. Dean shivers. Lilith walks her fingers up Dean’s arm to the crook of his neck. “The itsy-bitsy spider…”
[Lilith had been there, in Hell, front-row seating, VIP velvet rope. Alastair’s fingers clenched around her elbow, guiding her to the chair she sat in like a throne. Dean wonders if she remembers—
—or if she enjoys civilian deaths more. The blood of laypeople probably smelt different.
(Lilith in bare feet, reddish mud spattered up to her ankles, slicing slicing slicing)
“It’s nearly time,” Alastair had told her, and Meg had rattled her chains somewhere in the background.
Lilith- subverted dead Angelina Jolie lips pouting, crooking her finger at Alastair until he bent his head for her to whisper in his ear.
Blood conducted electricity, Dean had found out. Walking down the Red Mile, eyes looking but not seeing, Ruby, Ruby had said that Hell was a prison of flesh and blood and bone, and she meant ribcages, bones too strong to break, hearts weak enough not to try to escape.
He had been lying on his back, limbs still twitching, and Lilith had pulled Alastair’s ear down to her lips again. Dean hadn’t been able to hear what she’d said, but that smile curling her mouth into a death mask had said enough.
Alastair’s knife winking in the dark, just another piece of him wrenching free. Dean was jealous of it.
Red dripping down Lilith’s mouth, onto the front of her dress. Her arm, raking across her lips.
“Good,” she’d told Alastair, getting up and not taking his proffered hand. “Well done.”]
Dean startles awake again, can feel sweat on his forehead, unless it’s blood.
“You’ve got a fever, Dean. What’s the matter, a little homesick?” Lilith’s smooth fingers curl around Dean’s wrist, just barely reach around.
Dean says no and means yes. He says yes and means yes.
Her fingers around his dick next, rubbing, touching—he’s so hot, he’s so cold, he’s so—
Lilith won’t take her eyes off of his during, even when Dean’s breath is coming in raspy gasps, with a hunk of something splintery caught in his throat. Bone, maybe.
The blank whiteness of coming reminds him of her eyes, when they rolled up and she became the blindest person he knew who could still hit a target eleven times out of ten.
Fingernail marks on his wrist, a souvenir bracelet from Hell. I went to Hell and all I got was this lame demonic raping. Bite me, Linda Blair; I’d take pea soup any day.
Dean swallows, feels a woodchip in his throat. He coughs pink droplets into the bathwater. His eyes droop closed, and Lilith’s warm weight settles further into his lap, an embrace that whisperscreams, welcome welcome welcome—back.
Faint banging noises on the door, Sam’s muffled voice.
“You better not have drowned.”
Dean sits up. The water’s gotten colder, and he has goosebumps all over. His head’s full of blood-soaked cotton.
“M’okay.” He calls hoarsely, and drags himself up to sit on the edge of the tub, shivering. He dries himself off lethargically, and dresses in sweats and a t-shirt.
“You sure you didn’t drown?” Sam asks playfully, nudging his shoulder. Dean shrugs him off, clears his throat painfully.
“Oh.” Sam looks around the dingy room, like the words of something appropriate to say will appear in the worn carpeting.
“Just gonna sleep.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.”
The pillow doesn’t smell exactly clean, but Dean’s beyond caring. He hears Sam rustling around quietly as he drifts off, and he’s not trying to fall asleep, because he knows that’ll be where Lilith’s waiting, but then he can’t keep staring at the wall anymore and it’s like falling down except faster. It’s movie credits rolling, rolling with no one reading the names and then a slow fade to—