Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural
English is not my first language. Betaread and final touches done by PshhAnonymous!
Prologue
Alastair was officially creeped out.
Hundreds, thousands, millions of souls passed through his hands from the moment he was born. Under the Master Torturers blade millions screamed in pain, writhed with agony, begged him to stop. Hundred of thousands were made into demons thanks to his guidance by knifes, shredders, hooks, acids, flames…
Except one soul who had not reacted to any of it.
Maybe it was because it was Righteous Man's soul, but it was still a simple human. The first thirty years were nothing different. The soul screamed, writhed, more cursed than begged, but Alastair didn't feel chagrined by it. He smiled at the poor bastard on his rack, thinking of new and more thrilling ways to dim that annoying bright light, shining through the scars of pain, and agony, and despair…
And when the Righteous Man said 'Yes', and took the blade – everything went wrong.
It should have started to torture other souls. It should have enjoyed that, and with every carving its soul should have lost its brightness and began to blacken. But as soon as the Righteous Man drew first blood with the knife it was given, it stopped and just stared at its victim. And stared. And stared. Not even Alastair was able to shake it from its trance.
So he put the soul back on the rack. The First Seal was broken already, that's what mattered the most, but Alastair was a stubborn demon. He wanted to break the Righteous Man, to see that shiny bright soul transform into the demonic blackness, gleaming with sin and pain.
But the soul just stared at his tormentors without saying a word, without screaming, pleading, begging, nothing. Just staring. Alastair felt frustrated, annoyed, and after several years, he felt furious. That pitying gaze was maddening. He could feel it even when he carved or burned the eyes out. The stare of the Righteous Man got stuck on his evil essence like an annoying itch he couldn't scratch. Slowly it started to drive Hell's Master Torturer insane.
After another eight years of intensely trying to break the Righteous Man's soul and completely failing, the angelic garrison assaulting Hell drew uncomfortably close. Alastair knew that it was a matter of days, maybe even hours, till the last line of demonic defense crumbled and those shiny birds would swarm his lovely chambers. He needed to leave. That was the master plan, after all. But the inability to break the brightest soul in Hell's history infuriated Alastair. Maybe he even felt a bit ashamed. How could he call himself Master Torturer, if he was unable to make the soul scream?
To add salt to the demon's wounds, the Righteous Man smiled when the burning light of the angel's grace illuminated the torture chamber. Even if its jaw was ripped away, its lips were cut off, eyes carved out, Alastair could swear he saw the smug smirk appear on the soul's face.
Master Torturer could only gawk at his victim helplessly.
Alastair fled when the intensity of the impending angel's grace started to burn his essence with a great precision. He knew that the angel was started to get ready to smite him for what he did to the Righteous Man, and even if he was able to resist it from affair, his core would be destroyed once the heavenly warrior came closer. No demon could withstand the presence of an angel.
The celestial entity descended onto the torture chamber, his grace's light banishing the darkness and scorching the layers of Hell all round him, making it impossible for Hell's spawns to enter this place at least for a couple of centuries. The rack incinerated with the mere thought from the angel, freeing the tortured soul.
It couldn't see around itself, but something close by felt so familiar, so homey, the soul reached for the safety, no hesitation in its trembling hand. The warmth embraced its scarred self, soothing and cradling it with attentive care. The soul couldn't help, but cling to it harder as the reassuring waves washed over it, healing its surface wounds and scars.
Suddenly it began to remember. It remembered its younger brother Sam, his tears when he was forced to watch it being torn apart by hellhounds. It remembered its dad who sold his soul to save its ass. It remembered Bobby, and Ellen, and Jo, and the Baby. It remembered its mother's smile, when it tugged on her blonde strands, remembered her sweet smell when she leaned to kiss it before tucking it into bed and whispering the words, "Angels are watching over you," like they were a secret.
Surrounded by the soothing safety of an angel's grace, the soul remembered itself. He was Dean Winchester. A human, a hunter, a friend, a son, a brother.
As the heavenly warrior ascended the lower layers of Hell with his precious cargo, slowly cleansing its essence from any blackness which managed to wiggle in between the cracks from the endless torture, the soul started to remember the lives beyond just Dean Winchester's. More than a hundred of other mortal lives before he became who he was now, his soul going on the continuous reincarnation cycle.
Finally, he remembered his original creation, his Father smiling when he first opened his eyes. He remembered how confused he felt. He remembered the creation of his first younger brother, soon followed by the other two, and the war against the Darkness. He remembered the nothingness molded into the Universe by the God's hands, the creation of the Heaven, the Great Beasts, their banishment and the creation of all the rest of his younger siblings, one after another, the Garden, the Earth, and humans. He remembered the First Sin, the Rebellion shaking Heaven to its core. He remembered casting his beloved brother from Heaven for defying Father's words. He remembered the emptiness and void he felt watching how his fallen brother, once the brightest and the most beautiful angel in Heaven, seduced the pure human soul and twisted and broke it. When the First Demon rose, his brother felt so smug and proud of his doings. He remembered Father locking the rebellious son away, in the deepest abyss of Hell. He remembered Father's disappointment and His departure. He remembered His last words for him. He remembered his little brother's disappearance, and the growing resentment of another.
As the memories of millenniums over millenniums years flooded his fragile human soul, he shuddered. The angel immediately tightened his embrace, and he clung even more tightly to his rescuer. He felt the purifying essence carefully washing away all the taint from his soul's cracks, and he was so grateful to this little angel. The taint burned into his soul like a hot iron brand burned into flesh. With the grim horror he watched as the slivers of his taint whirled around in the young one's grace. It would take some time for the being to cleanse his essence from such a raw and pure evil, coming from the heart of Hell.
He remembered ripping his own grace out. He had a plan then. Apparently something went wrong. Very, very wrong.
The archangel Michael hadn't planned to stay human for so long, and he certainly hadn't expected to reincarnate as Dean Winchester, the human who broke the first seal of Lucifer's cage and who by his Father's Will was supposed to become his true vessel.
As his soul was gently nestled into his restored body, and he breathed a ragged breath for the first time in a very long time, Michael couldn't help but chuckle from the irony of his unexpected predicament. Maybe it was for the better, because with the attitude Dean Winchester had, he would have never said 'Yes' anyway.