Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this at all

The outstretched hand of his torturer lay before his eyes; wet blood dripping from it, the dry blood encrusting the sharpened nails. Every line and crevice was outlined in the shiny red life that was slowly and painfully being torn out of him, pulling him across the border of life and death.

"Have you changed your mind?"

His eyes were clenched together tightly to block out the ghastly sights around him. His heart was pounding so loud and vigorously that no sound should be heard. The walls he'd tried so hard to build around him still stood tall. But he could still hear the haunting voice cut through, and the twisted grin behind it. It took a few tries before he finally managed to get his growl out of his scorched throat.

"No".

He felt the hand retreat back to its owner with a controlled exhale. "Give it up, grasshopper. Sam's not coming to help you. Daddy's not coming to help you. No one cares about you, and no one's coming. Sam's moved on, you told him to. He's riding around in your wheels without a thought of you, and you've been replaced… with Ruby. Yup, that's right. She's his buddy now, and she's far more successful than you ever were. They're a real team, with her, he can do things he couldn't before, back when you would be holding him back. You're just tormenting yourself in thinking Sam remembers you, and sooner or later, you will break".

Dean tried his best to block it out, concentrating on anything other than that raspy voice with the bloodcurdling truth behind it. The truth of how in his last living moments before the hellhounds came, he pleaded to Sam to keep fighting, to look after the impala, to remember all that John and Dean himself had taught him. How Ruby, being a demon, could change Sam and his methods in ways Dean didn't even want to think about.

Sam's moved on, you told him to. Alastair's words ran through his head as Dean contemplated the logic behind them. Three months had passed up there – three months to accept that fact that Dean wasn't coming back, to throw himself into the work Dean had told him to continue on doing without him, and to get past his death and start again.

"You're right, Dean," Alastair taunted quietly as he played with the rusty ten-inch knife in his hands, twirling it around. He picked up one of Dean's hands, selected a finger, and slowly traced it along the sharp, smooth edge. The skin split to reveal a sloping valley as a faint, thin line of blood oozed out of it and down the finger, exposing the nerves in the fingertips that were screaming. Alastair smiled. He picked up the next finger and continued.

"For thirty years you've stood strong, enduring my creative masterpieces, denying my request. You have nothing to prove. We all know you're a warrior, a soldier. That's why we were so determined to get you here, and so thrilled when we did," Alastair grinned. "But now you're just doing it to yourself. Refusing me does you nothing, because you will break. And when you do, you'll find you suffered because you allowed it, and that my alternative, was much more ideal," he winked.

Alastair slowly put down the knife and rested it on Dean's arm as he egotistically admired his work. "You can continue saying no, but no good will come out of it. You might last longer, a couple of years if you're strong enough. But for what? To kid yourself that you're invincible and above us all in this pit? The soldier Daddy had always wanted you to be? Maybe," Alastair looked thoughtful. "But I think there's a bit more to it than that," he said with a smile as he picked up his next tool. "You know what I think is also the reason?" Alastair lowered his head closer to Dean's and wiped away some of the blood pooling upon it. His smile was gone, and something else, something dark, had taken up residence in his once-cocky, narcissistic eyes. "Redemption for all you and Sam did, everyone who suffered because of you. Because they did, they did suffer, and now they're in here. Bit more realistic, I'd say" Alastair smiled again, breathing a sigh, and playfully nudged Dean. With that tiny movement, waves of pain flowed through Dean's body bringing him back to the poison Dean heard escaping out of Alastair's mouth.

"So, what do you say? It's up to you, Dean. Live longer like this for no reason with all this suffering? Or accept the inevitable, and be able to pass on what you've felt for thirty years, dealing out some of your pain through my toys?" Alastair laughed as he laid out his favorite tools, a wide range; the sight of it made Dean feel nauseous. "Because you know you want to. Have your turn, Dean Winchester. You know, secretly, that deep down, you deserve it". He had his hand outstretched again, this time with a knife in it, and on his face a smirk and devious eyes. "Allow me to offer you the way out".

Dean tried to push away the words that cut him deeper than anything Alastair had ever used on him, but he couldn't. They became more dominant until he couldn't block them out, nor think of anything else. They raced around in his mind, and, as much as it repulsed him to admit it, Dean knew Alastair was right. Sam couldn't do anything to help him; Sam was doing exactly what Dean had asked of him. He knew by refusing Alastair's offer, he wasn't proving anything, just delaying what he would eventually accept later on.

He looked at the outstretched hand, offering a way out, as twisted and hideous as it was. Alastair's face was leering above his, watching the expression in Dean's pained eyes. With pain, he managed to lift his ravaged arm to Alastair's and, feeling his humanity about to disappear forever, placed his hand in his. He felt the hand tighten and lift him upwards, to stand on his feet, the first time in thirty years Dean was able to. He knew his wobbly legs weren't just from the lack of opportunity to stretch them.

"I knew you'd come around", Alastair smiled deceitfully. "Follow me."

Dean allowed himself to be led from the rack and away, to where another rack was waiting, a person on it, facing away from Dean and Alastair, their identity hidden. Alastair turned to Dean. "I figured this should be your first. Hopefully will get the ball rolling," Alastair sniggered excitedly. He gestured to a collection of horrific tools next to the rack. "Take your pick. And don't worry," Alastair put his hand on Dean's trembling shoulder and grinned. "I'll be here to guide you." He waved towards the rack. "Go ahead."

Dean slowly walked towards the rack, his heart pounding with nerves and guilt, as well as the hatred for what he was about to do. As he neared the person on the rack, he realized it was a woman. He swallowed and, full of shame and his pain, looked at the frightened soul, her eyes looking at him with shock as she searched in his eyes for what had once been there but had now vanished. He felt a massive pang of guilt and sickening horror as he recognized the woman. His lips slowly made the movements, but no sound came out, as if everything inside him had frozen. He gulped and tried again. This time, the name came out.

"Bela."