Disclaimer: I don't own the awesomeness that is Dean, Alistair, Castiel and the show its' self. It's all Kirpike's. All the quotes belong to the geniuses who are the writers.
A/N: I blame my roommate and season 4 for making me an addict to this show. And now I blame "On the Head of a Pin" for biting me with a plot bunny sparking my first SPN fic. That episode blew my expectations out of the water and more so. Anyways, I'm still sad that Alistair is no more and since there are not a lot of fic on him, I wrote this bad boy. It's a bit of a tag on the episode, filling the blanks and such. So enjoy!
The Old Reminisce
The moment the door clanged open and the jangle of a metal cart rolling in pulled the demon out from under his semi-restful state. Being chained upright to a devil's trap in this damp room did little in impressing him. The angels tried to interrogate him via threats, electricity and burning him with their grace. But they lacked the skills and motivation. Especially the one with piercing blue eyes and wearing that damn trench coat. The blinding rage of ripping that angel to pieces was one of the few things that kept him patient here as a prisoner. In the end, it was all kinda pathetic really.
Raising the exhausted head of his dead host, cause one the first things the demon had done was torture the human soul to death, inquisitive sea-blue eyes sparked to life at seeing the slumped figure behind the cart.
They sent him; it was like sending a lamb into the slaughterhouse. The one single person Alistair wanted to torture. The one person that made going topside worth every second.
"Heaven. I'm in heaven…" Crooning out his favorite song, tapping bare feet against the ice-cold cement floor, the demon watched for any reactions from the young man. It was strange seeing this one soul in a meat suit up here in this Arctic-crap hole when they had grown so close in Hell. Yearning filled him briefly. How he longed for the suffocating sulfur and ash filled air with flames licking all around him. And lets not forget all those pretty screaming souls tied up on endless racks, each begging to be tortured for their sins.
As his favorite pulled away the coverings revealing all types of instruments, Alistair's chuckles rumbled into a sinister, hearty laughter. Oh, the angels never cease to amaze him. Really, did they think that this tortured soul would succeed where they failed? Then again, Alistair grinned slightly. The dull light darkening his long hallowed face casting a familiar demonic glow. He knew it was only a matter of time till they retrieved his wayward student.
The said man stepped up to the trap, face tilted downwards. The demon could smell the poor attempt of trying to not to tremble. Yet, the moment those green eyes lifted and locked themselves straight at him, Alistair felt pride stir within his blood-drenched soul. No trace of the former fear was present. That stone-chiseled, emotionless face and dead green eyes was an expression Dean wore during the first year when he began to torture souls. But over time, as the guilt and self-loathing vanished under Alistair's carefully administrated words of encouragement and praise, those dead eyes flared to black flames of pleasure.
"You got one chance. One. Tell me whose killing the angels. I want a name."
Taking in the glacier tone, Alistair wanted to smack his student. Really? After forty years together side by side, did Dean learn anything about his teacher? Didn't he learn how much Hell's top torturer wanted nothing to do with the outside, content with his studies?
"You'll spill your guts, I just didn't want to ruin my shoes."
And there it was, that dark humor he loved about Dean lacing the quip. Humming in agreement, Alistair cast his eyes downward to hide his joy that maybe not all was lost with this soul. The one that had taken him thirty years to break and ten years to shape into the perfect heir before being torn away and corrupted by an annoying winged freak.
A plan began to formulate in his mind as Dean leaned in a bit further, demonstrating that he was not afraid to be here. Raising his own head, Alistair locked eyes with Dean seeing the haunted look behind the mask. The ex-young demon was skilled with tools, but he had yet to learn the true skill of a master torturer. Narrowing his eyes, Alistair wanted to burst out laughing at the irony. The angels thought they had sent Dean in to torture him and Dean clung to that hope. But no, he would turn the tables and show this youngster, the angels and the rest of the world just why he was the Grand Inquisitor of Hell.
"You left a part of yourself back in the pit," Alistair spat out, leaning forward to meet Dean's confrontation. "Let's see if we can get…the two of you back together again." Cut number one.
Sniffing, he could smell the sulfuric nightmares that plagued Dean's mind spilling forth from the gaping hole where a piece of his soul was missing. The Winchester had left a part of himself down there, the demon part. Alistair could remember as if it was yesterday.
He and Dean were working on two serial killers that were partners when they were alive. Alistair was showing a new move involving a burning hot red spoon—Dean's idea—while his student watched his movements soaking in every motion as he hovered over his own victim itching to practice. Alistair waited to hear the screams as Dean rubbed the heated spoon into the man's stomach but nothing came. Turning, he quickly shielded his eyes at the blinding figure of light with wings stretched out stood before him.
Outside the chamber, the murderous yells of demons announced a battle occurring with flashes of light revealing the appearance of other angels. With dark green almost black eyes, Dean struggled against the angel, whose hand was pressed roughly into his upper right arm. Alistair lunged forward grabbing Dean's other arm, rage at the intrusion making him oblivious to the fire that consumed him. The boy was his! His!
"No," answered a detached voice, blue eyes flashing in righteousness. Alistair pulled hard falling onto the ground, but the angel's strength was too much with the powerful flap of its majestic wings. Dean let out a bloodcurdling scream, the most soul breaking scream Alistair ever heard, as he was ripped out of Alistair's hold. And as quickly as it had begun, the battle outside ceased. No angel or Dean was present in the room.
Shuddering in blacking rage, Alistair staggered to his feet eyes flooding white with fury. Taking a step forward, he was ready to chase after the angel when he felt a soft wisp of smoke touch his arm. Glancing down, white eyes widened with shock at seeing a small black smoky form tremble weakly. Reaching out, Alistair gently ran his blood soaked fingers causing the young, barely existing demon to shake even more. In the briefest moment, he sensed an all too familiar blood lust fill his mind. This was Dean, the part of the Winchester's soul that had become a demon. It had been ripped away during the struggle and was now clinging to life. Turning softly, Alistair cradled the part of Dean's soul that had remained in Hell. With a flick of his fingers, a wicker basket appeared on the table next to his tools. Laying down the wisps of smoke, Alistair ran his hand over it once more to reassure it. The tainted soul would live as long as Dean did, but it would never progress any further without being reunited with its owner.
"Don't worry little one, daddy is going to help you." The smoke seemed to cease its trembling at the sound of Alistair's voice. Feeling satisfied, the Master of Pain reached out and grabbed the nearest knife. A few seconds later, he made sure both souls felt the full extent of his rage of losing his favorite student.
Blinking, Alistair found himself back in the present, watching Dean sort out the tools as if he was preparing to cook. The movements were ingrained in the boy. So professional, Dean looked as if he was made for this purpose. In a sense he was, Alistair had made sure of it. The demon continued his verbal torture but nothing was spurring the boy he knew inside and out literally for 40 years. Frustration began to lash out in his words. Alistair was usually a patient person, but this detached mood from Dean was not working in his favor.
All of his hard work gone in a flash leaving nothing but this emotional hunter that was balancing on the head of a pin. But, the fear was still there. He knew how Dean would snarl curses when it was drowning him. He saw it in all those too brief encounters before his capture. The surprise then angry glares shot at him to appease Sam. Alistair would show his affection in turn by hurting Dean first, chocking, punching, and throwing him or his new favorite: shooting him with rock salt. Then the fear would be back and he would smile in pure bliss. Alistair never did get tired of Dean's struggle to remain strong.
Pausing, the demon lowered his voice to a twisted purr, "Then what about all the things I did to your Daddy." Stressing the last word, Alistair watched with dark satisfaction as cut number two provoked a reaction.
Raising his head, Dean looked straight ahead. Both men knew how much Dean had father issues. And both knew that the bait of knowing what had happened to the elder Winchester was too irresistible. But poor, stubborn Dean kept the mask of indifference on and continued setting up.
So Alistair poured more salt to the wound by reminiscing about John Winchester and the same deal. Once again, Dean asked about those stupid angels, but he pulled the same ignoring routine Dean was trying to do. One of his first lessons he had taught the boy, ignore what your victim is saying. Yet the conflict arose in that Dean had to pay attention if he wanted to get the information on who was killing the angels. Such a predicament was tearing Dean up on the inside and it was one Alistair was using to his advantage.
"Daddy's little girl, he broke in thirty," dark pleasure curled themselves around those words hammering home how weak Dean was. The slam of the liquor bottle made Alistair smile, knowing that he was slowly chipping away the armor Dean had built around himself. "Now we're getting somewhere."
Dean pushed onwards, pouring holy water into a metal cup. Growing impatient at how slow his student was taking, Alistair moaned out loud, "Grasshopper, you're gonna have to get creative to impress me."
Then there it was. Dean turned fully, that detached look cracking revealing a darker side to the hunter. "I dreamt of this moment," came the whispered statement before fixating back onto his work.
Alistair fought back the devilish grin that wanted to spread itself across his features. Keeping his cold gaze onto Dean, he waited with baited breath at what the hunter would do.
"And believe me," green eyes shot up, driving home his point as Dean filled a syringe with holy water, "I got a few ideas."
The dark blue orbs watched with sick fascination as water spilt into the plastic tube. Injecting holy water into a possessed body…Alistair felt the blood drain from his face as a trickle of fear froze across his features. The process would be slow and burning, not to mention last a long time considering it was impossible to remove water from ones' blood. There was nothing he could do.
The brat was more creative then he let on in the Pit.
As those shoes marched towards him, Alistair braced himself against the metal star, grateful for its' support. Pride and apprehension swirled beneath his stoic features. Soaking in the shadowed green eyes and the glinting of the needle, Alistair heard words he never thought he would hear again. Words Dean always said in a subdued delightful tone to his newest victim.
"Let's get started."
----------------------------------------------------
A/N: I hope you all enjoyed. I had to break up this story cause it just kept on going. So I have a second part all ready to go and hopefully will post it soon. Thanks for reading!