"Damned is Love;

and So am I"

By Lucifer's Hell Hound

Universe: Supernatural
Class: Fan Fiction
Characters: Dean Winchester, Alistair. Guest appearances by Sam Winchester, John Winchester, and Mary Winchester (Campbell)
Setting: Hell (between End S03 and Start S04)
Rating: NC-17 (XXX)
Warnings: Extreme violence, torture, homo-erotica, incest (sort of), sodomy, language, disturbing imagery, non-consensual sexual interactions, etc.
Spoilers: Assume you've seen everything up to the end of Season 3

Note: This isn't grandma's fanfic. Be aware that this is a dark, violent, and likely to be extremely disturbing interpretation of some of Dean's time spent in Hell and his interactions/experiences with Alistair. If you find the above warnings to be not to your taste please don't waste your time or mine with reactions of horror.
Consider yourselves warned.
Feedback is appreciated; although there is no need to tell me how fucked up I am, I am fully aware (as are my therapists).

Disclaimer: "Supernatural," and all associated names, characters and titles are the sole property of CW Broadcasting, Inc. and its subsidiaries; including Eric Kripke, Robert Singer, Ben Edlund, and any other various sorts who might have a controlling copyright interest. The names of characters, certain plot sequences, and mythological universes are used without permission and without monetary gain. No harm is intended by the use of said intellectual property and no copyright infringement is implied or intended.

Please Note: This fanfiction is protected under the International Copyright Act of 2009. Copying and Re-Posting of this fanfiction qualifies as copyright infringement of intellectual property. If you wish to recommend this work, post it to another site, or in any other way copy, display, or represent this work to another, please contact me first via e-mail. Thank You.

Chapter 1

"All right then, I'll go to Hell." ~Mark Twain

Dean opened his eyes, slowly, expecting at any moment that the silence around him was just another trick; one more way to get under his skin. He was alone. Blissfully, happily, startlingly alone. He was in Hell. He knew it because the very air he breathed burned like acid in his lungs. He knew it because hope of rescue had long ago left him. He didn't know how long his eyes had been closed, or how long it'd been since Alistair had last played with him. Time wasn't really discernable any more. Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. He didn't know how long it had been since the hounds had come for him; he and Sam struggling so feebly; hearing the agony in his brother's voice as his mind slipped away and his soul was dragged screaming into the Pit.

Since those wretched beasts had torn him to shreds he'd learned that their teeth and claws were like silken sheets compared to a lot of things. He'd learned that reality had limits but Hell did not. He'd learned that Hell had it's own laws of nature; things like gravity and time didn't work here. Most of all he'd learned that there were absolutely no limits on the concept of pain.

He was alone and in Hell and he was cold. It was dark, too. It was so cold that he long ago forgot what it was like to feel his extremities. Though since being here he had come to realize that feeling one's extremities wasn't always such a good thing and so was content to believe they still existed, even if he couldn't see them. The dark and the cold weren't the worst things he'd experienced in the Pit, but they were constants. Whoever said Hell was all fire and brimstone apparently had never seen the place, though heat and fire were put to use. He shuddered. Moving on, please.

His next thought was Sam. God. Sam… Dean wanted to remember his brother. The reason he'd done that mad, insane, stupid thing which ended him here. Sammy, his little brother, his life, his mission since before… Before what? The memories were fading. Memories of life and joy and kindness, loyalty and love, and cheeseburgers and beer. Things that held him together in life were fading from his mind. Burned away by pain and suffering, torn out of his skull by sheer agony minute after minute after hour after hour after day after day. It never ended. So why was he alone? Reality slapped him hard across the face, leaving his cheek split open and burning from the sulfuric fumes that permeated everything. He opened his eyes again, weakly, knowing already who's fist it had been. There was no one else.

"Alistair," he heard himself rasp, feebly.

The demon, his nemesis, his tormentor, his companion in eternity stood before him, a grin on his hideous face. "Dean…" he crooned, his voice like the rasp of piano wire. "You've been waiting for me? I should have known you would miss me. Alone with your thoughts your bound to find things far more worthy than any of my attentions."

"You love hearing yourself talk," Dean responded, pulling out the bravado he didn't feel. "Why don't we get on with it, shall we? I'm feeling rather tired today." He tried a grin, but the pain in his face turned it into a grimace.

"Ahh, yes. But we have already started, Dean," Alistair purred. "We were discussing your mind. The memories you hold onto still. The ones I have yet to tear from you…" He raised a clawed hand and showed Dean the shining razor clutched in it.

Dean looked at the now familiar blade. It was beautiful, honestly; sleek, smooth, glinting in the red fire-glow, and brutally, devastatingly sharp. For all the tools, toys, machines, and creativity of Hell, the razor remained Alistair's favorite. It was effective, too. Efficient. Dean couldn't recall a day where he hadn't felt it's sting. Felt the silver bite into his skin, his muscle, sinew, organs. It's effect on bone was especially excruciating, he recalled, and couldn't repress a shudder. His bravado left him as quickly as he had recalled it and he looked away, desperate to find something else, but there was nothing but suffering surrounding him.

Alistair smiled seeing the fear in Dean's eyes as the razor's edge glinted in the welling tears. He took a step back, thinking. His eyes raked the naked form before him, bound so sparingly yet so inescapably. Dean's body was pristine today, save for the ugly gash on his cheek bone that now wept a thin rivulet of blood. The position of the crucifixion was especially attractive to him, though the Roman modification of a cross in the shape of an X had been remarkable. The modified bracing he had Dean bound to spread the body in a way that was especially pleasing: spreading the legs just so allowed access to some of the most sensitive areas of the body; the arms nearly straight out from the shoulders so as to allow maximum leverage when adjusting the joints. The whole contraption could be raised or lowered, tilted from horizontal to vertical, and each cross-bar could be rotated individually for an interesting effect on the prisoner. He studied Dean's nakedness, seeing the broken and battered soul within the temporary flesh-suit he had been given, loving the vulnerability. It was the exact match of his human body; proportional, well-muscled, rugged and hard; a body created by years of hard living and pushing things too far. Alistair thought it was a gift that Hell's torments left no physical scars. It would have been a shame not to see this perfection each day, able to mar it and mold it anew with each dawn.

"Where shall I start, Dean?" Alistair requested, generously. "I'm giving you the choice today, my darling. Your wish is my command."

Dean cringed. Alistair was feeling 'generous,' the worst mood after 'contemplative.' The razor wouldn't be the only thing he'd feel today, and it wasn't likely today would end in 24 hours. The choice wasn't something he would have made before, but after time served he had learned that choosing was better than letting Alistair begin. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, felt the sweat break out on his forehead, and fought the turmoil in his mind. Struggling to find some memory to hold on to he cleared his throat.

"How about the hands?" he answered, hoping to God or Lucifer or anything that Alistair wasn't feeling 'exploratory' as well. "You haven't given me a good handjob in months," he added foolishly. There was no point in holding back anymore, it didn't matter what he did or said the result was always the same: Pain, Pain, and more Pain.

The answering leer on Alistair's face was enough to make Dean shiver. When the cold black eyes focused on his right hand he curled his fingers into a fist. It was involuntary, the memories of Alistair's games crystal clear, his own screams haunting him. Sometimes screaming was all there was left. But he bit his tongue when Alistair turned and walked towards the table behind him.

This table wasn't actually necessary by any conventional means, Dean knew. Anything Alistair wanted he could simply conjure into his hand. But the table was there for different reasons, a psychological tactic that still had an effect on Dean. The sight of all those tools, some shining and bright, some rusted and jagged, some still stained with his own blood and bile and offel. He watched as Alistair grazed his hands lovingly over the tool set, eyes cold and calculating. Alistair grinned as he made his choice, he felt the familiar stirrings as he contemplated which item he would use to extract the exquisite agony from his charge. He most loved to watch Dean's face as he worked; analyzing the minute changes in the eyes, reveling in the change of color and tone in the skin, enjoying the grotesque masks of exposed teeth and crinkled flesh. The sounds were equally exciting; it started with silence, then the breathing would speed, little hisses, then whimpers, groans, moans, and finally screams; all underscored with curses of every variety.

Dean couldn't help but watch as the selection was contemplated. He sorted desperately through his mind, seeking out images of times gone by. He kept seeing Sammy's face, smiling, or more often, incredulous. He thought of John, Dad, that maddening, crazed, devoted, loving, and ultimately self-sacrificing hero of a man who Dean worshipped on hands and knees. He thought of Mary, his mother, a light so bright in his mind that it was no wonder it burned out too soon. Rare moments of laughter, real laughter brought tears to his eyes. Alistair's cruel voice brought him back, though… It was inevitable.

"Where are you going, Dean?" Alistair asked gently. "You'll find no escape inside that head of yours, you know. I'll tear you out of whatever flashback you're in, no matter how deep you go. You should know that by now."

Dean's green eyes swam with tears and he choked back the sob that threatened. The object in Alistair's hand made him want to weep, for it wasn't anything knew at all but the familiar razor glittering there. Sometimes it wasn't the pain that was torture but the sheer monotony of it all. Continuous suffering made you numb eventually, though Alistair delighted in finding ways to make you feel again. Vile, treacherous, nightmarish sensation; the razor carved into his finger, flaying the flesh to expose the sickly pink hue of living bone. Alistair worked; Dean's screams went unheard and in his heart he knew he'd rather suffer with Alistair than be alone.