The only thing better than watching the world go to Hell in a handbasket is giving it a helping hand. Once Lucifer was sprung out of the cage, topside became a free-for-all. And since I was so… instrumental… in bringing it all about, I've been suitably rewarded. They gave me back my Baby, my beloved black Impala, and let me roam as I will, collecting souls for the head honchos.
My name is Dean Winchester, and I started the Apocalypse.
Ha, that sounds like I'm at a freakin' AA meeting.
Anyway, technically, it was a tag-team effort. I broke the first Seal, but my baby brother Sam broke the last one. Neither of us knew at the time that we were Fated to do it. Kinda a final big flipping of the bird, God's idea of a practical joke. After all those years spent trying to save people, killing ghosts and monsters, the Winchester brothers unleash the greatest evil on the world, and millions of innocents die.
Gotta love it.
Sammy feels bad about it now. Probably would have felt bad about it at the time, too, if he hadn't been hopped up on demon blood.
That's right, while I was down in Hell, my brother was banging that black-eyed bitch Ruby, learning to harness the power he got from sucking down her blood. Using that power to kill other demons. But not his precious Ruby. Well now, the joke ended up being on him, didn't it.
When my friends in low places arranged for me to surface again, Sam was appalled by what I'd become. But hey, he was the one who killed Lilith and set the big boss free, after being played by Ruby for months. Now he was running around being emo boy, trying to find a way to stuff it all back into Pandora's box. He thinks that if he can somehow get Lucifer back into the cage, he can "fix" me. What he doesn't know is that he's got a role to play in this, all right, but not the one he thinks. Y'see, Luci needs a meat suit to stay topside. A vessel worthy of his magnificence if he is to manifest his full power here on Earth. And guess who Fate has chosen as his one true vessel?
Bingo. Jackpot. Sammy-boy.
Something about the bloodlines, me and him having a direct line back to Cain and Abel. I was supposed to be the vessel for Heaven's champion, Michael, and Samifer and I were supposed to duke it out, to give the good guys a chance to win it all back. Since we started it, we are the only ones who can end it.
Well, screw Fate. Sideways with a baseball bat. Seriously.
That plan got thrown out the window when I switched sides. Now Michael's got nothin' to wear to the big dance, and our side has free rein to spike the punch and smoke weed in the boys' bathroom.
So Sam chases me around the country, trying to figure out a way to "redeem" me. What he doesn't understand is that I'm the happiest I've ever been. The only cherry that he could possibly add to this sundae is to accept Lucifer's offer, not because Fate says so, but because it would bring us back together again. Let us be brothers again.
After I cut the other cheek on my latest victim, a banking CEO with a laundry list of offenses against his fellow human beings, I step back to admire his Glasgow smile. He sobs pathetically, but his begging is getting tedious. Time to steer the conversation to a more interesting topic.
"I bet you'd like to hear how I went from the savior of humanity to Lucifer's bounty hunter, huh?"
Time is funny in Hell. Hard to keep track of. I guess when you're talking about eternity, there isn't much use for clocks and calendars. But I don't figure on spending eternity here. Even though I told them not to, I know that Sam and Bobby are trying to figure out a way to pull me out. Yep, all I have to do is bide my time and eventually I'll be sprung.
Fuck, I've never been more wrong.
What I do know is that I've been waiting in the dark with a thick strip of cloth swaddling my eyes for a long time. Long enough that my hands and feet are numb from being stretched in a vertical spread eagle. I have no idea if I'm alone or surrounded by demons until one of those smoky bastards speaks.
"Well, well, well." The voice is slick and raspy, like ground glass wrapped in silk. "If it isn't one of the Winchester boys. Dean, right?" The hand he trails down my side is dry and rough, the touch light enough to make me shudder.
"Yeah, whatever. I'm not your prom date, so not really interested in getting on a first name basis." I flex my hands, testing the shackles that hold them above my head.
Suddenly, he's pressed up against me, a fist in my hair. His breath is tepid and rank on my face. The fabric brushing against my naked skin raises gooseflesh.
"Oh, but we're going to get to know each other so well, boy. Intimately, one might even say."
I swallow hard, trying not to let my mind flash on all the images that statement conjures. I wish I could see this fuckstick to know what I'm dealing with, but the blindfold leaves me guessing in the dark. "That's a really sweet offer, but—and don't take this personally—you're so not my type."
After a moment, he releases my hair and pats my cheek. His body withdrawals, and I hear him start to laugh. It's not a pleasant sound.
"This is gonna be so much fun."
Alastair—that's the assclown's name—likes to lecture while he works, reminding me of a high school science teacher discussing a frog dissection. Mostly I think he likes the sound of his own voice. And much as I hated school, I never had a high school teacher with a constant maniacal leer and flat, dead eyes.
"You see, m'boy," he says as he holds something that looks like an overgrown straight razor in front of my face, turning it back and forth like he's mesmerized by the glint of the polished steel. "The body can only sense three types of pain—thermal, mechanical, and chemical." With a smooth flick of his wrist, he slides it down the center of my stomach, drawing a line from sternum to navel. A split second later, the pain hits like a streak of fire, leaving warmth trickling in its wake. He waits until my curses die before he continues. "After that, it's all a matter of degrees. Cutting, for instance, hurts more when it's done with a blunt instrument."
He digs his fingers into the wound he's just made and pulls the skin apart with his hands. I promised myself I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream. But I can feel the skin slowly peeling away from the muscle underneath and the hot gush of blood. I start screaming, thrashing my head back and forth as the pain builds.
"Pain receptors are the only sensory nerve endings in the body that don't acclimate. Once they are zinging, they can still fire again and again and again and again." The bastard giggles. He pulls one hand out and raises a crimson-painted finger to his mouth. He licks it with a long, lurid stroke of his tongue, then swirls it around in his mouth like he's tasting good booze and smacks his lips.
"You sick fuck!" is all I can gasp out. He ignores me.
"But after a while, those pain receptors in the area get overloaded. The pain doesn't go away, but it gets dull. So you hafta change it up, stimulate a different set of nerve endings. Now, if you were still wearing a real meat suit, you'd have the luxury of passing out when the input overwhelmed your brain stem and shut it down. But here—" He waves his hand around with a flourish, and cooling droplets of my own blood sprinkle across my face, "—where this 'body' is only a figment of your mind, we aren't going to have such rude interruptions."
He picks up something that looks like a screwdriver from his table of toys. He steps in closer and shoves it through the gap in the skin and into my gut. The pop when the muscle parts around the thick, snubby end of the metal is audible over my moans. He tosses the tool aside then sticks a finger in the hole. I can feel it wiggling around inside, insinuating between my slippery innards. With a tug, he pulls a loop of reddish-brown intestine out of the hole.
"I was a Grand Inquisitor back when I walked the earth, did you know that, boy?" he asks. His voice is hypnotic, and much as I try to tune it out, I can't.
"Had a thing for red dresses, did you?" My voice is wrecked, low and gravelly. He's setting up another contraption that looks like a spit for roasting meat. Man does love his toys. My heart picks up its pace. I'm pretty sure I've seen something like this in an old book.
"It was a good gig. The church kept the victims flowing. And we were encouraged to be inventive. Everything today is just derivative of our work. Me, I'm a big fan of the classics." He pulls a small chain with a hook on the end from the spit and sinks it into the glistening flesh. "This one is an oldie, but a goody. Trick is to do it slow, to maximize the time the victim spends watching himself be disemboweled."
He cranks the spit a turn, winding the chain around the metal rod. With a wet, popping sound, more of my intestine slithers out of the hole, ripping another scream from my broken throat. Oh god, I was so stupid, thinking I could handle this.
Another slow turn of the crank—the intestine starts winding around the spit. "So tell me, boy, was it worth it? Was your brother's life worth this?"
Fuck! I can feel my abdomen slowly caving in as it empties.
"What do you think he's doing right now, topside? Sitting down to a nice meal? Taking a hot shower? Sleeping in a soft bed? Maybe fucking a nice piece of pussy to help him through his grief?" He stops turning the handle and steps in close again. His voice drops to a whisper. "He's forgotten about you and moved on with his life. I'm all you've got now, boy. Hmm. And I'm definitely a you-scratch-my-back-I'll-scratch-yours kind of guy."
I can taste blood in the back of my throat, coppery and flat. Despite my dry mouth, I manage to work up some saliva and spit the bloody gob on his cheek. "Scratch that, asshole."
He chuckles again; he's not impressed by my show of defiance. "You're not ready yet. That's all right. We have lots of time together." And he puts his hand on the crank again.
He's wrong about one thing. I may not be able to pass out, but when the last of my intestines is torn from my body in a gush of blood and other, nastier fluids, I discover I can die. It's unfortunate for me that death is only a temporary condition in Hell.
Every time I wake up, I never get over the shock of finding myself whole again. In that first moment when I draw a gasping breath and my eyes pop open, I still have the memory of suffering, of dying at Alastair's hands. But there is no pain, no sign of wound or blood on my body. I'm smooth as a newborn, not even any scars show.
True to his word, Alastair trots out a stream of torture methods and devices straight out of the middle ages. With the enthusiasm of an artist who is passionate about his trade, he keeps up a running dialogue explaining each one as he uses it to break my body. Some of them are well known: the rack, the iron maiden, the breaking wheel, thumbscrews, a variety of whips. And some of them are more obscure: the Judas cradle, the pear of anguish, the knee splitter, the Spanish boot. I learn about strappado, picquet, bastinado, and water curing.
From personal experience, I learn just how much damage they can cause and how to prolong the physical and mental trauma for maximum effect.
But every time, before he begins, he asks me the same question.
"Well boy, you can save yourself all this, if you'll just take up a knife as my protégé."
Every time, my answer is the same. Well, sometimes it's more colorfully phrased than others. But the message is always the same. Fuck off.
Then he decides to step up his game.
I've just woken up from the last session, the acrid smell of my own burning flesh still in my nostrils, and I'm alone. Not unusual. Alastair sometimes lets me wait long (hours? days?) periods before he puts in an appearance. He says anticipation heightens the experience. Much as I try not to let it get to me, the fucker is right.
To distract myself, I try to think of good memories, good times with my father or my brother. But they are getting harder and harder to pull out of the fog in my brain. I have no idea how long it's been since the Hounds used me as a chew toy. It feels like years, but hard as I try, I can't keep track. Like I said, time moves funny in Hell.
I'm still trying to suss that out when Sam comes running in through the door.
He skids to a halt and stares, like he's trying to make sure it's really me. "Dean!"
"Sam?" I tug on the chains holding my wrists above my head. What the fuck is going on?
He rushes over and unlocks the shackles with a big key. When my knees start to fold, he grabs me in a bear hug. It looks like Sam, feels like him, smells like him. All my senses are telling me that this is my brother, but my mind is lagging behind. What is he doing here?
"Oh thank god, I can't believe I found you." He's still holding me in a tight squeeze that I can't quite bring myself to return.
"How did you get here? What did you do, Sammy?" It comes out harsher than I intend, but I'm really freaking out.
"I'm busting you out. Bobby found a spell." He breaks the clinch and looks around nervously. "C'mon, we gotta go."
My chest swells with hope and relief at his words. He grabs my hand and pulls me along, oblivious to the fact that I'm butt naked. Dude could have at least brought some clothes with him.
We run through hallways decorated with the same medieval dungeon and torture chamber motif as my cell—stone walls damp and slimy green, dirt floors complete with rats scurrying out of the way as we pass. I stumble a few times, but Sam's strong grip bears me up and keeps me moving.
"Where are we going?" I ask him breathlessly. If a spell brought him here, can't we just poof away from wherever we are? My steps falter as I really start thinking about this whole situation.
Sam tugs at me to try to get me to move faster, but I pull my arm out of his grasp. "Wait a minute, wait a minute," I growl at him. "How exactly did you say you got here?" Something doesn't add up. A whole lot of somethings, in fact.
"Dean, we don't have time for this!" He screws up his face, doing that thing that's halfway between a pout and a frown, his lips drawn in a tight line. "What is your problem? I'm getting you out, dude!"
I cock my head to one side as my suspicions grow by the second. "There's no spell, is there? There's no spell strong enough to break into Hell and pull someone out. If there was, we would have heard about it before now." My eyes narrow and my stomach knots up. "WHAT DID YOU DO?" I shout at him. I'm thinking he cut some sort of deal. And we both know how well those work out.
Sam backs away from me. I think he's about to start making excuses, try to rationalize to me whatever stupid-assed stunt he's pulled. Instead, he starts to laugh. It starts as a snicker that he's trying and failing to stifle. As my eyebrows shoot to the ceiling, he breaks into a full blown belly laugh, eventually bending over to rest his hands on his knees as tears run down his cheeks and he tries to catch his breath.
That's when Alastair's voice comes from behind me.
"You idiot. You were supposed to take him further, let his see a light at the end of the tunnel."
Fuck.
Sam stands up, a lop-sided grin still on his face, and holds a hand out to Alastair. "Sorry, darling, it's just too sodding funny." Sam's body begins to melt and before I can figure out what the hell is going on, he's replaced by some middle-aged, balding, paunchy, short guy in a suit. "He's still worried more about that big moose than he is about himself. Besides, he knew the jig was up. Sharp, that one." He taps a finger on his temple.
So fast that I don't even see him move, Alastair is in front of me. He grabs my upper arms in an iron grip. "Your brother isn't coming for you, boy." His eyes roam over my face, savoring my expression as his words sink in. "No one is coming for you. You're mine now." He pulls my slack body against his, and much as I hate myself for doing it, I surrender for now to the comfort. "I can make it so good for you here. I can be the father you never had."
That makes me pull back as anger flares. "I had a father. And you ain't him."
He's still got hold of my arms so I can't get away. "That's right. How many times did he leave you on your own, Dean? Hmm? How many times did you do something to try to please him, only to have him not notice? Or worse, find fault with it anyway? How little did words of praise ever fall from his lips? You were never gonna be good enough, especially after your brother left."
My heart sinks deeper and deeper as all the mixed feelings for Dad come bubbling to the surface. "He... he had a job to do. He did the best he could for us," I mutter, knowing it's a lame defense.
"His best wasn't very good, now was it?" His grasp on my arms gentles just a little. "The job was more important than you were. Everyone else's kids were always more important than you were." His eyes flash black. "It won't be that way with me, Dean. I may be a demon, but if you take up the knife, boy, I'll be a better father than he ever was. I'll never leave you. I'll never make you feel less than the perfect creation you are. I'll raise you up to stand by my side, and you will be exalted!"
I don't want to hear the words, because much as I want to believe that all demons ever do is lie, I know that isn't so. I've seen how Alastair treats Meg when she assists him. Like she's something special.
I can't say as I've ever felt special, at least not in a good way, in my entire life.
But I can't say yes. Even though I know that the vast majority of souls aren't here because they are Martha-freaking-Stewart, that they probably deserve whatever torments they are given here, I can't take Alastair's offer. It would make me one of them.
Eventually, even that doesn't matter anymore.
Oh shit. I think Alastair knows how close I came to losing it that day. Mixed in with the physical torments, he starts using my friends and family against me—Sam, Dad, Bobby, Jo, Ellen. And even though part of my mind knows it's not them, it doesn't really make it any easier. Like the time Dad breaks all my fingers, the entire time telling me in a quiet, even tone—the same one he used to teach me about cars while we worked together on the Impala—how useless I am. How much he regrets the deal he made for my life. I'm forced to watch Jo ravaged by Alastair. He slowly carves her up and brutally rapes her while squeezing the last breath out of her. Through the whole thing, Ellen curses at me from where she's chained to the wall, screaming how it would have been better for everyone if I had never even been born.
But it's not until he brings in Mom that Alastair finally breaks my will.
She comes into the room on Alastair's arm, dressed in a worn, comfortable looking nightgown. He pulls up a chair for her, like a gentleman seating his wife at a dinner party, so that she's only a few feet away from me. Close enough that I can smell her clean, familiar scent over the stink of sulfur and blood.
"Mom?" I croak. There's a lump in my throat that I can barely talk around. Alastair hasn't touched me since I woke up this time, but I can't breathe as my chest squeezes tight.
"Hello, Dean honey," she says softly. I barely remember how she sounded; the most vivid memories I have of her voice are from her singing lullabies next to my bed. But she looks just like the picture Dad used to carry in his wallet.
I drag my eyes off her to look at Alastair, trying to figure what the point of this is going to be. What I see in his expression makes my blood run cold. Not the usual leer at that says he's gonna get his jollies. Or the smirk when he knows he's going pull one over on me. His eyes droop just slightly, almost like he's... sad.
I know it's not her, that this creature sitting in front of me is no more my mother than any of the others, but I can't seem to stop the words that spill out of me.
"Mom, I've missed you so much."
"I know." She sighs heavily and fixes me with that look usually reserved for when I'd done something wrong as a kid. The one that feels like bitter disappointment.
"Let me tell you why I wasn't there when you were growing up."
And she narrates for me, in excruciating detail, what happened to her the night she died.
She describes for me the agony of being gutted and pinned to the ceiling by Azazel. She tells me about her terror as she screamed for Dad, for me, for someone to come to her aid, knowing that anyone entering that room would be the demon's next victim. Then after Azazel left and Dad came into check on Sammy, she watched from above him as he slowly realized that something was very, very wrong.
When she burst into flame before Dad's eyes, she was aware the entire time—feeling the flames licking at her as her flesh crisped and blackened and peeled away from her bones. Hearing her hair pop and sizzle as it caught fire.
She speaks of knowing, as the flames rolled away from her body and engulfed the nursery, that she would probably watch her entire family die with her.
I listen, mesmerized, unable to force out any words, even though I want to plead with her to stop. For the first time since I got here, tears swell in my eyes and slowly drip down my cheeks.
When she's done, she pats Alastair's hand where it rests on her shoulder, then rises and finally steps closer to me. She raises one fine-boned, porcelain-skinned hand to brush a tear off my cheek.
"And do you know what I learned from all that, Dean?" She stand on her tip-toes to kiss me gently on the forehead, like she did when I was a child in need of comfort. "I learned that nothing good lasts forever. In the end, everyone suffers. Even those who don't deserve it."
My face scrunches up and a sob catches in my throat. She's so beautiful, so innocent. I earned my time in Hell.
"You don't have to fight anymore, baby. I wish I could stay and take care of you, but I can't. Alastair—" She glances back over her shoulder, then looks deep into my eyes. "He wants to help you, to show you that you've suffered enough. That you deserve so much more than this."
"But—" I'm not worthy of anything more.
She presses a finger to my lips. "Shhh. It's okay, sweetie. I want you to let him help you. I give you my blessing."
With that, she turns and slips her arm through Alastair's, and they walk out together. I scream for her to come back, pull against the chains holding me in place.
Alastair's best torture, and he never said a word or lifted a finger against me.
When Alastair returns, he doesn't even need to ask.
"Yes," I growl, like the words are shredding my throat on the way out. "Damn it, yes. It doesn't matter anymore. I'll do whatever you want."
He closes his eyes with a rapturous expression, like he's gonna cream himself right there. But then he fixes me with a narrow stare. He thinks I'm trying to play him.
"Deal like that is gonna take more than a kiss, boy."
I swallow hard at that, but honestly, my give-a-damn is on permanent hiatus. "Take whatever you want. I'm all yours."
Alastair presses the full length of his body against mine; his beard scratches my cheek as he claims my mouth, forcing his tongue between my lips fast and rough. I open up to him, but the kiss is still savage, a prelude to what is to come. When he pulls back from it, I'm gasping and taste blood in my mouth.
He runs his hands up my sides, completely ignoring the semi-stiffy I've got going on. Yeah, who's the sick fuck now, huh? When he gets to my wrists, he touches the manacles, which click open. The ones on my ankles fall away, too, but before I can move, Alastair twists me around and clamps an iron grip around both wrists. He forces me down to kneel in the dirt, arms locked behind me, then pushes my head down.
"This first time is for me, to claim what's mine." I close my eyes and try to relax, to just accept whatever he's going to do. Because it's what I deserve. "And it's gonna hurt," he finishes with a whisper in my ear.
Suddenly, his clothes are gone, and what feels like a freakin' missile is rubbing at the cleft of my ass. There's no prep, no slick, and he's right, it hurts like... well, I would say "Hell", but that's just a little too ironic, isn't it? He pushes against my tight opening until the muscles submit to his will, but I bite back the scream as he breaches my ass and bottoms out in one hard shove. He fills me up to bursting, but despite the pain, I've never felt so complete, so valued as I do in this very moment.
I feel the fragile tissue give way and know the warm fluid that trickles down my balls is my own blood. A pact as soul-gripping as ours can only be —must be—sealed with spit, blood, and semen.
"Uhhh," Alastair groans, as he starts pounding into me, pulling almost completely out before thrusting back in with a twist of his hips. "This ass of yours is so sweet, boy. I am gonna relish using it again and again. But don't worry, I'll make sure you get to enjoy it, too, next time."
The rapid pace he's set begins to falter, and I know he's close to finishing. He lets go of my wrists and wraps his arms around my chest, pulling me upright so I'm practically squatting in his lap. "You are mine now, all mine," he croons, then bites down hard into the meat of my shoulder. My own dick is filling again, whether in response to the fiery agony or the flashes of pleasure that are blazing along my confused nerves, I'm not sure. But I know that I'm not getting my rocks off this time.
Alastair yanks down, impaling me on his cock as it swells with his release, and throws back his head with a victorious roar. The seed that floods my passage is like ice water—cold, so very cold. And in that moment, something shifts inside me. Like that feeling when you reach the top of the roller coaster, just before you plunge down the first big hill. I cry out, still not able to distinguish pleasure from pain, and no longer caring. And I know, even without looking in a mirror, that my eyes are pure and total black. I hear a sound like a chorus of voices crying out with me, but it dies as my own voice falls silent. It sounds like a welcome.
I'm one of Hell's minions now.
Alastair is true to his word. He takes me back to his chamber, a lush, crimson-decorated bedroom that would put a brothel to shame. Except for when he wakes me to lavish attention on my body, he lets me sleep for what seems like a week. And even though he fucks me in every conceivable position, and a few I'm pretty sure no one else has ever imagined—seriously, the Kama Sutra's got bupkis on this guy—he always makes sure it's good for me. Even though I'm the one who just got off the rack after years (decades?) of torture, Alastair is the one who worships my body like a man dying of thirst drinking from a fountain.
Yeah, I got nothing to complain about. The bed is soft, the shower is hot, the chow is top notch, and, when we aren't fucking like bunnies, I get to wear clothes for the first time in freaking forever. Eventually, though, I have to start pulling my own weight.
The first deserving candidate I torture is a rapist and murderer of children. He's already chained to the table when Alastair brings me in; it's set up like a cross, pulling his arms out from his body. Next to him, there's a table of tools. Knives. Probes. Mallets. That's all they are to me now, tools to get a job done.
At first, I'm pretty clumsy. I accidentally kill the guy after about an hour when I dip my blade too deep while I'm carving out the muscles between his ribs and pierce his heart. Blood sprays everywhere, coating us both with hot, slick fluid. But that's okay. Hell gives you an infinite number of mulligans.
Besides, Alastair gets so turned on by the sight of me wet and dripping, he takes me right there on the floor, using the guy's blood as lube to ease his way. Then he finishes me off with his mouth, doing things with that forked tongue of his that I would have never dreamed possible. Sex was never this hot topside.
As I learn my new trade, Alastair is patient with me, murmuring encouragement as he sometimes guides my hand with a steadying touch. He says I show promise, that I'm the quickest study he's ever taken under his wing. Once I get the hang of things, I set a new record, keeping one of my victims alive and aware for four straight days as I slowly flay every inch of skin from his body, some of it a thin layer at a time. And then douse him in salt water. His screams earn me a legendary rep all through the ranks of Hell.
Not that there aren't times when I backslide. Alastair lets me get a few really nasty pieces of work under my belt—hardcore, unrepentant criminal types—before he gives me a crossroads special. Someone like me.
I know she's not the usual brand of psycho when Crowley is waiting with her. Since Lucifer got sprung, the ranks of Hell have been upwardly mobile. Crowley's been promoted to take Lilith's place as the King of the Crossroads Demons. The same limey bastard that helped Alastair during my time on the rack. Still short, still trying to work that expensive Italian suit for all it's worth.
The woman on the rack is middle-aged, was probably a real knock-out back in the day but she's still good looking in a mature, cougar kind of way. Her dishwater brown hair hangs in her face as she struggles weakly against her bonds. Crowley has one slightly droopy fun bag—heh, guess those puppies are real—in his hand, fondling it roughly as he murmurs to her all the ways she's going to suffer. Goddamn tease.
When I get close enough, her gaze shifts and locks with mine. I can see the tears welling up in her eyes, the deep azure of her irises shimmering behind the waterworks. My feet lock up, and Alastair collides with my back.
"Dean?" He reaches up and squeezes my shoulder.
Crowley drops what he's playing with and turns his attention on us. "Well, darling, it's about bloody time. I was starting to get bored."
I ignore him and turn to my mentor. "She's not like the others." I can see the difference in her soul. Unlike the tarry, dense patina beneath the remembered flesh of the others, hers is clear, with just a hint of inky sheen floating on the surface.
"She belongs here, just like all the rest, my boy. She made the deal, now it's time to pay the piper."
I have a strict policy. Sins only. No names, no life stories. I don't want to know the extenuating circumstances that make each of my victims think that their case is special, that their crimes, their transgressions are somehow exempt. This woman made a deal with a demon. That should be it. End of story.
"What—" I hesitate as the words stick in my craw. "What was her deal?"
Alastair's look is equal parts disappointment and irritation. He's getting pissed that I'm balking.
"What was her deal!" I growl at him. I'm not saying I won't get the job done. I just... I need to know.
He looks over my shoulder at Crowley, gives a curt nod.
"Her brat was dying of leukemia. He got a miracle cure. She got ten years. Standard contract." His offhanded tone belies his boredom.
I'm still looking at Alastair. "Is he still alive?" No answer. Alastair tilts his head questioningly. "The kid! Is he still alive!"
"Yeah, yeah. Happy as a clam with two rugrats of his own. Became a barrister, I think. Now that's irony," Crowley chuckles. "Look, I don't welsh on my deals, love. Word of that gets out and it's bad for business all around."
Alastair puts both hand on my shoulders. "She made the deal of her own free will, Dean." Like I don't know that. Like I don't know exactly how that goes down.
"Please." She finally speaks. She thinks I'm someone who will help her. Poor stupid bitch doesn't realize that no one here is going to sympathize with her. Me included.
I take a deep breath and raise my chin. Alastair sees me steel my resolve and smiles approvingly. He slips a hand behind my neck and pulls my face to his for a quick kiss. "That's my boy."
"Dean."
My name pulls me out of my reverie. What's-his-name-CEO's head snaps up, hope flashing in his eyes at what he thinks is his rescuer. I give him a smirk. Fucking idiot.
I glance over my shoulder at my brother.
"Go away, Sam. I'm working here, dude. You're harshing my fun."
He circles around, giving me and my captive a wide berth, to where I can see him. He's got a kicked-puppy expression, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, but I barely notice that before I see the big honking pistol he's holding. Right now, it's pointed at the ground. For now. I raise my eyebrow, and let my eyes slip to black.
"Really, Sam? Really? You brought the Colt? So that's your big Plan B, you're gonna shoot me?"
"I don't want to use it, Dean."
"I would have thought you'd just mind-whammy me." I snap my fingers and chuckle. "Oh, right. Tried that. Now that you've sworn off your go-juice, that's not happening so much for you anymore."
I hold out my arm and put the knife still dripping with my vic's blood against my wrist. "Or you just looking for a better vintage?"
"No!" He starts forward a half step, hand outstretched. "I don't want to hurt you. But I can't let you keep going like this. It's not you, Dean. We are supposed to help people."
I laugh. "Help people? You want me to 'help' this douchebag? You think he doesn't deserve what he's getting?" I tilt my head as I access my demonic database of this bastard's offenses. "Do you know how many people he's screwed over so that he could pull down an extra hundred grand a year? People who died from hunger, from exposure, from disease because of his greed?"
Douchebag-in-question is shaking his head back and forth, about to plead that none of it was his fault. I give him a black-eyed glare, and the protests die in his throat. Instead, he whimpers as fresh rivulets of blood drip from his cheeks down into the crisply starched collar of his expensive dress shirt.
Sam looks at the dude with a lopsided frown. "Well, not him. But you shouldn't be torturing the guy, either."
I cock an eyebrow and jut my chin out at him. "Why not?"
My brother's expression as he's completely flabbergasted by my question is priceless. "Be...because..." he stammers. "Because it's not right!"
"Not right? Says who?"
And there it is. The bitchface. Never gets old.
"Look," he chops at the air with his hand, "it's just not, okay? And you need to stop."
"No can do, Sammy." I give him a big grin and pull back a little so my eyes switch back to green. "Hey, I have a better idea. Why don't you join the party? You and me, baby brother."
"What, let Lucifer possess me?" He raises the Colt finally and pulls back the hammer. "No."
Well, this is an interesting turn. I didn't think Sam had the stones. Correction. I still don't think Sam has the stones.
"Sam." He don't even blink. "Don't be ridiculous. You aren't going to shoot me."
To prove my confidence, I swagger over to him until the end of the gun rests on my chest. The muscle on the side of his face jumps as he clenches his jaw.
"Stalemate. Now will you put that thing down."
Sam's face crumbles, but the barrel of the Colt doesn't move. "You're my brother, Dean," he sobs. "You're the only family I got left. I love you, man."
He grabs me in a hug, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around that when I hear the gunshot. I never even feel the bullet.
"I'm sorry, Dean. I love you," are the last words I hear as it all goes black. I guess he had the cojones after all.