Summery: A simple what if, Dean was pulled from Hell just a little too late, instead of a half broken man to be put back together, a demon was saved, but can a demon even be saved?
Rating: According to the sites ratings this story will fall under M, suitable for ages 16 and up, due to mentions of torture, possible graphic scenes in torture, and cursing.
Pairings: As of yet nothing planned.
Author Notes: Clearly given I'm writing fanfiction I do not own Supernatural in any sense of the matter, consider this a blanket disclaimer please.
There was a symmetry to this, not a grace or a beauty, but a simplistic symmetry, like an artist forced to prove his worth, over and over again, sometimes he was given a new canvas, but it was all the same in the end, find the best way to break it down into art. Years of being in reversed positioning had given him so many pointers, the way to slide the blade just so, almost like trying to peel an orange to leave a single hallow peel, a single slip would undo all the careful work. The blade was his best tool, though so many tried to steer him towards other devices, but no, the blade felt right in his hand, he could undo anyone with sharp blade and equally cruel words. Time had no meaning here, was all a blur, all that matter was the Rack, was the canvas before him, that it was not his flesh being flayed, not his bones grinding into a splintering explosion as marrow was boiled, so time had no meaning, but that was a lie. In it's own way time meant everything, because slowly, in what was almost a crawl for anyone that watched, he grew to like it, the pain he dealt, the coldness of anger was what drove him forward instead of just avoidance, grew to love it.
It had been a tedious thing for his tormenters over the years, to break him down, leave his soul a quavering mess, cracked and broken to reflect his mind-state, but it wasn't truly until he picked up the blade that the darkness crept in. No matter how many times they had broken him down, it wasn't truly till he held the blade in his hand the first time, even with that hesitation before his first canvas, there was the first sputter of light dying in him. Still there was a spark of light so bright in his soul that clung, fought to remain, to stay with some sense of goodness that he had possessed in life, but it couldn't hold out for long, not in the depths of hell, and with every new victim under his blade it diminished just a bit more, dozens of souls graced his Rack, and each one saw less of a man to plead with, and more of a monster facing them. It was gleeful for the demons around, that had such an interest in him, the downfall of someone so great, so righteous, so spoken about and held in such reverence, and that had been a final point, a canvas that yelled his name, begged him with such a sense of familiarity. The human soul was just a nobody, name forgotten throughout the years, but they'd clung to ideals of heroes, and somehow he'd been in that light, there was a history between them, and she begged him, with all her worth, only to be answered with a wicked smile. When Bela Talbot broke was the day his soul was lost, and it was a victory that would be felt throughout all the levels of hell, Dean Winchester was a demon, through and through.
And then he was ignored, because what was the amusement in someone that already broke, he was just another faceless demon in a sea of demons, hell was full of human souls in various stages of breakdown, they'd either forever be a toy clinging to human ideals, be stuck in the middle, not human but not demon, or they'd transition, simple as that. Once their place was determined, well there was nothing special about them anymore, there were hundreds of thousands of souls, more even, that visited hell, one man didn't matter so much once they got what they wanted. So hell wasn't noticing when suddenly he was gone, snatched away and hidden, no one could even say they cared too much when there were no longer angels wandering about lost in their domain. They'd been like a dying nightlight in an abyss, their slight blemish only distressed the souls on the higher levels of hell, the ones that still had hope. As for the little demon that disappeared, well, he'd outlived his usefulness anyway, the angels could have him, let him be a poor example, a good man that traded himself to hell for the life of another, so easily broken, so quickly turned, and then found by angels.