Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, it belongs to Krikpke and CW. Just playin the sandbox.

A/N: Set during Season 4. This is a little revamping of a story I posted over in LiveJournal, that I'd thought I post here as well. Sorry if it's a bit long. I did some research on where Alistair's name came from (I love greek mythology). And it was interesting that there is a Greek venegeful spirit named Alastor. His female counterpart is Nemesis, who was known for her righteous anger. Let's just say my imagination took flight :)

Lessons Learned

Despite all of Sam's interactions with demons, it is nothing compared to Dean's. He knows the culture. Breathed the malevolent languages in his mind. Spoke unimaginable horrors with his eyes. Because that's the thing, the catch. One can scream and curse and beg as much as they want on the rack, but once you're off, those first decades you don't talk. You bite your tongue and go to work like a good little soul. Talking means freedom and one has to earn that twisted gift. One's gotta take the final plunge, rip out every last shred of humanity till there's nothing left but the burnt remains and ash of a demon.

So is it any real wonder that Dean can't figure out for the life of him, how to reconnect with his brother? How he has to use words now, ask questions and respond instead of merely using his body and eyes? In a way it's like learning to ride a bike, never really forgetting. But it's also awkward like relearning an old language. So, Dean finds himself more and more resorting to denial and ranting about other things, if it means he can deflect the proding advances of Sam. But his method doesn't work for everyone. And it's strange and comforing when he finds himself falling into dead habits, carrying silent conversations with glances, stares and body lanuage between the spoken sentences with an angel, of all creatures.

It becomes a routine, every morning standing in front a smeared mirror in which Dean has to convince himself of what world he lives in now. That there are certain words and actions that he can't do up here in this cold realm where everything smells of life and decay, an explosion of sounds, sights and tastes. And when that doesn't work and his throat is mute from hellish screams, Dean slumps onto the floor, curling up against the wall opposite of the sink. With shaking hands, he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper that he snagged from the tiny gas station in those first few hours since he rose from the grave. Rubbing away the creases, fearful green eyes soak in the familiar red lines.

Licking his lips, Dean stares at first line, Death is birth, condemning or freeing one from one existence of bondage to another cage larger than the first. In other words, death is nothing compared to being alive. Silently, he mouthes, "Pain is pain...no matter where you're at."

He is Prince of this city, heir to a tribe flourishing in the land between the two rivers. Today, people called him The Executioner, in light of what he has done to a small family. Those who interest his mind, who were fit to be called his studies as he yearns to see what makes the body tick, scream and cry in a hidden chamber underneath the palace. This massive man, that has to be part god, will never find them.

The long razor slices through his stomach with coldness, spilling red onto the dirty marble. Raising his head, Alastor takes in the mighty figure of his killer, who wears a lion draped over his shoulders. Hercu raises his mighty fist and slams it hard into his face. Twisting, Alastor collapses onto the ground in a wet thump as the glorified bounty hunter pushes onward to kill the rest of his family. Glinting off a polished shield, he swears he spots a shimmering blue-gray figure with blazing green eyes glance down at him before vanishing. Coughing out a mouth full of blood, he weakly raises his eyes taking in the scared look of his youngest brother cowering underneath his bed. Smiling shakily, teeth stained red, Alastor keeps his eyes on him as the world grows dark. His last thought on that mosaic tile of fallen star is that Nestor is safe and alive.

Dean takes in a shuddering breath, closing his eyes as the ghost of Alastair's razor slices through his stomach. His thumb runs over the next line. Boredom is the mind killer and with no mind, the soul will go insane. Don't be afraid to try something new. Dean groans as the phantom pains that he loves and hates plague his body. A barely there voice gasps out "...give your limitations the middle finger..." He tries to smirk as he breathes out, "...and excel."

Alastor hates it in the Pit.

There is nothing to do. He's getting bored and well he's not a happy camper when he's bored. The mini massacre behind him of lost souls should be an indication of sorts. Alastor yearns for that blazing sun to burn his skin and the sand to blast away blood from his hands. So he searches for a way out, climbs over ruins of bones and flesh. Then there, way off in the distant from the oppressive silence and ghostly movements, he finds it at the back of a cave.

His translucent smoky form springs into flight, the process of becoming a full demon taking eons. Bursting out of the crack, looking like steam yet smelling of sulfur, a skinny dazed, pale-faced girl screams as Alastor slithers into the light, searching for something to do. In a tiny village dotting the bottom of the mountain, he hears stories of how his murderer now known as Hercules. His rage sends the campfire blazing high, setting the whole town on fire. Alastor sits back, soaking in the wails of the dying with a smile on his face.

It's at the next village; he finds a purpose for his anger at his murderer and twisted glee of torture. It doesn't take long to become the local vengeful spirit, settling in the warm growing city-states of the Greeks. He slithers up to mourning widows, broken soldiers, jealous wives and greedy husbands whispering horrific ideas in their mind. Then he watches with rapture as his genius plan unfolds into brutal reality. Alastor's crouched behind a tree stalking his next prey, a tall muscular man, his blond hair tied back in a loose ponytail, when he meets her again. Her righteous anger burning brightly, she wears the body of a small olive-skinned woman, those dark locks framing an oval face flecked with freckles. Yet those piercing green eyes are the same.

Joining him, she spares a quick glance at the young man named Orion. "Alastor right? I have heard tales of your acts amongst the humans."

He nods in response, not sure how to approach this creature. "And you?"

"Nemesis. I am a pagan godess, demon, and I will protect this soul from your corruption." Her voice rings with unwavering faith and determination. She's a stubborn creature and Alastor can't help but flash a grin.

They spare glance to Orion. Alastor spots a dangling amulet of a horned figurehead in the warrior's hand. "Let me guess, yours?"

"In a way." Nemesis fixes a stern gaze back on him. Alastor can't help the skip of his dead heart. "He must seek retribution through avenging his father, not seeking revenge mindlessly."

"We'll see," humors Alastor, grinning wickedly at the woman who smiles softly back. And he knows that despite the loud claim, Nemesis will not harm him, at least not tonight. It seems she's a bit bored herself.

Unbeknownst to the supernatural crowd, Orion finishes his pray as he drapes the necklace over his neck. Grabbing the bow, he begins his march towards the creature known as Scorpio, blazing a trail for a new branch of warriors who in the far future will simply be known as Hunters.

The shuddering is easing away, his fingers no longer shaking like leaves in the wind. Taking a deep breathe, Dean outlines the next words with an oil stained fingernail. Always know your enemy and friends. Learn everything there is know because one tiny, insignificant nugget of information can turn the tide. In short, be smart and pick your battles.

Dean can't help but let out a chocked chuckle. "Don't go in half-cocked or you'll end up dead," he croaks in a song-like tone.

"I'm all for family bloodshed, kiddo." Alastor grin is all teeth and fangs, twisting the round face of a little boy. The boy's name is Meriel and from the cursing and shouting of the child inside his head, Alastor knows this boy is a natural fighter. And for that mere reason, Alastor doesn't bother with torturing or killing the boy's soul. This is just too much fun. It doesn't help too, that he's finally at the stage where he can successfully possess a human. Oh the potential...

Before him, the Celtic soldier straightens his stance. Behind the impressive looking human, a large burning wooden hut sends golden flames crackling into the air. The man frowns, not sure if he should listen to this black-eyed, blond hair boy whose hands are drenched from the fingers up to his elbows in the blood of his attackers. His entire body screams that he should just run his sword through the kid's stomach.

"Well mister," there's a tiny lisp hitching at the back of his throat signaling the boy is definitely foreign, even though he wears the colors of one of the clans from the plains. "I can show you the ropes, teach you things that would make even those warlords who attacked your family run."

The warrior licks his lips not sure of what to do, his piercing dark blue-green eyes drowning in guilt and grief at the lost of his clan. "I…"

Nemesis appears, her bare feet splashing in the blood. She still looks the same after all these centuries. She casts a glance his way, eyes warming with recognition. They've been playing this game for so long, have grown close despite them being on opposite sides. And when this little act is over, they will sit in crumbling stone buildings and talk about everything and nothing. Yet for now, their roles must be played out. Tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear, the pagan goddess raises her hand in peace. "Do not listen to him Jon." She takes a few steps forward, understanding shining off of her, "He will twist everything you say and do. If you truly wish to avenge—"

Jon roars with grief, raising his sword at the both of them. Tears stream down his face as he screams, "Silence!" Stubbornness tightens his body as a suicidal glint enters the human's eyes. "I don't know what creatures you are, but I shall not fall under your spells. I shall die with honor alongside that of my family."

And as the last remaining member of the Chester clan turns the sword onto himself, a blinding light erupts out of the sky. A high pitch scream shatters nearby boulders into fine dust. Feeling his skin begin to burn, Alastor spins, slipping slightly on the red-soaked ground, flinging himself behind a cluster of dense bushes. Turning, he opens his mouth to scream at Nemesis. Yet it halts in his throat as he takes in a white figure with massive wings crackling and filling the air with ozone.

Jon falls to the ground, sword clattering lifelessly at his side. Fear makes him tremble as his wide eyes reflect the piercing whiteness. Two sleander beams of light reach out and touch Jon gently on the forehead. The human's eyes roll in the back of his head. He collapses like a puppet onto the mud, next to the bodies of his two sons, his wife burnt alive inside the still smoldering hut. Then with a flick of the fingers, Jon disappears. The wings twitch and snap into a defensive posture as the being turns to face to Nemesis.

Raising her chin, she smiles with that all too familiar knowning smirk that Alastor loves to soak in. "I'm not afraid your kind." A part of the being seems to lower what appears to be its head, that high pitch sound vibrating the air. Then with its palm facing outward, Nemesis' back arches as an inhuman scream rips out her throat.

"No," screams Alastor. Before he knows it, he's crashing through the bushes, picking up an abandonded sword rushing towards the blinding white pillar.

The head snaps up, two suns widening in suprise. Their stare ends when an eruption on a cataclysmic scale tears apart the goddess's body in holy flames. Nemesis shatters into a million pieces. Reaching out blindly, Alastor snarls back the pain, grasping onto the closest sharp, glinting piece of his goddess. Hugging the piece close to him, feeling it tremble in shock, Alastor barely has time to look up as the bright creature is before him.

Then that hand is on his forehead, the light pouring into Meriel's body, burning him out existence. Between the flames and ripping himself out of the body to escape, the single shard of Nemesis slips through his crackling fingers lost forever in the vast space of a boy's blood. This mortal's blood line is forever cursed now. The boy will grow up and leave his village to hunt down the demon that possessed him. Yet it won't be him, but his descendants of hunters known as the Campbells. And their mergence with Jon's line, known as the Winchesters, that will fullfill this mission.

Then ice freezes every molecule, sucking out the air in Alastor's lungs as he flings himself into the void that is neither living or dead, topside nor the Pit.

Dean pauses, leaning forward to place the paper on the toilet lid. He doesn't need to see the next lesson. If you want something done, do it yourself. Do not take the easy out because then the reward is not as sweet.

Laying his hands flush on the cold floor, he pushes himself upward, grunting over the popping of his joints, "Therefore, get off your lazy ass, quiet whining and pick up the razor...Dean." For a moment, his voice isn't the gruff, deep western drawl but instead a curling lisp purr.

He hates topside, hates every crawl and flinch. It's an artic crap hole ever since his close encounter with that thing and he yearns for the warm fires of Hell. He's done up here. And try as he might, the absence of Nemesis fuels a fire in him that darkens his soul even more. There's no fun in twisting souls if she's not there to counter him, pushing him to think of new ways. It has nothing to do with the fact that he just misses her companionship. Nope, not all.

It's disgusting and degrading but Alastor finally makes his way painfully back to the cave where it all started. It seems in his absence, it's become quite the hotspot, with a temple and bustling city built over the remains of the burnt village. And as he further crawls back to that tiny crack, he spots priests and another pale girl dressed all in white, sitting on some strange chair weaving in and out in front of his exit. Before the girl stands some well-fed mortal man with a wreath of leaves on his head.

"Oracle of Delphi, I am Nero, emperor of Rome." The man sniffs as he flicks off a dust mite from his purple robe. "Hope you don't mind me taking a few of those beautiful statues you have outside."

The oracle mumbles something and one of the priest says, "The Oracle does not mind."

Alastor senses the greediness in the priest, whose being paid well in service to the Emperor Nero. The girl hisses in rage, yet the fumes have a strong hold on her. Black eyes flicking at the hole and the girl, Alastor decides why not go out with a bang and seeps into the girl. Her back arches, fingers clawing deep into the wooden arms of her chair. Then she slumps forward, her breathing stopped.

The priest tiptoes forward, reaching out with his hand, concern sparkling behind his eyes. "Oracle?"

The oracle's body snaps upward, a malicious grin on her face as pure black eyes stare hungrily up at the richly clothed man. The priest stumbles backwards, but the Oracle's hand snaps out catching before he falls.

"M-my-" He says nothing more as his neck is snapped in half.

Dropping the body, Alastor shifts the girl's ravaged and dying body forward, raising a slim finger to point at the trembling man. "I have seen into your soul. I know of what you have done." Her voice is clear and cold, not like the slurred murmering of before. And there's that familiar lisp hitching at the end of her sentence, "I have to say I'm slightly impressed."

Nero's face flushes red as his chest sticks out, "How dare you insult-"

Alastor curls his fingers causing Nero to choke. "Remember my words, Nero. You will lose everything you hold dear before your time is up. Rome will burn in your watch and the next time I see you, so shall you."

And as the demon relents his control, Nero falls onto his knees gasping for air. Laughing, Alastor falls out of the Oracle, her dead body collapsing brokenly at the foot of her chair. He falls and laughs through the crack and fissures and molten rock. Laughs, till he finds himself back in the Pit, lightening cracking above him, hellhounds barking upon his arrival and the chains of his people dangling hooks of their sins to capture the freshly fallen souls. Closing his fist imaging the glint of the razor Hercules used to kill him, Alastor soaks in the flames and breaths the sulfur in deeply.

He's home.

And he needs it now, more than ever. His studies call him, itching his claws to be covered once more in blood. He won't be lazy or fearful anymore. He's got a job to do now, the physcial torturing of Nero awakening a taste in him that soothes his wounds to a dull ache. Opening his eyes, Alastor weighs the bended blade. Turning, he finds his father striding up to meet him. The twisted slime of a smile reflects off those pompous black eyes.

"Son," His father stretches his arms open, "I've—"

Alastor plunges the razor deep in his father's lower chest, twisting it as he leans in to soak in the man's chocked surprise. "It's my turn to carve, now father."

Cold water splashes onto Dean's face, numbing every nerve and fiber. It's ice cold clarity brings his jaded green eyes into focus. In the smeared reflection, he can see the the second to last bullet point. It's the longest but it set the stage of his existence in those last ten years. And even now it dictates what he should do.

There are four white-eyed demons and they are the most evil sons-of-bitches. Do not mess with the white eyes. Do not look upon them unless you are given attention. Do not fight them. They can take deals away from red eyes. They can feed black eyes to the hounds.

Dean raises a hand and begins to outline the bottom of his eye. It's why he doesn't go straight after Lilith, despite all of Sam's protests. Lowering his hand, Dean leans in, till his breath fogs up the mirror. Fear and disblief shines back at him with green. "In short, don't piss them off because they can make the Pit look like a vacation in the Caribbean when they're done with you." Dean's voice is stronger but still a murmer. As he wipes away the condensation, he knows that the reflection lies.

His eyes should be black.

A yellow-eyed demon with boney wings sure and proud strides up to Alastor one day. He's a tyrant in these parts. But Alastor is the one who brought life to the Pit, making the dead air vibrate with every tone and pitch of a scream. Smells of sulfur and fire are heightened even more, by the sweet copper tinge of blood and flesh sizzling as they flap like clothes on a laundry line.

"Come Alastor, you are needed," the voice is smug, dripping with arrogance.

Alastor closes the door of his version of the Iron Maiden, that will one day make it topside as most of his inventions do. "I'm busy Azazel," he scoffs.

"Trust me; you'll want to see this. It's a one in a life-time opportunity."

Rolling his eyes, Alastor bends down and lets a hellhound lick away the blood. "Watch him."

The hound growls his obedience and with that the demon follows the other quietly. They walk and walk till the gray and green tinge is replaced by thrumming red and orange. Before him a massive cavern glows into existence. Off to the side are four gargoyle-like stone creatures with steel rings around their necks, gems glittering off of them like rings.

"Don't mind the Horsemen," replies Azazel.

Pausing at the entrance, Azazel tilts his palm towards him to the three awaiting black eyed demons. "This is Alastor; you might have heard his work." His voice vibrates as the yellow of his eyes pierce through the gaps of his wing, daring him to speak. Alastor merely tightens his lips.

The other demons nod a brief acknowledgement, their simmering forms twisting and twirling in the heat like mirages off of a tar road. Azazel points at the left, to the demon with two-faces and a multitude of tongues. "Mastema, he's in charge of all the deal makings. You might have run into his creations, the ones with the red eyes."

Alastor nods, remembering catching glimpses of those demons topside. Then the yellow-eyed man points to the middle one. A slender seductive woman rippless to life, a coy but wicked smile on her face. "Lilith, she is the first demon and oldest."

"Mmm, you do look tasty there Alastor. I do like a man who likes to spill a little blood now and then," her voice is sultry and rattles the chains above.

Azazel pays no mind and motions to the last figure. It's a plump man whose eyes, ears and mouth are sewn shut. "Jezebeth, specialty in lies and falsehoods, let's just say he's the one who teaches newly minted demons how to act."

"As fascinating as this is, work is calling me." Alistair turns to leave when he feels himself being flung back into the cavern.

Shaking his head, the torture master takes in the grinning winged creature chanting a barrier into creation. Snarling, Alastor turns to search for another way out, fingers itching to have his razor. On the floor is a massive marble circle with thousands upon thousands of tiny seals painted onto them. Lilith rests her hand gently on his forearm. "Finally, we will get to meet our maker."

She closes her eyes, a distant smile twisting her alluring features. "I've only seen him in my dreams or possessing animals when I was once alive, but never in his true form." Tilting her head upward, eyes open into slits. "The one named Judas has turned against his master. The Son of God is nearing his death. "

Lowering her head, she takes in the massive cage. "It's time."

And like that white light oozes like oil behind the lined symbols. Despite being a dull glimmer of pure whiteness, Alastor remembers that same electric, ice-cold power. Squaring his shoulders, he summons his strength to fight this burning creature once more as the whiteness swallows him whole. Instead of the familiar burning sensation, he finds himself getting stronger, knowledge of weapons and chants filling his mind.

"You have met my kind before and survived," purrs a deep timber of a voice. It's still pitched like that other creature, but not of the same ear bleeding frequency.

Alastor swallows, body trembling as his throat parches in the scorching heat. "Y-Yes."

"That is a rare feat, demon. Do you know what it was…what I am?"

The answer rings loudly in his head. "An angel and you…you are Lucifer."

"Indeed."

Alistair finds himself laughing despite being in the presence of a creature that could kill him with a mere thought. "So you got yourself locked in jail and you need us to break you free."

Lucifer doesn't seem to be angry at his outburst. Instead he seems almost amused. "Sadly yes, but what I require of you is only one thing unlike what I demand of Lilith, Azazel and the others as well."

"Oh."

"Yes, I have seen your work and you are truly gifted in the art of torture. You can continue onwards with your studies, using that vengeful fire any way you see fit."

Alastor rolls his shoulders, not seeing anything new in the statement. He would do so even without the consent of this angel. "And?"

The voice rumbles with a chuckle, "You must break the first seal. All of Azazel's plans, of Mastema's deals and Jezebeth's lies will be for naught and Lilith will not be able to finish hers if you fail in this task."

"When a righteous man sheds blood in hell," recites Alastor automatically, his newly given information flooding his mind, "as he breaks, so shall it break." Pausing Alastor ponders the situation. Narrowing his eyes, he shakes his head, "No. I have met righteous people and they are not worth the headache. Besides, it will be hard enough to get one down here."

"I will give you Nemesis if you do this one thing, Alastor," Lucifer's voice whispers like a caress down his neck. "Everything else is merely a reward for your undying services."

His black heart clenches hard in his non-existent chest at the mention of her name. His clawed fingers can still remember holding her beautiful sharded soul. Licking his lips, Alastor locks his eyes straight ahead into the vast whiteness. "Sign me up."

Lucifer places a finger gently on his forehead, right over the burnt scar of where the last angel touched him. "You shall forever be known as Alistair, the Grand Inquisitor of the Hell."

His eyes bleed white for the first time.

Flinging the towel onto the bathtub ledge, Dean takes a step back and stares once more into the mirror. The shaking has stopped and that lost, terrified man that walked in here is gone. The mask is in place and unless something goes utterly wrong, he won't take it off till tonight when Hell visits him once more.

With a cocky grin, Dean realizes there's a smug look on his mask. And he can't help but wonder if this is what the demon he first met in that with Sam after his little trip down under saw. Because if so, well no wonder she was squirming in her meat suit. Reaching out, he glances down at the last lesson. No matter where you run, you belong to Alistair. Your one of his prized students, loved before all, favored even above their creator.

He can look evil in the eye and smirk because they're not the ones with the Master of Pain holding the end of his leash. "Cause truly," Dean whispers as he folds up the tiny paper of Alistair's lessons and sticks it back into his pocket. Stepping out of the bathroom, he grabs his leather jacket and the keys to the Impala. Sam said he would meet at the cafe for breakfast and it's well past eight o'clock. Poor Sammy is probably worrying his head over what is taking him so long. Then again, this new Sam doesn't seem to mind, lost in his quest to hunt down Lilith and have her head on a spike.

Opening the door, Dean steps out into the blazing, sun baked parking lot. Squaring his shoulders, Dean basks in the heat as he walks to the Impala. He can already smell the rot and decay of dying plants and trash. It's close enough to the Pit and it anchors him to this world instead of the one plaguing his soul. In a strong confident voice, Dean smirks at his reflection off of the black, shiny door and finishes the lesson. "What's worse than that?"

Dean steps away from the shredded body of a nun. Behind him, demons cheer and Dean realizes he hates it. Hates their joy and praises to their maker. He wants to make them scream and cry and beg. He wants to make them suffer for what they did to him. A week ago, he would have added 'what they did to Sammy.' But he can't remember a Sam no more. All he remembers is the pain and torture on the rack and then the mind-blowing agony of coming off of it. Alistair says that it's common to have some amnesia, that he blocked out certain things so he wouldn't go mad. If it comes back or not, only time will tell. And as his master tells him, they've got all the time in the world and beyond. No need to rush it.

Alistair's white eyes are locked on him, never breaking away as three others join behind him. Dean stares at their approaching forms with an almost child-like curosity. He doesn't know two of them, the ones with the funny faces. But he knows the one named Lilith, who walks with a skip and enthusiasm that scares him. She's also the only one who makes him remember his past life, for when he looks at her slim form wearing a white dress, her burnt face framed by blond hair, she looks exactly like his mother. But Dean can't remember his mother's name, just knows it...and that in itself makes him ill enough for his small soul to tremble and curl in on itself.

"It's gone, faded away entirely. You've done it!" Lilith is on the verge of giddiness. That voice sears across his mind and as much as Dean would like to take the razor that is Alistair's favorite and slice it across her neck, he won't. Because he can't, Alistair told him so, said it's a very important lesson he needs to follow if he wishes to survive and thrive here in the Pit. Besides, he's one of them now.

"Leave this sniveling husk of man and join us topside," hisses the one with two-faces.

Alistair keeps his eyes locked on Dean, smiling as if he knows each and every one of Dean's thoughts. And he probably does, the man is inside his head. "No."

The resolute answer jolts Dean's body, his broken green eyes flashing upwards to lock onto cold-marble white. The three demons exchange glances with one another before shrugging. They will never understand this demon, despite his simple tastes. It's hard to comprehend but Alistair is the least complicated and most honest of the four. What one sees, is what one gets.

Lilith sighs, as if she's disappointed. But Dean can feel that she is not. "Well you'll know where to find us if you change your mind."

"I won't." And like that they are alone, Alistair sliding up into Dean's personal space. Reaching down, he plucks the razor out of a trembling hand. "Will you stay by my side Dean, as I will stay by yours?"

The ancient pledge feels foreign on the Inquistor's tongue but he's wanted to say them since the moment he saw this beautiful soul. Dean nods numbly, collapsing into Alistair's body like the newborn demon he is, vocal cords burned out of existence during his birth from the rack to the table. But it's all good because Alistair will take care of him, like he took care of him for 30 years. Never leaving his side unless forced too, hanging Dean out to the whims of less careful demons.

It's a twisted relationship but it's the only one Dean can remember. And he clings to it. He's scared and has no control over anything. But most of all he's alone. And he doesn't want to be alone. He wants...a family.

"Shh, shh, shh." Feeling Dean's anxiety growing, Alistair tilts Dean's head upwards to soak in those anguished green eyes. His taloned hand trails down the blood-soaked chest till it stops right above the heart. There pulsing weakly but still so sharp and righteous, hidden so deep and so ingrained in this soul is a piece he has lost long ago. It seems Lucifer has held up his end of the bargain. Alistairs' faith has been rewarded.

"Shhh, it's alright my sweet Nemesis." The name falls out of his forked tongue like crushed glass. Dean scrunches his face in confusion briefly before something in him stirs. It feels right, strangely enough and Dean feels like the last of his masks has been stripped away leaving him naked before this creature. Alistair smiles, leaning down to breathe in the dying purity of Dean's soul. As he pets and caresses away the creases of Dean's doubts and fears, Alistair croones daggers into his ear.

"I'll teach you everything you need to know. And it will be just like the old days, just you and me and tormented souls."