Thirty years later when Dean steps off the rack and starts hacking away at souls, Alastair tells him he has a surprise for him. It's Alastair's sick sense of humor that makes his stomach churn, even though he's years past having a gag reflex. Every demon and tortured soul in Hell knows that when Alastair's happy, there's trouble involved.

But Dean's too far gone, lost in the pleasure of cleaving away at bloody souls, screaming until their voices become hoarse (and further until they begin to choke and gurgle on their own blood and mucus), to really give a damn anymore. If becoming Alastair's little pet project will keep him from enduring the daily torture he now delivers, every day coating his hands in the slick, putrid pus of rancid flesh, then he'll take it. Screw the demon and his biology sessions. Dean's in Hell for eternity, and he might as well make the best of it.

"I wanted you to have this," Alastair coos as he leads Dean over to a weeping bitch. "Consider it my condolence present for thirty years of anguish."

It's Bela Talbot staring up at him, her wide doe eyes tearful and pleading, such juxtaposition from the conniving bitch he knew above ground. It's poetic, his sick sense of humor decides. And ironic. He never thought he'd actually see her once they got past the sulfuric flames.

"Do you like it?" Alastair prompts, his voice sickly smooth, caressing the monster within.

Bela's whimpering now, her plump pink lips trembling in trepidation. "Dean, please…"

Her polished accent is nearly lost in the guttural rasping of her sobs.

"You're not the cold-blooded type."

Dean grins maliciously. He's been waiting for this day for a long time.