Disclaimer: They aren't mine, because I could never measure up to how magnificent these writers are. Don't rub it in. And the title is from a Lord Byron quote.

A/N: I really, really want to hug Dean after that last scene. Since I can't do that, I decided to graphically describe his ordeal. Alastair's such a good, fun, intrinsically evil character - he actually enjoys Hell. I decided to give him a voice in this one-shot. Rated for graphic-ness.

"We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell." - Oscar Wilde

Alastair took his time. He carefully, artfully carved strips of flesh away from bone, his razors cleaving through muscle like a hot knife through butter. The more his victim screamed for release, the more merciless he became. He didn't go for the organs first, not usually; sometimes he'd flay him slowly, letting the strips of skin fall into the abyss surrounding them. Sometimes he'd carve out chunks, occasionally indulging himself with the succulent taste of his suffering. When he did get to the organs, he'd have his fun. Sometimes he'd even force him to eat his own entrails. It wasn't all knife work, either; sometimes he'd get in with his own two hands and claw him up. His assistants proved invaluable, giving him time to tend other souls or plan further torments. But every day he'd come back.

Today the agony had been worse than usual. Less of him hung limp in the chains. He'd learned to measure time in Hell; at the beginning of the day, he was whole, at the end, he was nothing more than a few scraps hanging from meat hooks. No break in between, just renewed flesh and more pain. Staying shredded like he was almost seemed better than facing that new day.

Alastair scraped a little meat from his ribs, sampling a bit. His bones were exposed, shattered, impaled, with bits of flesh hanging on. His entrails spilled out of him, gravity pulling them downward. Here, it seemed like every direction was downward. "So, boy, have you considered my offer? This can be over. Any day you like. All you'd have to do is learn from my assistants and help me with my work. That's not too much to ask, now is it, for an end to the pain?"

He didn't have a tongue today to reply. "Ick ii," he grunted, blood bubbling where they ripped the skin off his face. He couldn't appear to finish.

"I'm sorry, would you like your tongue back?" Alastair said, prompting his mouth to become whole again.

"Stick it… where the sun shines." The gurgled words lacked the defiance they'd once had. No feeling behind them. He was going through the motions.

Alastair smiled tightly, waiting while he regenerated. A little over thirty years. This one was strong. Not many lasted as long as he had, not by half. Even his father broke sooner. But he was nearing his breaking point; he couldn't keep denying him much longer. As his soul became whole again, he nodded to his helpers. "Begin," he urged them. The sound of his screams filled the air like music.

He came back later, wiping the blood of others from his hands. He was left in tatters, a skeleton, less than that. What little flesh remained sizzled on his bones. He looked up at him with his one remaining eye; the other one dangled out of its socket. Alastair smiled. He'd been doing this long enough to know when a soul couldn't take anymore. "Look at me when I talk to you," he said mockingly, lifting the loose eye so that it stared into his hideous face. "Ready to get down off the rack, Dean?"

He could hear the boy's internal struggle, fighting to remain the hero he'd been. But he couldn't last even another day and they both knew it. Alastair picked up a cruelly serrated saw. "Have it your way," he said softly. "We'll begin again."

"No," he gasped. His soul was suddenly whole again, ready once more to be ripped to shreds. "No. I'll… I'll do it," he whispered, bitter tears springing from his repaired eyes.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over the screams. What was that?"

"I'll do it!" he half-shouted. He let out a strangled sob. "I'll do it. Please… No more…"

"I'm not sure," Alastair said slowly. "I don't know if you are ready. I don't think you've suffered enough to really want this."

Alastair relished the desperation in his eyes. "No! I'll do it, I'll do anything, just make this stop! I can't…"

"What can't you do, Dean?" he asked, drinking in his misery.

"I can't take anymore," he answered, his voice breaking. "Please."

"Take him down."

He became an attack dog, an animal. Fear and instinct forced him to do what his humanity had forbidden. He was ruthless, too, one of the best. Alastair was pleased with his work on this one. The lengths to which he would go to escape pain were admirable. He'd rip souls apart with a cruelty that surprised even him. With time, he would make a formidable demon. The only thing that they had to work on was getting him to let go of that pesky humanity.

He could torture souls sadistically, of course, but he did so from a distance, retreating within his own agonized soul, putting up those damn walls. And when he didn't separate, when he didn't retreat far enough into himself, Alastair could feel how horrified he was by what he was doing with his own two hands. He didn't enjoy it. That would come, though, with time and encouragement; Alastair felt sure that within a century, Hell time, this boy would become something less-than-human. After that, it would take him mere years to descend into a full-fledged demon. Maybe, if Lilith failed, if Sam lived long enough, he would send him upstairs for a little face-to-face with his dear brother. And if Lilith succeeded… Well, he'd make sure that his new pet heard every terrible thing they'd done to his brother, his world. Maybe Lilith could bring his head back for him on a stick. Alastair smiled at the thought. The boy had promise. He was going to make sure he fulfilled his potential.

There was one thing that the boy didn't understand. The pain didn't end when he gave in to Alastair's offer; it just changed form. That was one of the things Alastair loved about the pit. The pain never ends.