Author's Note: Before an idea came in mind for me to start writing this, I had never thought of this pairing to be possible. After all, it's Dean meeting his female counterpart. But awhile back, I met someone who has made me believe that even in the strangest of situations, things that may seem unlikely are not impossible to ever happen. Through her, I've come to fall in love with the idea of Dean and Deana Winchester. It sounds odd, I know. But Dean's life hasn't ever actually been ordinary, now has it? Hopefully through this story, I can make other believers out of people. As for the one who inspired me to write- my muse (and she knows who she is): this story's for you.
Just a couple of notes for you readers: This story will mostly be written from Dean's point of view unless stated otherwise. But even if there is a point of view change, I'll make it easy for you all to decipher between the two points of views. Also, this story contains mature themes (hence the rating). Just giving you all a head's up. Now: ENJOY. And leave a review while you're at it, hmm? I'd love to know your thoughts of this first chapter. Thank you!
So this is what dying feels like. It's not every day that one gets mauled to death by a dog. Let alone multiple Hellhounds. This was the price that Dean Winchester had to pay. He made a deal with a demon to save his brother and not here he was, his flesh being torn apart as he was close to being eaten alive.
The worst part about all of this? The bite of a Hellhound felt ten times worse than an ordinary bite of a dog. They are raised in Hell, after all. With each bite, Dean felt as if his skin were on fire. The puncture wounds burned long after the creatures had retracted their sharp incisors, only to add another bite elsewhere.
Blood covered his vision and body. The pain of it all was too intense. Was that Sam yelling for him in the background? He couldn't focus though. He was losing consciousness from all of the bloodloss and the continuous bites from the hellish creatures. He was dying.
No. He was dead.
Hell was unpleasant. As soon as he came to, he found himself literally hooked while suspended in air. "No…" It wasn't so much the pain of the hooks sunk deep into his flesh. It wasn't so much that he couldn't break free. It was the simple fact that he, Dean Winchester, was now in Hell. Sure, he wasn't exactly the most moral of people. But hadn't he done enough good in the world to make up for his mistakes? Hadn't he been a hero to those less fortunate? How many times had he put other's lives before his own and played the role of a hero? Deal or no deal, the realization that all that he had ever done never measured up enough for him to be saved from the pits of hell.
"Welcome, Dean." A voice reverberated throughout what appeared to be a never ending open space, and Dean seemed to be at the center of it all. His head flew around wildly, trying to connect the voice to a body. But as far as he could see, no one was there.
Suddenly he heard the sound of someone snapping their fingers together; no longer was he alone in the center of nothingness. He was now suspended in air by his wrists, hanging just a few feet above rocky ground. A man stood before him wearing a smug grin upon his face. His eyes never leaving the man, Dean allowed for himself to take in his surroundings. He seemed to be in a cell of some sort. Sounds about right, since Hell itself was like a vast prison. It was dank and dark here, but the room was illuminated enough for Dean to be able to make out his surroundings. His eyes left the man's face and he dared to take a quick glance. He really was in a cell. And what seemed to be his only escape stood behind the man who had spoken to him.
"Don't think about escaping, Dean." His voice was nasally. He was a lean and tall man, dark hair and eyes with an appearance of a 40-something year old. The smug grin only grew wider as he took a step towards his captive. "You're never leaving this place now." Dean daringly glared at the man. His jaw clenched and he took a deep breath; but to his dismay, breathing in deeply came with the price of breathing in high levels of smoke. "The name's Alastair. Welcome to Hell. Consider this your initiation."
Damn, his voice was annoying. His feelings of worry started to disperse and was replaced with being pissed off. This is what Hell had to offer? A rangy looking middle-aged man who, by this first impression, seemed to be one who liked to talk one to death until their ears bled. "I'm sorry, but who the hell are you?" Dean blurted. "I thought I'd be staring at one ugly sonnuva bitch when I arrived. But I get stuck with you?" He laughed dryly.
Alastair's grin was no more. Instead, he scowled mildly. It wasn't until he moved that Dean saw the small metal cart beside the man. It had a white sheet draped over it. "Yes, well. We like to make newcomers feel welcome. Not scare them away with our true form, upon arrival." Alastair turned his attention to the cart, removing the sheet and exposing over a dozen shiny, sharp objects. Dean sucked in his breath sharply. Well… he knew this bit of chitchat was too good to be true.
Alastair wrapped his long and slender digits around a sharp blade. He then crossed over to Dean, circling behind him. Dean swallowed hard. He knew what was coming… an eternity of torture. As soon as Alastair came closer to him, he opened his mouth to speak. "Hey, if you're going to get behind me like that, you should at least offer to buy me a drink." This was no time for joking. Actually, it was pretty stupid and he was bound to add to the demon's hate fire.
"You're going to learn, that down here you no longer take charge of your life, Mr. Winchester. Down here—and what's the term did you use?" Alastair paused thoughtfully, pretending to mull things over. "Down here, you're my bitch." Finally, a joke that the demon appreciated. Even if it was his own. Dean, however, didn't find a damn thing amusing about this.
Alastair snapped his fingers. Dean's shirt disappeared into nothingness. And then the strike of a blade against his bare back caused him to grunt in pain. The sudden warmth of blood dripping down his back confirmed that he was wounded.
Somewhere, not too far from his own cell, a scream of a female could be heard. The shrill shriek sent goosebumps along Dean's flesh. The sound alone, allowed for him to focus on something other than the pain being inflicted upon him.
After hours of torture, Dean was transferred to a new cell. He was battered and bleeding all over. His face wasn't as recognizable. His swollen flesh—well, the flesh that Alastair allowed him to keep, because skinning Dean Winchester seemed to amuse him more than anything—ached and throbbed. But at least it was over. For now, at least. Dean was sure that come morning light (if Hell even had a night or day—he assumed so), the torture would start all over.
As he lay sprawled against the damp ground, the cell door opened. A woman was led in by Alastair—well, more like shoved in. Her condition was almost as bad as Dean's. Minus the skinning. At least she still had that intact.
"I brought you a play thing. Do show no mercy. I'll pick up where you've left off, tomorrow." Alastair's cold dark eyes were on Dean the entire time. He spoke as if the woman weren't even in the room.
"A gift to you." Alastair waved his hand across the air. Dean no longer felt any pain. He hesitantly reached up to touch his face. All previous signs of being abused were gone. He was back to normal. Well, at least physically on the outside. Deep within, he knew he'd always remember this first time of him being tortured in Hell.
Alastair retreated from the room. Casting a glance over to the female, Dean could see she was also healed. She was a blonde, with emerald eyes and a slim, yet toned figure. She stood as far away from him as possible. When Dean made no move towards her, she gave him a puzzled look.
"You're not going to have your way with me? Or are you just gonna sit there and wait for me to drop my guard?" She started in a harsh and blunt manner. "Because if that's the case, just come at me and get this shit over with already."
Dean just stared at her for a moment. What the hell had this chick been through? When he didn't answer her, she continued. "What kind of monster are you?"
"Monster?" He questioned, speaking to her for the first time.
"You must have done something for you to land yourself here." Another blunt statement.
It took Dean a long time for him to respond. Was he a monster? Again, all of his past sins flickered through his mind. He was not a murderer (at least not of humans), nor a rapist. He didn't conjure up demons or dabble with magic. Sure, he made mistakes all the time. But his mistakes couldn't have constituted him as a monster, could they? "I'm the kind of monster," he started slowly. "Who makes a deal with a demon to save their brother's life."
At his words, the blonde's cold expression toward him softened… and then something flickered in her eyes. "I did the same for my sister."
Dean laughed once. It wasn't really much of a laugh out of humor, but out of irony. "I guess that makes us both monsters."
Surprisingly, the blonde actually broke into a half grin. "I guess you're right."
They remained in silence for a long while. Dean eventually stopped staring at her, but the roles had switched. He could feel her eyes on him the entire time. They could have made small talk. But Dean wasn't really in much of a mood for talking. And neither was she, for that matter.
The only sounds that could be heard were the water drips in the dark cell somewhere, and far off the echoes of screams—possibly from others that were being tortured. But maybe from something other. Who the hell really knew what happens in Hell?
"You should probably get some rest," Dean broke the silence. "I get the feeling that dickhead will be back soon. So… rest up now while you can."
She nodded and sat against the opposite wall. She curled into a ball. Despite being in Hell, the cell was rather cold. And at the look of her, she was cold. It was a good thing that upon fixing his appearance, Alastair also returned his clothing. Dean tugged off his plaid button up, leaving only his long-sleeved white undershirt on. He stood up, crossing over to her in slow movements as to not startle her. She hadn't been paying attention to him and was taken by surprise when he draped his shirt around her. "Rest." He murmured quietly before returning to his corner of the cell.
This guy was odd. He wasn't at all anything like Deana Winchester had expected. When she arrived in Hell, she had assumed that anyone here was only here because they were a monstrosity back on earth. But this man proved her wrong.
She found it even odder that the two of them were here because of a shared fate: saving a loved one from the evil clutches of death.
But as he wrapped his shirt around her, even at the expense of risking coldness upon himself, she was suddenly glad that she wasn't alone here. At least at this moment, because there was no guarantee that he'd be here tomorrow.
"Thank you…" she whispered.
And with that, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to rest.
Something wicked was sure to come soon.