Hellraiser
Dean's walls immediately went up. It was probably too late, but he'd be damned if someone saw him that vulnerable while he was aware of it. He turned, trying to find the source of the voice, biting his lower lip to keep from wincing.
"Finally someone to talk to," he said, putting on a show of bravado for the voice. "Wait, unless you're Pinhead. 'Cause if you're Pinhead, I'm gonna have to take a hard pass on that one."
"Ah, yes, Pinhead," said the voice slowly, still not showing itself. "Some of my, ah, colleagues told me about him." He chuckled darkly. "I'm who Pinhead aspires to be when he grows up."
A figure appeared at Dean's side, tall and lanky with hooded eyelids that covered eyes that seemed to pierce his soul. He was grinning devilishly, taking a good, long look at the subject before him. "Ah, how rude of me," he said snapping his fingers. The scenery around them had changed suddenly. Dean was slammed onto a hard wooden table, the hooks removed from his sides, the wounds suddenly healed up. His arms and legs were still bound, but the shackles had lost their teeth. Everything was complete darkness, save for Dean and his captor on which a bright spotlight shown.
"Allow me to introduce myself," the man (No, demon, Dean corrected himself) continued. "Alastair. Grand Inquisiter of Hell some call me. Others just call me a twisted son of a bitch," he mused. He stuck out his hand mockingly for Dean to shake. "Sorry, it never gets old," he sneered as Dean rolled his eyes.
"Pleasure's all yours, I'm sure," was Dean's retort.
"Now, now, Dean," he drawled, drawing a knife up and letting it scrape the surface of Dean's skin, but not enough to draw blood. "Don't be rude. Introduce yourself. Others are watching, you know."
Dean looked around and still saw nothing but black, but as if on cue moans and screams and cries of agony surrounded him. Hundreds, maybe thousands of voices all crying out at once. He gasped at the horror of it.
Alastair's blade reminded him of the question he'd been asked as it dug in lightly at his shoulder.
"Um. Hi. I'm Dean," he said awkwardly, trying to avoid looking towards Alastair. "Winchester. I'm an Aquarius, and I've probably sent a few, well, a lot, of you back down here, so, uh," he shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, I'm not sorry 'cause you evil bastards had it coming."
"I know you're new here Dean," Alastair tutted, "But we don't use the 'evil' word around here. Down here, in the deepest pits of hell, there is only flesh."
Dean paused to reflect, his nose crinkling up. "Oh my God, you are Pinhead."
"Hm," he snickered, inches away from Dean's face, still caressing his chest with the blade. "Such a smart-ass. That's what I like about you, Dean. You'll make an excellent pupil."
"What are you talking about?" asked Dean as he tried to squirm away from the knife.
"I want you," he explained, pointing the knife at his heart, "to show them," he pointed towards the nothingness and hellish screams, "a thing or two about pain and suffering. Hm?"
Dean tried to hide the horror that crept along his face as he realized the implications Alastair was implying. He regained composure, putting on his best Dean Winchester bad-ass face. "Why don't you," he said, leaning closer to Alastair's face, "take that knife, and stick it where the sun shines."
Alastair just grinned. "I didn't expect you to accept the first time. That would have been," he sucked air in through his teeth, "disappointing." He drew up his knife again, this time over Dean's collarbone. "No, I have so much to teach you before that moment comes."
Then it began.
