A/N: Alright, here you go. This one kind of floundered for a while, but I think I got it where I wanted it to be. Like I mentioned in the last author's note, this won't be the last chapter; I'm halfway through writing a short epilogue to sort of tie this all in with the show. Hopefully, I'll be done with that one later this weekend, but I make no promises. Anyway, here goes. Enjoy.

He twisted the blade between his fingers, chuckling ruefully as the soul laid out before him pleaded for her life. A decade ago–had it really been a decade?–he'd been the one strung up, crying out in agony as someone tore him into strips. Oh, how the years had changed him. He was the torturer now, the studied student of Hell's most prolific master of pain. The only difference between him and Alistair was a couple dozen centuries and the total corruption of his soul. They couldn't make up the time difference, but give it another decade and he'd be far enough down the rabbit hole that being human would only be a fleeting memory.

Not that he could remember much about his human life anymore. It was terrifying, sometimes, but with every slash and slice, another memory went. The most vivid thoughts he had left of his life up top were of his family, Bobby, the Impala and the vindication of burying a bullet in Yellow Eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember his favorite beer, how to clean a shotgun or the bustiest Asian babe. Even if those were just trivial things, it scared him shitless how quickly his humanity was fading and the demonic urges began filling that void.

He felt so weak, for giving in, for not being able to perform the task assigned, for choosing the easy way out every time. It killed him on the inside, thinking about how his father wanted him to be, and how pathetic he actually was–he couldn't even say no to torturing other people.

He'd done some awful things in his life, but never like this. Whenever he'd hurt or killed someone, it was because they couldn't be saved from whatever had possessed them, and death was a better option than going on like that. Now, he was hurting people for no better reason than they were here, and it was his job. Not all of these people were innocent, but no one deserved what he did to them.

In the beginning, torturing had taken more of a toll on him than it had on his victims; usually, Alistair had to finish the job for him. Alistair had been patient with him, slowly teaching him just how to flay a man alive, how to ignore their pleas, or turn the words of weakness back on them. The process had been slow in turning him–he was still mostly human–but it had done its job in him breaking down and building him into a new creature. He hated himself for even giving in, but his teacher gave him all the care and attention that he needed to finally do the job. It had gotten better–now he could finish anyone with ease, and enjoy it.

It was a sick pleasure, being in control after so many years of being pushed around like a chess piece on his dad's board. Now he was directing his own destiny, and even Alistair wasn't telling him what to do. He was only second to a demon that didn't question his tactics; it felt sickeningly good.

When he remembered his humanity, it ate away at him. Alistair seemed to realize this, and made sure he didn't have a lot of free time between the damned. He could hardly live with the gut-twisting memory of how much he loved ripping into anyone in front of him–serial killer or womanizer, he tore them all up, with varying emotional torture, and savored every scream, hating himself all the more for it. Nothing could assuage him in the time in between, the time when he wasn't a demon or a torturer, but another damned soul suffering for what he'd done.

Even the so-called angel that he'd spoken to over the early years had forsaken him. Castiel obviously realized he was a lost cause; he hadn't visited in years. After he'd pussed out and accepted Alistair's deal, the angel had been to see him sporadically, but he seemed weaker each time. His light was less intense each time, and eventually, when Dean was at his worst and refused to even talk to him, he'd sadly left for the last time. Every so often, Dean thought he'd catch a glimpse of a shimmering gold on the edge of his vision, but it was gone before he could call out to the angel.

Of course, he'd heard the rumblings of a siege on Hell from the other torturers around him, but he'd never thought much of it. Hell, after all, was a fortress, and nothing he'd ever even heard rumors of could bust in intentionally. Even if someone, or something, tried getting in, the demon hordes could push them out easily. It was their home turf, after all, where they were the strongest. If the forces of Heaven really were trying to get in, like some demons thought, then they would have a rough time even making it past the first barricades. He secretly hoped Cas was pushing his way in, though; he sincerely liked the guy for reasons he couldn't rightly name.

Sometimes, when he felt more demon than human, he'd hurl insults into the Pit, hoping the angel heard him. Usually, though, he hoped that Castiel would return and offer his redemption once again. He couldn't live with himself much longer and still hold onto his humanity.

It was so laughingly ironic that only in Hell could he actually find a belief in God. It wasn't strong by any means, but compared to how he felt up top and how many felt down here, he was a frigging disciple. He'd given himself over to the idea that Castiel was a real angel a long time ago, because it was just too up his alley to refuse salvation while in Hell, and only realize how real it was when it was too late. He was pretty sure that his new, vague beliefs were the only thing keeping him remotely human down here.

He wondered what God thought now, as the one guy he'd tried to save now sunk a blade into a poor brunette's side. Her only crime in life had been committing suicide, and now he was here to make her eternity as horrific as possible. The big guy had probably abandoned him a long time ago; he couldn't imagine any omnipotent being tolerating his bullheaded idiocy for this long. Funny that now, when he really needed a god, there was nothing to be found, save for the demonic belief in Lucifer, and he was damn well not getting into that.

He just... He couldn't handle this anymore. Humanity was slipping away from him; he could feel it. It wouldn't be much longer before it was all gone, and so was he. Alistair was preening him for something big, something wrong, and he didn't want any part of it, but he found it harder to resist with every cut he dealt. More than ever, he needed redemption.

"Please," he whispered, pulling the blade out of the whimpering girl. She didn't notice his words, too caught up in her own pain, and he hesitated to hurl another taunt at her. Something was bolstering his humanity, and he just couldn't tear into her anymore. He saw, or just imagined, a thin golden light on the edge of his vision, and again, he muttered into the flames, "Please."

"Hello, Dean. It has been a while."

He breathed a small sigh of relief, just hearing Castiel's voice, even if it was weaker than it used to be. It still managed to strip away part of his demonic shell; his mind felt clearer than it had in years. The angel seemed to realize the effect he was having on Dean, and allowed a few more moments of silence to help the poor soul.

"I can't do this anymore," he finally muttered, hanging his head.

"It is not the path you were meant for, Dean. You are destined for God's work."

Whatever that meant, he didn't care anymore. Just escaping, that was all that mattered. If God could do it, more power to him. He just couldn't be in Hell much longer without going beyond the reaches of religion.

"I'm ready, Cas." His hand trembled; the knife dropped to the floor. "I'm ready for whatever it is you're offering."

"You are willing to accept God's offer of grace and salvation?"

The angel's voice grew stronger with every word, just like the brilliant light that burnt away the sulfur and blood around him and filled him with strength. Had it always felt like this, being human?

"Yeah, I am." He sighed, stepping away from the girl entirely. Castiel seemed to smile, in an ethereal sort of way.

"Good, Dean. Come with me."

A hand that he could barely discern firmly grasped his shoulder. Though he could feel the angel lifting him away, his mind faded into oblivion, his last thoughts dwelling on Hell before he was lost in gilded light.