"So, what'll it be today, Mr. Winchester?"

"I could really go for some pizza. One of those deep, Chicago-style ones with sausage and pepperoni, and garlic butter brushed on the crust."

Dean's stomach contracted painfully as the object he had described appeared, balanced on Alastair's palm.

"Like this?"

Dean swallowed the saliva that flooded his mouth. Can't remember the last time I tasted food.

A table appeared, covered in a white cloth, taper candle centered and flickering invitingly. Alastair set the pie on it, arranging it precisely. He stepped back, chin resting on his thumb and forefinger as if considering a complex piece of abstract art. He pursed his lips, shaking his head slightly, then snapped his fingers, nodding in satisfaction at the frosted mug of beer that appeared, condensation beading on the glass.

The rich aromas of melted cheese and garlic mingled with the soul-warming scent of hops were impossible to ignore. Dean licked his lips. I get it: today I get to drown in my own drool. That'll be fun.

And more somberly: Guard your soul, Dean.

Alastair leaned against the wall, his face now blocking the spot that Dean typically chose to focus on when he was trying to will himself to ignore whatever torment the demon had chosen to inflict on him that day.

"It's all yours, Dean. All you have to do is go get it."

Without warning Dean found himself kneeling on the stone floor, staring down a long corridor that ended with the table, his table, shining like a beacon.

He could still smell the garlic.

Dean stood, stomach complaining loudly at the years of neglect, and stared down the innocuous-appearing hall.

Not even a flicker of a glance gave him away as he launched himself sideways, driving his shoulder into the creature that he had been dreaming of ripping apart with his bare hands for what Dean was sure was at least months, if not years.

It was hard to keep track of time down here.

He felt his shoulder drive into a bony chest, heard the wind huff out of his surprised opponent, was reaching for the demon, his hands curled into talons -

A throaty growl, the stench of wet, sulfurous dog, and the combined agony of being scalped while having his skull crushed all descended on Dean simultaneously.

And then he was strapped to the rack, whole once more.

"Would you like to try that again?" Alastair was smiling.

Son of a bitch. I did exactly what he wanted me to do.

Yet, finding himself kneeling once again on the hard, cold, floor, staring down the corridor stretching out impossibly away from him, Dean could not help but go for Alastair's throat again.

And then a third time.

By the fourth he thought he may as well try to get to the table. He knew he'd never make it - this was Hell, after all - but maybe, if he paid attention, he could figure out a way to get a weapon.

Find a chink in Hell's armor.

And even if he didn't, having the opportunity to do something, to finally have even a modicum of control over what was being done to his body, that was sure to be a balm for his tattered soul.


He figured the first time down the guantlet was a give-away, just to see what would happen. He came up off the floor in a sprint, making it a good fifty feet before flames shot out from the walls like a row of gigantic blow-torches.

He smiled as he was immolated, pleased with himself for catching whomever was in charge of the "Incinerate Dean" button off-guard.


The second time he set out to learn something. Moving carefully, he approached one wall, examining it with care, eyes probing even as his fingertips read the abrasive stone surface.

That left his back exposed to the opposite wall.

Dean never saw the shining mass of blades that diced him neatly into bite-sized pieces.


The third time he stood, weighing his options.

I'm gonna die in some insane way no matter what. Not gonna crawl; too humiliating. Already tried running. Might be worth another go, just to see how far I can get. Or I could try the ol' Winchester Swagger.

Although he figured he scored points for style and bravado, the Winchester Swagger method was definitely the most excruciating death thus far as venomous snakes abruptly covered the floor, forcing him to either give in and retreat or continue despite being bitten.

The fangs themselves were bad enough, but the toxins that were injected sent electric jolts of pain zinging along his nerve endings while simultaneously melting his tissues into a black goo.

Walking became crawling as his feet and shins dissolved, then to pulling himself by his arms when his thighs liquified.

He made it three quarters of the way to his prize before his upper body and face disintegrated.


The fourth time he stood gazing at the walls, thinking about how twisted reality was in this realm.

"I wonder…"

He took off at a dead run right at one of the walls, raced halfway up it, and launched himself into the air, completing a beautifully executed backflip to land, feet wide, knees bent, in a perfect superhero pose. "Holy shit! Did you see that?"

The irritated shake of Alastair's head was all the reward Dean needed, and he laughed as the section of rock above him dropped, crushing him into Dean pudding.


"Did you see that, Allie? Did you see my sweet back flip?"

He managed to pull off some of his favorite action movie scenes twice more before Alastair changed the setting, coating the walls with ice.

"Spoil sport." Dean crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to move now that his game had been spoiled.

His lip remained pushed out in a stubborn pout even as the eight foot mass of rancid white fur stalked towards him.

Until, that is, the yeti was within a few feet of him. Then Dean went for a running high jump, twisting his body over his head in mid-air to avoid the grasping arms of the slavering beast.

He was as stunned as the monster undoubtedly was when he found himself landing in the corridor beyond the creature, unharmed and halfway to his goal.

He turned and sprinted, feeling ice form on his spine in the wake of the monstrous snowman's indignant bellow.

HIs fingers were literally touching the table cloth when the second roar came, and the supernatural creature's expelled breath engulfed Dean in a block of ice.

The table, the pizza, and - damnit - the beer all disappeared from Dean's line of sight, only to be replaced by Alastair's jeering countenance.

Asshole.

The ice burned against Dean's bare skin.

His face was free, though his skull was not. Unable to move his jaw, Dean spoke through clenched teeth. "Think I got frostbite on my dick."

Alastair's smile was as lascivious as always. "It doesn't have to be like this, you know." Dean's three favorite Busty Asian Beauties centerfolds appeared, scantily clad and simpering. "Hell can be a happy place, Dean." A table filled with all of his favorite foods came next, with the women holding items up to him, almost close enough to taste, before feeding them to one another. "It's a place to indulge all of your appetites. No judgments. No consequences." A full bar appeared, taps gleaming, bottle after bottle of expensive liquor lining a mirrored wall. The ladies poured drinks, spilling them down their chests, giggling as they lapped the sticky fluid from one another's skin, eyes on Dean the entire time. "Every pleasure you've ever dreamt of, Dean, every day for the rest of eternity. All you have to do is say 'yes'."

The cold that burned his skin made his bones ache. His teeth would have chattered if he'd been able to move at all.

Alastair stepped closer. "I can take you out of that iceberg right now, Dean. Conjure a warm, soft bed. Let them press their hot bodies against yours, melt the chill from your bones. They would do whatever you wanted, give themselves to you over and over until you forgot that such a thing as cold ever existed."

The worst was his head. He'd never felt pain like that before, like something was crushing his skull, grinding the bones together, at the same time that he experienced the most intense ice cream headache of his life.

"Or you can continue to punish yourself, Dean. Continue to deny yourself the rewards you clearly deserve, just as you did Topside."

The demon snapped his fingers, and the buffet was crawling with maggots.

The bar became the honky tonk that a roofied Dean had been hauled from. Jeff and his buddies replaced the Asian beauties, pacing like a pride of lions eyeing up a wounded wildebeest.

And the ice started to compress, forcing a reluctant cry from gritted teeth as Dean's bones began to shatter under the weight.

"'Yes' brings you never ending pleasure. 'No' has you weeping and wailing each and every day for all of eternity."

Mary appeared on the ceiling behind Alastair, eyes horror-stricken, dripping blood even as she burned.

"Will you take up my razor?"

Every one of Dean's ribs snapped like frost-laden branches in a Wisconsin forest.

The exhale that exquisite agony forced from him carried Dean's unequivocal reply:

"No."