September, 2008
"Dean, she's waiting for you. Don't waste my time, grasshopper."
He swallows, running his fingers across the blades laid out before him. They're all acceptable, all effective in getting the job done, but he wants something new today, something that the bitch won't expect. His eyes keep going back to the cleaver and without another thought, he picks it up, studies it, turning it in his hand, pressing his pointer finger to the tip. "Yeah, that's sharp," he says to himself.
The rack is where the action is, where he spent every day for thirty years, hung up like a slab of meat, having Alistair rip him into a new person. No, monster. Each day, the same pain, and each day, he learned how to take it. There are things that go through a person's mind when being tortured, things that try to take your mind off of the seething pain being inflicted on you.
But every cut, every slice of the blade through the skin wakes you the hell up and snaps you back to what's happening. Alistair, with his maniacal laugh, his fiery eyes, taking pleasure in seeing Dean cry, moan - even pray to a God that didn't give a rat's ass about him.
And for thirty years Dean told him where to shove it, until he just couldn't take it anymore. Now he's the one with that insane smile, that hate behind his eyes, that blood lust for seeing bitches cry out for help. There's no escaping him, there's no way around it. They're his. His own personal playthings to do whatever the hell he wants to do to them.
This one, she's the loudest and it makes Dean hard, turned on, just watching her writhe, hearing her plead with him to stop. He'll never stop, Alistair made sure of that, but it's the pleasure he gets from it all, that's why he knows he was always meant for this.
Selling his soul to come down to this shithole was the smartest thing he's ever done. His brother is alive, and Dean gets to have a little fun downstairs with his new partner in crime. A demon who's worse than anything he ran into above ground. So dark, so twisted, that Dean finds himself a little envious of the fucker.
Sometimes.
Though, he would love to throw Alastair up there on the rack and give him back everything he'd done to Dean. Every damn thing. Rip him apart, piece by piece until there's nothing left and then do the same thing the next day. Man, what he'd give to be able to watch that asshole beg for mercy.
"Do you need to be reminded of what you are, Dean? Don't tell me you're having second thoughts."
He glances at the demon, who's smiling wide for Dean; that deranged smile that could scare even the worst kind of rotten down here, but not Dean. Alistair doesn't scare him anymore. He doesn't make him shiver, cry out, beg for someone to come rescue him. Sam, Bobby, whoever.
Dean has no more fears. He gave them up the moment he gave in to the demon, the moment he accepted his offer to be the one putting souls on the rack. And there she is, gorgeous as ever with her milky white skin, slick dark hair, and petrified expression.
He ignores Alistair's glare as he makes his way over to her, licking his lips as he scans her body, naked and supple, ready for him to take pleasure in watching her blood spill. He briefly wonders what she was back then, upstairs. She did something awful to get down here and maybe today he'll find out, if he just cuts her the right way.
The tray of other cutlery, weapons is placed next to her, if Dean changes his mind and wants to mix it up a bit, which is always fun. Each blade offers a different way to cut into flesh, and sometimes you can make a masterpiece out of someone's torso if you do it just right. Red meets white, offering patterns and beautiful symmetry. Art.
But the cleaver is what he starts with, teasing her at first with the tip, pressing it against her thigh. He doesn't let his eyes leave hers, as she tries to be strong, biting her bottom lip when he presses the tip even harder against her flesh, enough to cause some blood to pool.
He likes to start off slow, make them think it's not gonna be bad this time and then, he digs into them, deeper and harder until they have no choice but to shout. That's when he really gets into it.
Dean slides the blade up her thigh and stops at her hip. He raises an eyebrow, smiling at the red line of bruised skin left by the edge of the cleaver. Gorgeous. Stunning. Her skin is perfect for this. They make eye contact again and he smiles at her, showing her his best charm.
"Is it me, or are you really enjoying this?"
She remains silent. Good girl. He knows if she cries out, or tries to be snarky, he'll just make it last longer. It's boring though, and sometimes he does wish the person on the other side of his blade would challenge him. Tell him to fuck off. Threaten to kill him. Something.
She's smarter than that and maybe he's getting a little tired of her. Time to make her scream.
There it is. He digs the cleaver into her, making her holler louder than he's ever heard before. Ah, his darling, his perfect toy. The utter joy he feels seeing the tears stream down her cheeks, turning her head away from him, refusing to give him the pleasure of watching her cry.
But he sees it all and his quivering lip curls into a snarl, plunging the blade deeper, breaking through layers of fat, piercing organs, and he can feel it with every stab. With a quick thrust, he pulls the cleaver out of her, and smiles at the blood as it drips from the sharp edge.
He tastes it, closing his eyes to the coppery sting against his tongue. She's delicious. A delectable treat for him.
"Mm. I think the more you cry, the better you taste."
Meeting his gaze, she arches her brow, almost looking innocent, which is knows she is far from. "Please, Dean. I've had enough," she says, barely even getting the words out before she breaks into a sob.
"That's up to me, hon. You just shut the fuck up and take it."
Raising his hand, he positions the blade above her chest and brings it down hard, hearing the crack of her ribs. Yeah, that's it. Perfect. Her body heaves forward, only to snap back from the restraints.
Enough … she has had enough. He hasn't even begun.
He hears Alistair but he knows he's gone by now. "That's right, Dean-o. Show her who you are. A monster, one of us."
Dean leaves the cleaver in her chest as he searches for a new weapon and this unique, double edged blade catches his eye. It's not one he's ever seen before, Alistair must have just recently added this to their collection. It's forward curved with a rounded hilt and big enough to really do some considerable damage.
With a wicked smile, he approaches her and is suddenly taken aback by the look on her face. She's not screaming in agony anymore, or seeming like she's in pain at all. She's just staring, almost affectionately and it's making his skin crawl.
"I know you were good once. You never belonged here. You're not one of them."
Her words feel like a dagger in his chest. Not one of them. Who is she kidding. It doesn't matter if his one way ticket to the pit was deserved or not, he made it happen. He sold his soul to save his goddamned brother, so he has every right to be down here as the rest.
"Shut up," he spits, slamming his fist into her jaw.
She winces, choking on the blood that's seeping down her throat. "You're good-"
He punches her again, this time with the grip of the blade. He will cut her out her tongue if she says another word. Lies. All fucking lies. Trying to tap into a part of him that no longer exists.
Alistair made sure he'd forget all about Dean Winchester, saving people, hunting the very thing he has become.
"They break. They always break, Dean. I just need to find out what your tolerance level is, and then BAM!," Alistair claps his hands, loudly, "You'll be where I am now, inflicting pain and torture on all those weeping maggots."
A phantom pain radiates from his chest down to his stomach, and he closes his eyes, tightly, remembering Alistair's blade slicing so effortlessly into him. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You stay up there and take it. You can't beg, bargain, or even reason with the beast that's cutting into you. No.
Hopelessness, that's what he remembers feeling and that hurt more than the pain of torture.
He looks up and that bitch is still staring at him, and so he slams his fist into her jaw, again, this one knocking her out. It feels good to be on this end of it all. It helps, helps him forget. Helps him realize what he's good at, why he deserves to be down here.
"No, you don't get to sleep," he says, looking around for a bowl to fill with water. Once he does, and it's filled, he empties it onto her face, causing her to choke and cough. "Don't fucking pass out again."
Like she can help it.
He picks up that interesting blade again and goes to work on her, starting with her face now, slowly slicing the skin beneath her left eye. She cries out, screams, and he pauses, looking at her with a fake sympathy.
"Aw, does that hurt?"
With the sharp tip of the cleaver still under her skin, he moves is down, slowly, carefully, as he watches her skin open up. Further down he goes, to her jaw, her throat, her heaving chest. The blood pooling and running off the sides of her body, like watching melting wax from a candle.
She's panting, her eyes glued to him when he stops the blade just above her navel. Oh the things he wants to do to her, the pain he wants, no, needs to show her, her screams drown out the all the noise in his head, until his mind is calm, silent, almost peaceful.
"It's like you were born for this, Dean. I've never made a better animal as you."
He circles the blade, carving into her stomach when he notices a commotion not too far from him. He tries to focus, ignoring the shouts and grunts around him, assuming it's just another demon brawl, which happens more often than not down here.
But it's her expression that makes his stomach flip. Her eyes widen, her face blanching to a sickly hue right before his eyes. The last thing he needs is some asshole knocking into him as he's doing his work so he turns his head, keeping the blade deep in her flesh.
He has no idea what he's seeing. There are bodies being thrown and he swears he sees some glowing bursts of light in the distance. He hears someone shout, "Angels!," but has no idea what in the hell that's supposed to mean.
Whatever it is, whatever is causing this chaos is getting closer. He sees demons falling, some even look like they're exploding and a certain terror comes over him. "What the fu-"
A demon, not one he's familiar with, knocks into him as he runs from whatever's out there. He's yelling, something about being under attack and Dean immediately goes into defense mode. He picks up another blade, and keeps his fists high up to his chest.
After glancing quickly at the girl on the rack, he shrugs and moves to a higher spot to get a look at what's going on. Demons are unpredictable, and there's always some moron trying to take over, some idiot who's had his first taste of evil and decides he can run the joint. It's kind of like prison, only these fuckers are a hell of a lot dumber.
It's when a wall of demons come out from nowhere and race towards him that he starts to panic. This isn't some small league idiot trying to start some beef, these demons are scared for their damn lives and there are not many things down here that can do that.
He ducks, hiding behind a rock wall, more so that he doesn't get trampled on. What in the hell can have these demons so spooked? Whatever it is, it's closer because he can see the light in the very near distance. As the sounds of screams grow louder, Dean moves from behind the wall to a search for a better hiding spot.
And then it hits him. Why is he running? Why is he hiding? He fights monsters and sure, he can do it down here too. He probably won't make it, seeing as he just saw Jonah, one of the toughest demons here, run away like a scared little bitch.
It'll be fun, having a real brawl. A real fight with whatever it is that's out there. If it wants a piece of him, then he'll be ready. He positions himself in the middle of the room, weapons ready to strike, and he glances briefly at the weeping girl on the rack.
For a brief moment, he considers her punishment, why she came down to the pit in the first place and a certain nausea overcomes him when he realizes that she could have been a person who sold her soul, just like he did. It wasn't just murderers, rapists, that were sent to Hell. No, there were probably countless numbers of people who struck a deal with a crossroad demon and ended up here when their ten years were up.
Ten years. Dean got one.
While standing, ready to defend himself, he notices the commotion stopped. The screams and shouts have ceased and he hasn't seen a demon run past him in a good few minutes. Did it give up? Or did it just find what it came for and split? He should step out and see, check it out, make sure the coast is clear, but he hears the girl scream.
His head snaps in her direction but she's focused on something behind him. That's when he feels it. A static electricity, like sparks hitting his back. When Dean turns, it's like everything around him disappears. The light is so bright, he brings his arm up over his eyes to shield them from the blinding glow radiating before him.
What the hell is that?
This thing, it's close now, and it's so bright, the entire room is lit up. Dean looks around and he can now make out the filth of the place. The dried, old blood stuck the walls, rotted flesh covering the corners like some giant heap of trash. He looks down at his trembling hands, covered in blood - someone else's blood, and he drops his blades.
No, pick them up, Dean. What are you doing?
It's too bright now, he can't see anything. The walls, the evidence of torment, even the girl is out of his view. All he sees is something moving toward him, a figure, but not human. Not demon.
Angel?
It's so beautiful, and this warmth, this love is radiating from it. Its huge, almost ethereal body is covered in swirling colors, dancing around the light from its middle, a bright smoke seeping out from all around it.
Maybe he's imagining the tears that are now streaming down his cheeks but he wipes them anyway, as quickly as they fall, and looks at his hand, still smeared in blood and is confused from the wetness.
Pull yourself together.
It's closer now. So close and he's seeing a silhouette. It's too bright to make it out, but he can tell its height, and it's tall, taller than him, and as a crash of thunder echoes through the room, enormous wings outspread, expanding behind this thing.
What the...
Dean bends down to pick up his blades. What this is, it's scary as hell but if he's going to have a chance, he needs to at least be armed. He steels himself, ready to fight when the bright glowy monster thing pushes him, not hard, but enough for him to lose his footing.
"Come on, you son of a bitch, that's all you got?"
He looks back at the wall that's splattered in the blood from those he tortured. Funny how he never saw it before. Not until this creature's light revealed all the evidence of Dean's work. It was Claude that made that huge mess over there. Dean remembers using one of the rusted old blades on him, cutting him up just right before-
He can hear his screams as if he's still in the room, up there on the rack. Dean blinks his eyes closed, shutting the imagery out, and praying for those screams to go away.
What have I become?
Backing up, he stumbles on the loose rocks, but he steadies himself before he falls. He looks down and notices the used bloodied shackles, still oozing, smelling of the coppery liquid. Lilah. Oh she was special, he didn't keep her on the rack, no. He chained her up and after making her bleed, he-
No, please no.
He's seeing it for the first time, and yet he's been doing it for years. Ripping them apart, one by one…Dean's stomach drops and the nausea takes over, making him bend over to catch his breath. He used to save people, help them, kill anything that threatened to harm them, and then he… he became one of them. A monster.
He liked it. Hell, he loved it. Seeing the terror on the poor soul's faces as he held the chosen tool for the day. How they'd beg, cry out when he started to cut into them. Day after day, taking his own pain away by inflicting more on others.
He sees them all, twisted faces in agony, mutilated flesh. He sees red, it's everywhere. The walls, their bodies, his hands… And the sounds, oh God the sounds. He can hear the shrieks, the hollers of his victims echoing off the walls.
Their screams are replaced with the loud thumping of his heart and that's when the room darkens and the figure before him seems to absorb all the light until its shape is that of a man, just a man, staring back at him. Dean can't speak, he isn't sure he can blink. He's frozen, paralyzed by this blue eyed enigma.
"My name is Castiel. I'm here to save you."
Save?
He wants to fight, plunge his blades into this creature who's spewing nonsense at him. You don't make a damn entrance like that to save a piece of shit as himself. You just don't. Dean's serving his time, as he's meant to and ain't nobody gonna take that away from him.
He uses all the strength he has to raise his blades, refusing to be under this thing's thrall, mind control, or whatever he's using on Dean to make him want to run into his arms, to let him save him, let him take him away from this nightmare.
"Don't fight me, Dean."
It knows his name. Okay. "I-"
Those eyes. What is this creature? Why is he staring at him like this? Dean is evil. He's a monster. Don't look at me like that, whatever you are.
Dean swings his blade at the guy, thing, whatever, and he catches Dean's wrist, squeezing him so hard, yet without any effort at all. The blade drops from his hand, and so he tries with his other, only to suffer the same fate.
And then it all just fades. His anger, his pain, his blood lust.
He begins to remember his time above ground. Sam's smile when Dean would leave on his favorite song, the way he would roll his eyes when watching Dean shovel in as much pie as he could in one sitting.
Both of them on the road, sometimes with no destination at all. Windows rolled down, music blasting, Sam trying to sing along, out of tune. Bobby bitching from the backseat that he's gone deaf from Dean's obnoxiously loud music.
The three of them, at the scrapyard, Bobby asking him how long he had before the hounds came after him.
"What is it with you Winchesters, huh? You, your dad. You're both just itching to throw yourselves down the pit."
"That's my point. Dad brought me back, Bobby. I'm not even supposed to be here. At least this way, something good could come out of it, you know? I-I-It's like my life could mean something."
He sold his soul so his brother could live. A desperate act, sure, but he didn't do it so he could become a worse monster than what they had been seeking that year. His death wasn't in vain. Sam is okay, hopefully hunting with Bobby. He has to hope that his choices didn't ruin their lives, that it was all worth it.
There's a light moving around him, engulfing him, and when he looks into his eyes again, Dean starts to cry. Everything inside of him wants to run away, hide from what he's become, but this man, this… angel wants to save him.
A hand gently cups his face and Dean has never felt anything like this before in his entire life. This creature, this guy, he came for him, but why? Dean deserves to rot in this place, serve his time in Hell, continue to let his soul be shredded into nothing.
But he… he doesn't want that. He wants him whole again. He sees Dean as someone worth saving.
Who are you?
He feels his strong arms wrap around him and now Dean's surrounded by warmth, by love, and he looks up briefly to see the large wings cover them both. He falls into his embrace, his forehead dropping to his shoulder and weeps until there's nothing left.