A/N: And we're off. Apologies in advance, this is not a kid-friendly chapter.
You can't just rush into this kind of thing. If there's anything he's learned down below, it's that you've got to always have a plan going in.
"As I live and breathe. Is that little Dean Winchester?"
They'll try to get under your skin. Beg for mercy. Scream their revenge. Anything to twist your thoughts around, to make you doubt yourself, make you make mistakes. Make you get up and close with the worst of you.
"Well, well. I didn't think there was enough of you to make it upstairs. Lemme tell you, never been so glad to be wrong."
And you can't let them. Which is why you better know the worst of you better than anyone else. Or you can just shut them up – that works too.
"I miss our old games, don't you? Did you miss me?"
...Though here that'd be pretty counterproductive, considering what he's trying to accomplish.
"We had so much fun."
He picks out a scalpel. Cliché, maybe, but efficient. The brute work is for the beginning. Gotta show them you're not messing around. After most of the skin is stripped off, tendons and nerve endings exposed, a single touch is like passing a kidney stone.
And then the real work begins.
"Hey," he says, his back to the demon, frowning up as he puts the scalpel to the light. It seems sharp enough, - which isn't enough for him usually, but oh well. He doesn't really feel like testing it on himself. "Is your human still alive?"
The grin is practically audible. "Only thanks to me. Why, wanna talk to him? He's a pediatrician. Johnny never took you to those, did he?"
He blinks down at the table full of assorted 'supplies,' surprised, then shrugs. "Sure, why not," he says. "Bring him up."
It's almost frightening, how much of a difference it makes, how much of a difference there is between a man and a demon. All of a sudden the room feels lighter, less suffocating – Dean's shoulders relax against their will, like some instinct had set them loose.
He turns, sees terrified blue eyes looking back at him, tracking his every move.
"What's your name?" he asks, taking a small step forward. He doesn't want to startle the man more than he has to.
The man swallows, forehead beading with sweat, hands pulling on the restraints. "Marshall," he replies, staring at the blade in Dean's hand. "Marshall Appleton."
He memorizes the name, puts it away in a little mental file cabinet to haunt him later. "Okay, Doc," he says, soothing. "You got any idea what's going on here? Do I need to catch you up?"
Appleton jerks his head from side to side. "I- I know," he answers, trembling.
"Do you have any idea who's killing the angels?"
"No, he – he didn't show me, I don't know." His eyes glimmer with tears. "Can you get it out? Please, I want to go home, my wife, my kids, they don't know what happened to me, they're probably worried – it's my little girl's birthday soon –"
He sighs quietly. "Doc," he says, and takes another step, "I really, really wish I could do that. You've no idea how much I want to exorcise this son of a bitch out of you. I wish I could let you go."
"The – the things I did, it wasn't me, I swear, it wasn't me –"
He keeps his face hard. "I know, Doc. Trust me, I know."
"Then please, please let me go, I just want to go home," the man pleads, and the tears finally fall free and slide down his face, one by one.
"You can't go home," Dean tells him, heart twisting. He's the worst person in the world. "You're already dead."
Appleton looks more terrified by the second. "What? No, please, I'll – I'll pay you, you can have my share of the practice – you can have anything you want –"
"Sorry, Doc," he says gently, and brings up the scalpel to the man's bare chest. "You don't have anything I want."
0000
It's not very long before the sobs abruptly fade. It's just a moment, no discernible change between one second and the next, but suddenly it's like new shadows slink behind Appleton's eyes, someone else looking out from his face. The lights flicker, and just like that, Doc's gone.
Which is fine by Dean – that was just to prove a point.
"Ooh-hoo," Alistair says. "Didn't think you had it in you. That was cold. And I know cold."
"You sure do," Dean says distractedly, peering at the knee. Delicate work, pulling apart the joint. He starts at the surface, as one always must.
Alistair grins at the ceiling. "Upstanding guy, Appleton. Straight shoot for heaven. Good father, excellent doctor. Loved kids." He winks down at Dean. "Though maybe a little too much, if you know what I mean."
Dean always knows what he means. He also knows demons enjoy twisting the truth. "Sure."
"What's with the sour face, I'm just telling you about the man. I mean, you barely had a chance to get to know him before you started tearing him apart."
He doesn't think that merits a response. Doesn't know what he'd say to that, anyway.
"Mmm-mm. Feels just like old times, doesn't it? My little role reversal aside."
"Uh-huh."
"You're so rusty. How long's it been since the last time you practiced?" the demon asks. "Time's so funny up here, I get all confused."
He shrugs as he leans back on his heels, thinking how best to approach this. Can't make mistakes.
This has to be perfect.
Laughter. "Look at you hesitating. You really don't want to do this, do ya. Guess once you break, you really do break. All the Sammys in the world can't put Humpty Dumpty together again."
He makes the first cut. "Shut it," he says, then curses himself. That was a mistake.
The demon growls at the pain, but recovers quickly. "That's my boy," he says fondly, and Dean knows just how the smirk is spreading across his face, like a disease. "An insult to the ego and you're like butter in my hands. That's right, cut away, boy. Don't just sit there," he hisses, "participate –"
He pushes a little harder. Gotta make up lost ground.
He needs to not listen.
"You think I don't know pain?" Alistair asks him. His body vibrates with his laughter, makes it a little harder to work. "I know everything there is to know about pain. I taught you pain. You're gonna have to try a little harder."
Blood pools under his fingers, starts sliding down the shin. He hopes Castiel thought to bring him towels, he can't see properly like this. "Yeah, I know."
He feels the calculating gaze pass over his face. "You used to be more chatty at work, love. I miss your voice."
"Me too," he mutters under his breath. Monologues, there's one thing he didn't miss about hell.
"But you kneeling on the floor, that brings back memories all on its own. Lovely, lovely memories…"
He doesn't move, except to cut larger and larger swathes of skin and tissue until, finally. Exposure.
That brings out a scream, and then a breathless laugh. "We've done much worse things to each other than this, boy. This is barely first date material." An audible smile. "Not that this is our first tango, is it? Not by far."
His hand slips by a hair. He barely avoids cutting a finger.
"Oh? Did that get to you? Should have planned this out better, darlin'. Height discrepancy like this, easy for them to forget who's boss. Rookie mistake."
Don't let them get to you. The plan is fine.
"Maybe you need some reeducatin'. I'd be happy to –" Alistair cuts off.
There's a silence, for much too long than Dean is comfortable with.
He looks up. Sees the cold, humorless eyes peering down at him, eyebrows furled as if in bafflement. It's a strange look on him of all people, but Dean doesn't notice it much, because it's the first time their gazes have met since… since a long time ago.
He tries not to shudder, reel from the scenes of carnage playing in his head. He doesn't remember, exactly, but still he… he knows. He's seen these eyes before.
"Something wrong?" he asks.
And they stare into him now, boring holes into his soul, pitting him up against some unknown standard. These eyes have seen him at his worst. At his best.
No one in the world knows him as well.
"They tore you apart, darlin'," Alistair says, frowning down at him. "Who did that?"
He scowls back. "Dunno what you're talking about."
"Don't you? You're a dead man walking. I'm surprised you can even talk, let alone remember who you are." He pauses. "Unless… have you been pretending, all this time?"
His throat tightens. "I know who I am."
Suddenly Alistair smiles. "No, you don't," he purrs. "But humor me – who do you think that is?"
He clutches his scalpel, hard, and snarls, "The guy who's gonna make you squeal."
There's a silence, then. A silence as though Alistair is contemplating how true that is, as if he's wondering if that's really a possibility, hell's master torturer breaking. He's wondering if Dean is up to it. Wondering if Dean can do it.
Dean doesn't wonder. He knows he can.
"My darling boy," the demon murmurs at last. "Now we're in business."
0000
The first instinct is to feel pride – then, disgust.
He carefully doesn't show either.
Alistair notices. "Oh, don't play the ice queen with me, son, I can see past that pretty brave face of yours. You really think you're – you really think you're a hero?" A snarl as Dean twists his blade. "Please. You're enjoying every last bit of this."
Wow. What a totally unpredictable turn in the conversation. "Not really," he says.
"Of course you are," the demon returns. "You should see the smile on your face."
He's not smiling. He'd feel it if he is.
Wouldn't he?
"Love that smile. I'd like to see more of it."
He presses harder, hoping to shut him up, but Alistair just starts singing instead.
"A smile was all you gave to me," he trills. "Before we were as happy as could be, la la, la la, la la la la."
"Oh my God," he mutters under his breath.
A pause in the singing. "You've got no appreciation for the classics, you know," Alistair tells him. "That was your biggest flaw. Otherwise, you were such a lovely little student. So much potential. Such attention to detail. Always made me proud, watching you at it."
He reaches and swipes a towel from the table, wipes down the knife. It glints red in the fluorescent light. "Glad you enjoyed."
"Oh, I did, son. And so did you. Look at you, even now demonstrating proper knife etiquette. Like riding a bike. You can't get enough of this."
"Just doing what's necessary," Dean says, getting back to work. Here a tendon, there a tendon. Soon, soon. "Feel like coughing up some answers yet?"
"Necessary?" Alistair repeats, ignoring the question. "I think not. You're liking this."
"It is a dream come true," he intones absently. He delicately pulls at a string of tissue.
The foot spasms. Alistair growls in pain.
"Funny boy," he breathes harshly. "I will teach you to fear closing your eyes."
"No, seriously," Dean remarks, "I think I actually had a dream just like this once." He sighs wistfully. "It was such," he slices, "such a good dream."
A scream. It lasts a while.
"Youch," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Easy on the ears, dude."
"Fuck you," Alistair spits.
He can't help a laugh. "There we go, darlin'," he says, adding just a dash of salt. Alistair shrieks, and he smirks. "You're finally getting the point."
0000
What am I doing?
The thought drifts in his mind, like a soap bubble on the breeze.
The screams vibrate through him, though he's long since tuned them out. His ears ache from the proximity, throb faintly along with his heartbeat.
He glances at his hands, wet with blood and sweat; he must have cut himself at one point – he's usually cleaner than this. Tsk tsk.
What am I doing?
Dr. Appleton's face is twisted with pain and mindless rage. He's yelling.
And he's yelling because, because…
Don't remember? Don't remember? We used to be yours -
Dean throws himself away from the hexagram.
You turned your back on it once. You can do it again.
Shit. Shit.
Alistair is sneering at him, mouth dripping with blood. "If we could we'd kill all the angels, not just a measly seven." He spits at Dean's feet. "And I would personally butcher every single miserable human to walk this sewer of a planet."
Dean can't help staring at him, at the mockery he's made of the doctor's chest, the doctor's legs. If they can even be called that anymore.
(Art)
He tears his eyes off the blood, the visible... meat. He weaves his way unsteadily to the table, gets down on his knees and throws up everything his stomach has to offer.
"What's wrong?" Alistair rasps. "You were doing so well."
Dean's hand covers his mouth, shaking, and he stumbles to a stand, almost trips as he darts to the locked door. "Cas," he whispers desperately, and hits the iron slab over and over with the flat of his fist.
The demon watches him at it. "When I get my hands on you," it promises, "you will regret every moment of your existence."
Dean ignores him, heart in his throat. "Cas!" he screams. "Cas! Let me out!"
"We will start again. All over again."
"Let me out!"
"And no one will save you this time. No one will ever let you stop."
"Cas!"
"What?" Castiel asks from behind him.
Dean whirls around, grasps the sleeve of the trench coat. It's blessedly solid and – and real. "Cas," he chokes. "Cas, you gotta get me out of here, I – I went too far, I can't do it, I can't do it –"
The familiar face glances down at the stained hand grabbing the coat, then peers at him expressionlessly; Dean suddenly remembers that angels are so very far from human. "Did you obtain any answers?"
"He doesn't know," Dean replies. "Okay? He doesn't know anything. Now please, I – can we, can we leave, I have to get out of here –"
The blue gaze flickers to the demon's, barely seem to flinch at the awful sight. "Are you sure?"
"It's torture, you asshole," he snaps, his knuckles white as they clutch harder to Castiel. "I'm as sure as anyone can be."
Castiel almost turns stonier, if that's possible. "I asked if you were sure."
He gapes, uncomprehending. "Cas, I just told you, there's –"
The shorter angel almost manages to loom over him, eyes glinting dangerously in the artificial light as they pin Dean down. "The truth, Dean. Which demon did it? How did they do it?"
"It wasn't a demon," he says. "He would have told me."
"That's impossible," Castiel growls at him. "He must have fooled you!"
"I am pretty good at foolin'," Alistair chimes in helpfully.
The fuse in Dean's head shortens and splutters out – before exploding. "You son of a bitch," he says slowly, in disbelief. "After all I've done for you. This is how you repay me?"
"It must be a lie, Dean, that's the only explanation. It makes no sense otherwise."
He lets the angel go, takes a couple of steps back. "If you didn't even trust me, if you can't even believe what I tell you, why'd you have me do it?"
Castiel blinks at him, as if something new suddenly attracted his notice. "Of course I trust you," he replies.
But Dean's not listening. "You're right," he realizes aloud. "It doesn't make sense - none of it does. You're angels, you're all-powerful, so why would you – why would you need a human to do your dirty work? Unless..." he trails off, hands falling slack to his sides as he feels the blood leave his head. "Unless you didn't need me. Unless you didn't need me at all."
"No," the angel protests. "No, that's not –"
Bile rises up his throat. He stumbles until he reaches the table. "Oh my God," he whispers, staring down blankly at the bloodied tools – the goddamn supplies. "I handed you my sanity on a goddamn platter."
He shouldn't have agreed. It wasn't worth this. Nothing is worth this.
"Dean –"
He straightens, face hardening. "Get me out of here," he says quietly, his every word rigid and brittle. "And then leave me the fuck alone. We're done, you an me." He turns, meets the angel's confused gaze evenly. "I don't ever want to see you again."
"Dean," Castiel starts saying, and then his eyes widen. "Dean!"
Dean barely has a chance to frown before he's lifted off his feet.
By his neck.
"You should talk to your plumber," Alistair purrs in his ear.
His head meets the wall, and for a moment – he doesn't know how long – the world disappears.
0000
He comes back to himself with a cough and a groan, puts his hands to his bleeding forehead. It hurts.
Alistair is chuckling in the background. "So you're the prick he's cheating on me with?" he drawls. "You ain't that pretty."
"I don't understand," Dean hears Castiel mutter to himself. "How did you break free?"
"Hm, good question. Seems I have friends in high places."
Dean stumbles to his feet. His head feels funny. He nearly falls, catches himself on the table.
Noises. Fighting. He has to save Cas.
Breathless: "What does that mean?"
"Figure it out yourself, you goddamn dinosaur."
Someone screams.
Castiel.
His hands grasp along the table, settle on a hook and a pry bar. He throws the hook and comes at Alistair with the pry bar, but the demon barely seems to acknowledge it except to throw his hand out and force Dean back to the floor.
"Like roaches, you two. Now, I really, really wish I knew how to kill you, but I suppose I'll settle for sending you back to heaven. When you find out how whoever it is did it, lemme know, okay? Sharing is caring, and all that."
The world's a blur. He stares at the ceiling. It's flickering blue.
Maybe he deserves this.
"Bye-bye."
No, he definitely deserves this.
"Now as for you, my dear."
A hand grabs his jacket, heaves him up.
"You're just so precious, I want to take you with me. Why waste all that lovely potential, I say."
His head rattles to the side. He coughs.
"What do you think, if you die will you go back to hell? Heaven won't take you now, I'm pretty sure. Not after what you did to poor Dr. Appleton."
It's getting harder and harder to breathe.
"Or maybe I shouldn't take the chance? Hm? Speak up, darlin', I'd like to hear your opinion. My goonies should be here any moment now, better let me know before they have a turn at you."
He's not too clear on what happens. Maybe he blacks out. All he knows is that between one second and the next Alistair must have let him go, because he's suddenly on the ground, breathing with his nose against cement.
"Oho, what's this? A two for one deal? Sorry, bucko, you're not really my type."
He turns his head, licks his lips. Struggles to sit up, prop himself against the wall.
"Really, kid? You think you can send me back? You, with your paltry parlor tricks, you think you can send me back?"
"I think I can kill you."
"Please. I don't care how much juice you got, you're not nearly strong –" a strangled yell. Someone's being choked. Dean recognizes the signs.
A flash of light.
"Aren't I?"
0000
Dean's head is drooping forward, legs laid out lifelessly in front of him.
He stares at them blankly. They don't quite look like they belong anywhere.
Not to him, at least.
But he has them. Feet. Teeth. They're all still there.
"Dean? You okay?"
Dean. That's him.
He struggles to move his head.
"No, no, come on, please be okay –"
There's a fuzzy shadow crouching over him. It looks like a large man with long brown hair and big eyes, almost recognizable but for the blood smeared around his mouth.
There's blood smeared around his mouth.
Something leaks into his mouth, tasting of copper –
Dean can't breathe.
"What, what's that look for –" the man starts to ask, and then stops. The man swallows, slowly puts a hand to his chin, looks down at it as it comes back a bright bright crimson.
The man's face turns pale. He looks up again, meeting Dean's eyes.
They stare at each other.
"...Shit," Sam says.
A/N: Thanks again so much to all the reviewers/readers from the last chapter. I just realized this fic is over a hundred thousand words... which is far more than I ever thought it would reach! You guys deserve all the applause for making it this far - and for bothering to keep going. :) I have no words, except to let you know that I really, really appreciate it.
(Note: The song Alistair butchers is from While Strolling Through the Park One Day. I thought it was appropriate.)
