"I don't like this plan." the yellow eyes, devoid, as they always were, of any hint of emotion were more than compensated for by his countenance. It was not hard to tell when the reigning Price of Hell was displeased. "Do you know the work I've put in on this job? The time it took?" he hammered at his point.

Alastair resisted the urge to roll his eyes. No sense in provoking further dramatics. "Time," he observed calmly, "it's all about the time, isn't it? Your time table is fine. You picked a winner out of your first lottery. You, my friend, are way ahead of schedule. If you would allow me the time I need to do my job properly, this plan wouldn't be necessary at all. But, it's all about the time, so if you want faster, this is the way."

"And if it goes wrong?" Azazel challenged, "Then we're right back at the starting gate." His eyes would have sharpened if they were able, "Do I need to spell out what that would mean for you?"

Alastair silently dismissed the threat. It was true that the Prince was one of the few demons more powerful than himself. It was also true that there was more to Hell than brute force. Hell was a game of move and counter move and Alastair trusted that it was a game that he played with greater mastery. Centuries that Azazel had wasted, distracted by his fanatical search, absent from his throne more often than not, Alastair had spent securing his position, amassing his own cadre of acolytes. No move the Prince could realistically make against him would be likely to rise above the level of petty annoyance. "Nothing will go wrong." he evenly assured the other demon. "The prophecy only requires that blood be shed. Once that is done, he can easily be pulled back. The girl will suffer no lasting damage."

"She'd better not." Azazel threatened darkly. He really didn't like this plan, at all.

XXXXX

Dean didn't know how long he's been locked in the cell. In isolation, with nothing with which to gauge the passage of time, there was no way to even hazard a guess with any hope of accuracy. Had he been alive, the arrival of an occasional meal might have provided some point of reference, an assurance that time was, in fact, passing. As it was, he couldn't really be certain that it even was.

He'd been taken from the rack and dumped here, like an unused piece of furniture put into storage. The worst of his injuries had been healed, anything that would have proven fatal if he could actually die. The minor ones had been left to mend on there own. While it had lasted, the fading of bruises and the closing of wounds had given him some sense of the stretch of seconds into minutes, hours into days.

Now, no one came and nothing changed. It didn't matter that the box of a cell had no window because there was no sun or moon to mark the change of day into night. Were there even days and nights in hell? He didn't know.

All he had known since his arrival had been the continuous tortures, pain extreme and constant except for the times he'd been healed, Alastair cleaning the slate, providing a fresh surface on which to craft his next psychotic rendering.

Those were brief moments of relief that Dean had learned to cling to, keeping the memory alive as long as he could against the sensations of whatever fresh horror was visited upon him. He'd sustain himself, as best he could, through the torment with the knowledge that relief would come. Short lived thought it may be, eventually, Alastair would want a new beginning on some different assault on Dean's soul, and for a glorious, all too brief moment, he would be whole and healthy.

In its way, the cell was worse than the rack. The pain was at least expected. He knew what was coming. His circumstance had a consistency that had become an anchor of sorts, given him a certainty about his future. There was no worry about nasty surprises or debates about the best course of action. Those concerns were part of a life he'd left behind, the result of the last decision he'd ever made, the last decision he'd ever be allowed.

Here, however, there was nothing but concern. Without the immediate threat of skin or bone about to be broken by some device too sick and twisted to have been conceived of by humankind, the uncertainty of what was coming was its own kind of torment. The routine had changed, and now, he had no idea what to expect, or when. He just knew, whatever he was waiting for, it couldn't possibly be good.

In weaker moments, he almost wished to be back on the rack. At least there, things made sense. He knew the rules. Sporadic breaks in the maddening pain would be short and beyond his ability to control. There was nothing he could do to earn them. They were not a reward, just an essential part of the process that happened as Alastair required. All he could do was draw strength from the previous one while he held out til the next, simple.

This break though, it could last all the rest of eternity for all he knew, but that could never be any comfort. Any moment it could end and he would never know which might be the last moment of peace for him. Unlike the rack, where he knew his freedom from the pain would be short, maybe only seconds, and he could indulge fully in reveling in those precious ticks of the clock, here the conflict of the desire for something to happen and the fear that something might wouldn't allow him to ever truly relax. Given the choice, would he willingly return to the rack? He didn't know anymore. But that didn't matter. He didn't get choices anymore. Those were the rules.

Wishing he could think about something else, he curled himself into the now familiar corner. He'd discovered, quite by accident, that if he sat just right, craned his neck at just the right angle, he could barely make out a torch that burned down the hallway. The find had thrilled him at first, bringing with it the thought that eventually it would burn out, need replacing. Someone would come. Something would happen!

He'd watched it faithfully, determined to learn how long it would take for it to burn itself to nothingness and thus gain a means of marking time in his unchanging eternity. It had been with bitter disappointment and deep reluctance that he'd eventually had to accept that while it burned, it didn't consume. It was just eternal, like everything else in this god forsaken, black hole of a hell.

But, it moved, at least it moved. It changed and that was all he had, watching the dance of the flame and the shadows it sent flitting across the wall as he recited Black Sabbath lyrics to himself. In his weakest moments, it kept him from breaking, from howling into the dark corridor with pleas to be taken from this everlasting moment of uncertainty and returned to the bite of the blade and the burn of the brand, to be allowed to exist again, even if that existence was only pain.

It kept him from breaking...so far.

XXXXX

Who knew what kind of new horror Hell might be keeping hidden behind a closed door. Dean would have liked to have believed that he'd been prepared for anything. His experiences thus far had been ample enough that he knew the nature of Hell. Pain was no surprise, only the variety of it held any mystery. He'd become well schooled in the distinctions of an incision versus a gash, a slow burn versus an abrupt one. Dean doubted by now that there was any kind of agony that would be new to him. Alastair had been inexhaustible in both his creativity and the time he was willing to devote to his art.

The demon escort had not been talkative as the pair traversed the corridors from Dean's isolated cell, not even acknowledging his questions. When shoved roughly through the doorway Dean had tried to brace himself, fully aware that an assault on his senses could, probably would, explode on him just by passing the threshold.

Discovering himself in a sparsely furnished, pretty boring room was, quite frankly, anti-climatic.

It was finding the room occupied by Alastair that unsettled him. His brain tripped over its confusion and the demon had to shove him again to get him moving deeper inside. This wasn't the way it worked. He got trussed up like the first victim in a bad 70s horror film and Alastair came to him, some sadistic tool at hand with which to drive him closer to madness. He did not go to Alastair, certainly not unrestrained, able to at least attempt some futile form of resistance or defense. This wasn't right. There were rules, a routine. He felt an uneasy panic rising in him without understanding why.

Nervously he glanced about, looking for the even more sinister device that he was sure must be housed here. The only furnishings, however, seemed to be a single chair and a small table. It made no sense and a cold, prickly feeling crept up from his stomach. There were rules.

At a nod from Alastair, he was pushed into the chair. He offered only the barest resistance, his mind struggling to process that, so far, he hadn't been hurt, that his surroundings included no imminent threat that he could see.

"Dean," Alastair spoke, "I want to thank you for joining me."

"You make it sound as if I had a choice." Dean ventured. What the hell, whatever was going on, it wasn't like there was any way he could make it any worse, right? Might as well take his digs where he could since it wouldn't matter anyway, "What's with the break in the regularly scheduled programming?"

Alastair regarded him wordlessly, causing him to debate the wisdom of having mouthed off. "When we resume, we must work on your manners." Alastair scolded him.

"But, that will have to keep." the torture master continued as he moved towards a door opposite the one through which Dean had entered, "Right now, I have a surprise for you. I think you'll like it."

Dean flinched when the door was opened. Whatever he'd been waiting for was about to happen, and he doubted that he'd agree with Alastair about liking it. Suddenly, forever alone and unharnessed didn't seem so bad.

Hell born monstrosities hatched by Dean's imagination did nothing to prepare him for the arrival of what was an, apparently, human girl. She was short and a bit full figured, with a round face that made her look like the grown up version of a Cabbage Patch Doll. Dean watched wearily as she emerged through the now open door to survey the room with bored disinterest.

"Dean," Alastair addressed him, "this is Ava. I felt it was important that the two of you meet considering that Ava is the one that killed your brother. Isn't that right, my dear?"

The initial shock froze him for a period of time too short to really measure. Then the rage rose, brushing it aside. He launched himself out of the chair with a cry that could more accurately be called a snarl, the primal noise of an animal whose instinct was prodding it towards the kill. He'd barely risen when he was slammed back sitting with enough force to drive the chair back a few inches.

"Did I?" Ava asked, unconcerned about the commotion, "I don't remember. I had to kill a lot of people before it was all over."

"I'm sure you'd remember Sam." Alastair prompted her, "He was one of the last batch, the very tall boy."

"Oh, him," Ava responded dismissively after a moment thought, "Yeah, I remember." She turned to face Dean, "I remember that his size had me worried. I almost took him out before he woke up, but the rules said that everybody had to get a fair shot at the title. I was going to do him as soon as he woke up, squeak by on a technicality, but the mousy, little bundle of nerves was walking up on us. I didn't want to tip my hand, so he got to live another couple of hours. I shouldn't have worried. For such a big guy, he went down easy. He was actually kind of a pussy."

"You bitch!" Dean yelled, struggling against the inadvisable bonds.

"Easy there, Dean," Alastair cautioned him. The razor sharp blade that the demon brandished in his face filled his range of vision. The freshly sharpened twin edges invoked memories and made silent promises. Dean shrank back from it, all too aware of what Alastair was capable of doing with such a tool, and exactly what it would feel like.

"This will probably be your only chance to ever hear the whole story." Alastair continued, "It'd be a shame if I had to take your tongue to keep you from interrupting.

Dean had been taught better than to think there was any chance that the threat was an idle one. He flinched instinctively when the point flicked lightly at his jaw. It barely broke the skin, not much more than shaving nick, but the psychological impact could not be denied.

Dean's anger still burned, hot and hungry for bloody vengeance, but the fear that had been trained into him was a lot to overcome. If only there was something he could do...but there wasn't. His body sagged as he allowed himself to accept it. There was no sense in getting all cut up for no reason.

"That's a good boy." Alastair praised him. Dean couldn't bring himself to look up, not until he heard the thunk of the dagger being stabbed into the wooden tabletop drew his attention. There it sat, serving as a grim reminder for him to mind his manners, but also mocking him by being just beyond his reach, letting him stew over the thoughts of just what he could do with it, if only he were able to get himself free.

"You were saying, Ava?" the demon invited her to continue, and just like that, the moment was over, whatever opportunity that may have existed gone because he had not acted quickly enough.

Ava resumed her tale, enjoying being the center of all the attention, "Now the soldier guy, what was his name? Jack? Something like that, he was a challenge. Must have been the Army training. He knew how to sneak and hide. And smart, once he figured out that iron would make the acheri go poof, he had a real shot, all holed up in that booby trapped bunker of his. Too bad for him all that Superman strength wasn't going help him against a hellhound. He never saw it coming."

Dean didn't get the joke and Alastair found it banal, so Ava was alone in her laughter. It faded uncomfortably when she realized. Not happy about that she met Dean's eye before vindictively moving on with her narrative. "Your brother though, what was his name? Stan? I never bothered to find out. He was easy. Let the acheri run right up on him, even after he saw what it was. Just froze like a deer in the headlights. Stupid, wanna-be, do-gooder traded in his bleeding heart for an actual bleeding heart."

Again she laughed at her own joke, but this one mutated into a startled squeal, that largely got lost in the clatter of the table flying across the room. Dean was somehow on his feet, the demon's dagger in his hand. He closed on her, his eye's sharp with the glint of a predator.

Ava backpedaled clumsily away from his approach, haughty arrogance replaced with confused panic. This was not what she had been told to expect. With her attacker almost on her, she frantically threw her arms up protectively. Dean slashed with the dagger which, honed to a fine edge, sliced neatly into her forearm. Blood well up quickly to fill the shallow wound.

Off in the distance, something like the roll of a kettle drum amplified into a deep rumble of thunder. The sound grew until the reverberations shook the walls of the room and pounded within the chests of everyone in it. Under their feet, the floor shivered and then heaved upward, like the final gasp of a dying animal.

Bracing himself against the wall, where he'd stood discreetly watching the proceedings, Dean's demon guard recognized his cue to act. He raised his hand, ready to slap his charge back on the invisible leash. The cloud of black smoke that appeared where he had stood dispersed quickly.

The noise built to a crescendo of a crack like the fissuring of stone, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Dean regained his footing. He didn't care about the eruption or what may have caused it. Only the hunt in front of him held any meaning. He continued his advance. Ava, eyes wide with disbelieving fear, shrank back from him.

"Stop him!" she screeched at Alastair, "Do you know who I am?" A surprised squeak announced that her back had found the wall. While trying to dart to the side she made another desperate appeal to the demon, "I order you to…" the rest was cut off when Dean's hand shot out, taking hold of her throat, pinning her to the wall behind her.

"You are no one who can issue orders to me." Alastair informed her coldly. He trusted that the Prince would understand his message. Alastair would not tolerate being pushed, by anyone.

Strangled protest tried to force their way through her constricted windpipe as her feet scrambled beneath her, looking for purchase on a floor she could barely reach with the tips of her toes. Her hands clawed uselessly at Dean's arm, trying to free herself.

Leaning in, Dean brought himself face to face with his brother's killer. Nothing mattered, not Alastair, or Hell, or any price to be paid somewhere down the road. He would have this moment. To hell with whatever came after.

He indulged in the sight of her, struggling ineffectively in his grasp. "His name," he said, taking care to pronounce each word slowly and precisely, "was Sam."

With that, he thrust the dagger up sharply. It pierced smoothly into her belly, severing skin and muscle and driving easily into the vital tings that lay beneath.

A gurgling, pained cry stuttered out of her. Dean could feel it as it vibrated against his palm, fighting its way past the obstruction. Every sensation was like a caress to his senses, the sound of her cries, the warm, sticky feel of her blood running wet over his fingers, the glorious, glorious smell of her fear. It wasn't enough, not by half.

His lip twitched back into a vicious sneer and he wrenched the blade sharply to one side inside of her. Acid from her ruptured stomach and sliced intestines spilled into her system. Fresh waves of burning pain made her body spontaneously curl up on itself.

The wound gushed, spilling blood, and fluid. Red dots sprinkled on the floor at their feet like a macabre confetti and then were lost in the growing blot.

Dean twisted the already hilt deep dagger, jamming it in deeper. The ragged, torn flesh pressed against his hand, warm and tacky with blood. Ava's scream was choked off by the fluid that rushed to fill her windpipe. She gagged on it, and it gurgled out, crimson over her lips.

Dean moved in, the same move that in another place, under other circumstances, would have been seductive. His lips almost touching her ear he whispered to her, "Sam Winchester." He didn't care enough to even consider whether she was still coherent enough to understand. "And you're going to remember it for the rest of your life." he growled.

A spasm of coughs wracked through her, spraying blood across his cheek. Something dark in him howled its approval.

He pulled away from her, pausing to examine the broken thing under his hand, barely clinging to life, too weak to struggle further. Desperate eyes made pleas for mercy that her voice could no longer manage.

Slowly, savoring it, he closed his hand on her throat, letting his fingers dig in to the soft flesh. He leaned forward, letting his weight come to bear on her neck, watched the panic in her eyes until the satisfying pop of her airway splintering and crushing under his hand. The life went out of her and Dean soaked it all up with bestial glee.

He let the body fall at his feet and looked down at with contempt. The would be Queen of Hell lay, a mangled and broken toy, in a pool of her own blood. Dispassionately Dean wiped the still warm blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. His voice was rough and ragged when he said again, "His name was Sam."