The corridors of Hell didn't conform to the standards or physical laws of the world above. They wrapped around one another at odd angles, in impractical directions that formed them into a confusing, tangled maze. The risk of becoming hopelessly lost, or wandering too near something best not encountered, kept most demons content to remain on the paths they knew well. These halls existed as a twisted parody of human structures just as those who inhabited them existed as a twisted parody of humanity.
Beyond the walls, built just as much as a defense as a prison, lay the wild, untamed chaos of Hell. There, barren plains of blasted and broken rock shifted constantly against one another, forcing harsh points and sharp edges up at haphazard angles. Storms of torrential winds swept sands up into choking clouds that erode the rock away, loosing lava flows that consumed whatever couldn't escape them. The sands thus entrapped would congeal back to vast rock sheets and the cycle would continue, unbroken, unchanging.
The creatures that prowled these wastes, some of God's worst, most irredeemable mistakes, or maybe just the natural byproduct of a realm so dark and foul, had never known life or light. They simply existed with no drive but to prolong that existence and to end anything that might threaten it.
Only the most powerful of demons would brave the lands outside the bastion of the walls. Azazel, it was said, had traversed the furthest reaches in his search for Lucifer's prison. This was a fantastic claim, far easier to doubt than to embrace, but those who doubted the tales did well not to say so.
Alastair, having use in his craft of things with bites sharp and poisons caustic, things, like himself, devoid of empathy or pity, would periodically venture into the wilds. Hapless conscripts, impressed into the task of trapping and collecting specimens of the vermin of Hell's out-lands never returned with him. No one would inquire as to the specifics of their fates. Such was an excellent way to secure an "invitation" to find answers firsthand on the next expedition.
On occasion, some demon or damned soul would transgress so grievously as to be cast beyond the walls, banished among the savage malcreations. Only instinct drove those mindless things, instincts to survive, to attack without thought, and that every battle was to the death. Those thus banished never returned, and thus their stories were never told. Instead, grisly speculations as to their fates became whispered gossipings that, repeated often enough, morphed in time into legend, cautionary tales preaching the lesson that even Hell itself can always be worse.
A new oddity now dwelt in these savage lands. Something never before seen in the wilderness of Hell had claimed for its own a small cave, hardly more than a shallow crevice in a craggy cliff face. The creeping and slithering hell-born shied from it, giving its territory a wide berth. The greater routine continued largely unchanged, the land perpetually destroying and rebuilding itself. Conflict still raged, beasts rent at one another with fang and claw, pierced with venomous stings, sprayed with toxic mists, but never too near the cave where sheltered the new unknown.
In all of Hell, only one demon knew about any of this.
XXXXX
Alastair's sole purpose in Azazel's plan had been to break the critical first seal. With this task completed, the Prince had no further use for and therefore, very little interest in the other demon. There were more seals to break, a new vessel was needed, and there was the ongoing conflict with the family of nosy, human hunters to attend to. Most of Hell's resources had been redirected towards these endeavors.
This pleased the torture master, now freed from distractions to return to his own pursuits.
Azazel, of course, had been livid at the loss of his pet, but the first seal had been broken, as promised, which had tempered his anger quite a bit. A few well spoken words had been sufficient for Alastair to escape any retribution.
Ava, he had explained, had been embarrassingly easily overcome, by a mere human, one that had been beaten down and half broken. Her death had been no great loss. Would Azazel truly have relished going before Lucifer with so pitiful an offering? So much better that he had narrowly avoided invoking the wrathful disappointment of the lord and father of all demon kind.
The Prince had seen the wisdom in this. As with anything of no further use to him, he quickly lost interest in Ava, turning his attention towards securing a suitable replacement. The risky gambit had paid off. Alastair knew he would have to tread lightly for a time. Azazel could become less occupied and prone to boredom, but for now, Alastair was content that his position was stable enough for comfort.
Dean was another thing that was of no further use to the Prince. He had done what he'd been brought to Hell to do and had been likewise cast aside. Alastair was now free to proceed with him as he wished, unrestrained by the pressure to produce requisite results within unrealistic time frames.
It had all worked out rather nicely.
Dean had played his part brilliantly, surpassing the demon's expectations. The murderous rage incited by Ava's tauntings had been predictable, certain even. The exacting detail that Dean had employed in enhancing her suffering, that had been a glorious bonus and a thing of beauty for the elder demon to watch, the perfect blend of animal savagery and calculating sadism. The boy had taken a few more lessons away from the rack than the demon had realized.
In the brief moment that the two had locked eyes over Ava's butchered remains, Alastair had seen something new there. Some primal, deep part of this human's soul had been loosed. He had known, in that moment, that Dean would not panic. There would be no breaking down into desperate apologies for his crime, nor frantic pleas for mercy. He had expected threats, possibly even an earnest but futile attack.
Dean had continued to intrigue. His dash for the room's door had been a fool's choice with no hope of success. Alastair, who could have frozen him mid-stride with a thought, had chosen to allow it, curious how far his dog could run if allowed to slip his leash.
Impressively far, as it turned out.
Hiding had never been a realistic option. The brilliance of Dean's soul stood out in Hell like a torch on a moonless night. He could be seen for miles, but in proximity, the average demon could scarcely manage a glimpse in his direction, a decided disadvantage for them in combat. The human had two meager assets at his disposal, his blinding visage and the stolen demon blade. The trail of missing demons cutting through the halls of Hell indicated that he had quickly adapted to making effective use of both.
Half true tales of Hell's newest threat had begun working their way through the ranks of the lowest, lesser rabble, many of whom were taking precautions to avoid encountering "the Winchester", some claiming to have seen him and survived. Alastair didn't bother involving himself in the evolution of Hell's pedestrian mythology. Let the expendables keep themselves frightened into submission. He knew that Dean currently posed no threat to any demon, but the growing legend held no interest for him.
Thus far, he had let Dean run, knowing that the constant fear of recapture ran every step with him. It would be all the sweeter when, well seasoned by a taste of hope and freedom, he was drug back to the rack, hopes dashed into the dust of disappointment.
But, Alastair would be patient, wait for just the right time. Azazel was well distracted by his new toys, which meant no further interference with his own artistic vision. The torture master was determined that now, the soul of Dean Winchester would be handled properly, in a manner befitting so worthy a canvas.
XXXXX
In most ways, the cave wasn't so different than the cell had been. It was damp, uncomfortable, and consisted of unchanging stone walls. It differed in the one way that mattered. Dean could leave it whenever he chose.
The world outside his primitive shelter was a harsh one. The jagged rock ground had to be traversed carefully lest a misstep and fall result in an array of punctures and gashes. The air was hot and heavy, thick with the reek of rotten egg. Overhead hung the web, perpetually refilling with fresh damned souls. Their screams never ceased. Mercifully, it had become, for Dean, background noise, the sort you hear without being aware of, and it no longer grated against him as it had at first.
All this aside, it was a world that changed, that moved according to its own unearthly laws, and he was free to venture into it, to watch the movement, whenever the walls of the cave became too still or began to close in.
There was nothing for him outside. The infertile ground was incapable of growing food that he didn't need. Standing pools of stagnate water would have been undrinkable even if he could feel thirst. The land itself and the creatures that roamed it offered nothing but the threat of injury or worse. Yet without the ventures into the open, the cave was just as much a prison as the cell had been, even without bars. Sometimes he forced himself out into the open to reassure himself that he could do it, others he was driven to flee, to escape the suffocating feel off the stone walls.
Initially, the fear of discovery and recapture had haunted him. Constantly paranoid that something must be stalking up from whichever direction he wasn't looking, he had lived with his eyes always darting about and his head whipping one way or the other, trying to leave no potential approach unguarded.
Time eased the anxiety. He hadn't seen a demon since leaving the walled bastion of populated Hell. The last one had bargained its life for guidance to the out-land gate and that one wouldn't be telling anyone anything. He had made sure of it. Dusted demons didn't leave corpses, and that one had long since been scattered by the winds. He could be confident that no trail remained that could lead to him.
All that lived out here, if lived was the right word, were misformed accidents of creation, gruesome mimicries of creatures already nasty in their Earthly forms. Snakes, in his opinion, were creepy enough without extra heads or human like faces. He hated the snakes the most, although the rats caused the most difficulties, being both clever and plentiful.
Most of these monsters shied from him. Those that hadn't lay rotting where they fell, serving as signposts, grim warnings to anything thinking about growing too bold that his territory was to be respected.
Stripped of all basic needs and motivations his primal instinct for survival had grown to fill the void. Every instant free of the pain was like a personal Heaven that he had carved out of this small corner of Hell. He would hold on to it, whatever it took.
He had adapted to the rhythm of his new world. He knew the edge that coming storm honed into the wind, could identify most hell-born, sight unseen, by sound or sign. Most important, he knew the rules.
Stay hidden.
Kill anything that got too curious.
Keep the dagger sharp, clean, and ready.
One of the few things he didn't fully understand was the lights. The first time they had appeared, streaking out of the sky, or at least from upwards, where the sky should have been, like clusters of falling stars, his response had been fear. In a world where everything was some level of threat, something new and unknown was cause for concern. He had sprinted for the cover of his den, a sound like the protest of buckling metal loud in his ears.
The showering lights passed through the web. Behind the trail of their shrieks, the wails of the trapped souls rose to a fevered pitch, an insane level that Dean had never heard before, making him aware of them for the first time in a long time.
His pounding footsteps reached his refuge and he dove inside. Crouched at the opening, knife clutched tightly at the ready, he waited, resolved to fight with all he had should anything cross his threshold. He watched and listened as best he could from the limited vantage of his hiding spot.
The cacophony of scraping metallic squeals continued. In the noise, he imagined that he could make out something almost like words, language, maybe one he didn't understand. Maybe it had just been so long since he had heard any voice but his own that he couldn't tell anymore.
Nothing came. Nothing crashed exploding into the landscape or manifested into a new description defying horror come to visit fresh torments upon him. After hours, days, he didn't know, his sense of time was so hopelessly broken, the lights returned, this time shooting upwards, like rockets into a dark July sky.
He didn't emerge until the ghost of the sound had stopped echoing in his head. He carefully checked the area around the cave mouth, meticulously inspecting everything, until he was able to convince himself that all was still well in his private corner of Hell.
The visitations continued on an irregular basis after that, each time descending from a different part of the "sky". Dean had no idea what they might be, but it seemed that they had nothing to do with him. Some previously unknown hell monster or a part of the natural local weather, no ill effect had befallen him as a result of the showers. It was comforting, in its way, that there was at least one thing in this damned place that wasn't trying to kill him.
He began to look forward to the displays, missing them when it had been a long time since the last one, and wishing that they had shown some sort of consistent pattern so that he might know when the next might come. Despite the ear splitting noise, he could lose himself in watching the one beautiful thing he had found here. For those short times, he could forget where he was, and that he could never leave. For Hell, that was as good as it got.
XXXXX
Crouched on the narrow rock outcrop, Dean watched with hard, steely eyes. Below him, the scorpion beast picked its way across the uneven ground on spiky, multi-sectioned legs. It had ignored the silent warnings issued by the scattered corpses of its kin. Now, it would join them.
It was larger than most, near four feet from the mandibles to the base of the tail. He had to time this perfectly. Drop too soon, he'd land in front of it, in easy range of the pincers, and it would be all over. Too late, he wouldn't be near anything vital, and the thing could curl around and reach him before he could correct that. The center back, that was his spot, behind the reach of the claws and too close to the tail for it to be of any use.
Not yet, soon, Dean flexed his fingers, adjusting his grip on the knife's handle, making certain he was satisfied with it. No other part of him moved. He had one shot, no margin for error.
Patiently he waited while the plated body made slow but steady progress until it was right below him.
He flung himself from the ledge and plummeted. No going back now.
He landed near perfectly, right on target. The scorpion twisted violently at the surprise attack. High pitched chitters of outrage clicked from its mouth. Snapping wildly, the claws twisted, straining against the limits of their mobility, seeking some path to its back, but Dean was safely beyond their reach.
He wheeled his arm around in a wide arc and plunged the knife into the armored body. The shaft of the blade crunched through the carapace. Thick, rank fluid spurted from the wound.
The hell-born trashed, even more determined to rid itself of its assailant. The tail, long and whip like, unfurled itself and lashed forward to coil around Dean's torso like a constrictor.
It took him by surprise. He'd thought it was just for lashing, hadn't known it was prehensile. He put his shoulder into driving the blade in to the hilt. The tail pulled at him, trying to dislodge him from his perch. He strained against it. There was no sense in trying to free himself from the tangles. It was too strong. He'd lose. He either killed the beast before it pulled him free, or he lost this fight, no other way.
Putting his weight into it, he leveraged the hilt to an angle. Under the chitinous armor, the knife rent its way through the soft, protected tissue. More brackish ooze, dark, almost black, spilled out, making everything it covered slippery, but somehow, Dean held on to the knife's handle, twisting and turning at it, stabbing with sharp thrusts. The tail struggled, dragging him by inches across the creature's back. It screamed, the sound loud with outrage and shrill with pain.
Dean stabbed again. With a final heave, the plated body shuddered into stillness. The tail slackened, loosening and hanging around him like a piece of rope that he shrugged away. His lips curled up into a predatory grin of satisfaction. It had been a good kill.
"Very impressive," said a cold, monotone from behind him.
His head whipped around. It couldn't be. "Alastair," the name grated over his tongue in a hoarse whisper.
"You remember." Alastair mused unpleasantly, stepping forward to close the distance between them, "That's touching. I remember, too. We have so much lost time to make up for, don't we?"
Dean shrank back from the advancing demon. Dark memories howled into his head, drowning out everything else. A shaky, barely audible, "no" squeezed out of him as he scrambled back across the jagged ground. Splintered rock gouged fresh wounds into him, unnoticed as this old returned horror demanded the whole of his attention.
"Come on now, Dean," the demon scolded him, continuing to advance, "you've had your fun. Now it's time to get back to paying your debt." He stopped at the fallen scorpion's carcass and drew the abandoned knife from it with a slow, wet, schlick. He examined the muck coated blade briefly before turning menacing eyes towards the cowering human.
A disembodied soul, Dean had no heart to pound, no lungs to gasp deep, desperate breaths, no pulse to race. His terror washed freely through him, unfettered by physical restraints, until it felt as if the fear was all that was left of him.
The quake that shook the landscape shocked him back to his sense. His arm flew protectively over his face against the shower of shrapneled debree that rained down around him. The eruption had sent a thick cloud of dust billowing up into the air. Peering through the haze, Dean could make out the shape of the demon rising back to his feet.
From far of, sporadic explosions thundered, each one reverberating through the ground, setting it atremble. Dean's eyes darted around the chaos, trying to seek out a direction to flee. He didn't know the cause of the sudden distraction, but that was a worry for later, assuming he could manage to have a later.
Out of the sky, or maybe from everywhere, it was hard to tell, a deep voice boomed, "WHERE IS HE?"
Dean wasn't near enough to Alastair to see the tinge of fear that bled into the demon's eyes, nor to hear the whispered, "No, it can't be." Had he been, he wouldn't have had time to fully consider the implications of these expressions before the voice sounded again.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM?" The question was punctuated with another explosion that shook the ground like ripples in a pond. Alastair was again thrown from his feet. Another rain of broken rock pelted down around them.
Faintly, from far of, but rapidly growing louder, closer, came a now familiar sound. Dean's eyes flicked spontaneously upwards, expecting to see the strange skylights descending, but the web and the canopy above it were just as dark and empty as usual. Instead, a single ball of blazing light rose like a sun on the horizon.
It crashed across Hell's landscape, gouging a deep furrow of destruction in its wake. Rock, bone, and fleeing creature alike disintegrated and disappeared into the dust plume that swirled around the white hot blaze as it pierced like an arrow across Hell, closing in on what had been, until so recently, Dean's sanctuary.
With wide eyes, the human soul watched the light's arrival, too overwhelmed by now to do anything else. It was all swirling patterns and geometric shapes, moving and yet still, solid but not. Under the powerful waves wafting off of it Dean's painful memories crumbled and seemed to melt.
The impossible thing shimmered and collapsed in on itself, shrinking down into the semblance of a man. It wasn't a specific man Dean could recognize, not even an entirely human form, just a shape that could be described as roughly humanoid.
"Dean Winchester," the words were not spoken, not heard. They just were, as if the experience of having heard them had simply been created out of nothing and deposited in Dean's awareness. He nodded numbly.
"It is past time that you leave this place."
"You can't do this!" barked Alastair's voice, reminding Dean of the demon's presence, "There's a clear contract on Dean here. You're breaking your own rules, you self righteous…" the rest choked off into a mangled garble.
"Be silent, Demon."
Dean scrambled to his feet and stumbled back, away from them both.
"Fear, I suppose that is understandable. You have endured much."
"Yeah, and I'm getting kind of sick of it." Dean snapped back at the unspoken words, snark and sarcasm the only weapon or defense left available to him.
"You have no need to fear me, Dean."
Dean personally saw plenty of need. His eyes cast about the freshly broken rubble that littered the ground, hoping to find a piece the right size and shape for use as some sort of weapon. It was a pointless, hopeless plan, but damned if he was going were ever this weird alien freak, or whatever it was planning on taking him, without a fight.
There was confusion. Like the words that hadn't been, the feeling spontaneously created itself in Dean's perception.
"Shall I destroy this one for you?" An arm raised to indicate Alastair where he stood, held by something unseen. "It would be what, I believe, humans would call, a gift. That will make my intentions clear. Then you will understand."
The suggestion sent a surge of vengeful excitement coursing through Dean. He didn't understand most of what the light/man had said past "destroy Alastair" He hadn't even really bothered to listen.
He didn't have time to respond, or even savor the idea. His emotional response must have been all the answer that was deemed necessary. A scream, inhuman and unnerving, forced its way out of the demon's throat. His visage wavered, flickering and rippling as it grew larger, but also fading into transparency. Every microbe of his being drew away from every other, rending him into dust over slowly passing seconds.
The scream continued though out and lingered on the wind, even after it had taken all that was left of the demon off to become the newest addition to Hell's ever shifting landscape. Dean couldn't tear his eyes away, horrified by the sight, and yet, rapt with an unapologetic, vengeful glee at the demon's torturous demise.
"Who? What?" he turned to face the mysterious entity. Complete questions wouldn't form in his mind, much less managed to find their way to his voice.
"You can not comprehend my true name. In the place and time familiar to you, I am called by the name Michael."