Just another day in Hell
"So tell me, Dean," Alastair wiped bloody spittle from his cheek, then flicked it from his fingers. He leaned in, drawing a blade slowly up Dean's breast bone. "What is it, exactly, that you're holding on for?"
Dean didn't answer, just watched the blade bump against his chest as he heaved for breath, not yet breaking the skin. Alastair had already taken his ears, blocking out all the screams of the other souls, leaving him the illusion that he and his demonic torturer were the only creatures in existence. Alastair flicked the knife point up from Dean's sternum to the point of his chin, forcing Dean's head up.
"No, really, I'm terribly curious." Alastair grinned. Dean could see a bit of his earlobe caught in the demon's teeth. "You don't honestly think someone's going to come get you, do you?"
Dean set his teeth, blurred, impressionistic images of his brother and father and friends flipping through his mind. "Fuck you."
Alastair drove the tip of the knife into the soft tissue just behind the edge of Dean's jaw bone until it broke through behind his bottom teeth and sliced his tongue. "Now, now, we'll have time for that later."
Dean felt blood rush into his mouth and began to choke.
"I mean it, Dean. You were a good man. Sacrifice was your middle name. You've given everything you had, everything you were to your brother and your father since your mother died, and never once asked anything in return." Alastair reached out to rest his hand on the back of Dean's head in a soothing gesture -- that just happened to hold him still as the knife sliced up through his mouth and into his palate. "You don't deserve this." Alastair's face was compassionate, his eyes wide, his fingers strong and sure. A perfect mixture of his brother's look and his father's touch.
Dean gagged and tried to pull away. Alastair yanked the knife free, nearly taking Dean's entire jaw with it.
"And yet you allow yourself to suffer." Alastair tsked and wiped the bloody blade on Dean's thigh. He looked Dean seriously in the eye.
"No one is coming for you, Dean." The knife pressed down into Dean's leg and he bit back a scream. "They're too busy, wasting the lives you gave yours to save. That brother of yours was the worst of course. Do you know what he's capable of? What he's become? You thought he'd go to school, have a life. Sad, really." And Alastair did look sad, his features drooping tragically even as he twisted the knife in the meat of Dean's thigh, drilling the tip into Dean's femur. "Tell me, which way do you think he went? Do you think he drank himself to death? Or do you suppose he decided to give those special powers of his a big. Evil. Hug?"
The knife yanked free, hot blood rushing down over Dean's leg and pooling beneath his feet. Alastair grabbed Dean's ruined jaw and yanked his head up, peering hard into Dean's eyes.
"You're still holding their faces." And Alastair plunged the knife into Dean's right eye up to the hilt and left it there. "You'll break eventually. The longer you hold out, the more it'll hurt when you do."
He shut up, then, simply went about his work in silence, systematically cutting Dean off from his surroundings, from his memories, from everything but Alastair and the pain, and when night fell, he left.
As the night progressed, the tissues making up Dean's corporeal soul began to reknit, putting his body back together one agonizing piece at a time. Only when he was completely whole again did Alastair return, eyes bright and eager for the day's work.
"So what'll it be, kid?" He held out the knife, hilt first, just like every other morning. "You ready to be all you can be?"
And Dean lifted his head, just as he had every other morning. He thought over the pain, like every other morning, and then thought of his brother and his father, and he told Alastair no, like every other morning.
Then, this morning, he smiled, and Alastair's expression clouded over. He didn't bother taking Dean's ears, eyes, and tongue, just tore and cut and broke and carved with renewed fury.
And Dean withstood it, and when the night came he breathed deep the foul stench of the pit and let his lips curve.
Because there in the hot, stinking, bloodied dark, Dean had heard the sound of trumpets.
Maybe his brother, his father, and his friends weren't coming for him.
But something, oh, something was.
Dean didn't answer, just watched the blade bump against his chest as he heaved for breath, not yet breaking the skin. Alastair had already taken his ears, blocking out all the screams of the other souls, leaving him the illusion that he and his demonic torturer were the only creatures in existence. Alastair flicked the knife point up from Dean's sternum to the point of his chin, forcing Dean's head up.
"No, really, I'm terribly curious." Alastair grinned. Dean could see a bit of his earlobe caught in the demon's teeth. "You don't honestly think someone's going to come get you, do you?"
Dean set his teeth, blurred, impressionistic images of his brother and father and friends flipping through his mind. "Fuck you."
Alastair drove the tip of the knife into the soft tissue just behind the edge of Dean's jaw bone until it broke through behind his bottom teeth and sliced his tongue. "Now, now, we'll have time for that later."
Dean felt blood rush into his mouth and began to choke.
"I mean it, Dean. You were a good man. Sacrifice was your middle name. You've given everything you had, everything you were to your brother and your father since your mother died, and never once asked anything in return." Alastair reached out to rest his hand on the back of Dean's head in a soothing gesture -- that just happened to hold him still as the knife sliced up through his mouth and into his palate. "You don't deserve this." Alastair's face was compassionate, his eyes wide, his fingers strong and sure. A perfect mixture of his brother's look and his father's touch.
Dean gagged and tried to pull away. Alastair yanked the knife free, nearly taking Dean's entire jaw with it.
"And yet you allow yourself to suffer." Alastair tsked and wiped the bloody blade on Dean's thigh. He looked Dean seriously in the eye.
"No one is coming for you, Dean." The knife pressed down into Dean's leg and he bit back a scream. "They're too busy, wasting the lives you gave yours to save. That brother of yours was the worst of course. Do you know what he's capable of? What he's become? You thought he'd go to school, have a life. Sad, really." And Alastair did look sad, his features drooping tragically even as he twisted the knife in the meat of Dean's thigh, drilling the tip into Dean's femur. "Tell me, which way do you think he went? Do you think he drank himself to death? Or do you suppose he decided to give those special powers of his a big. Evil. Hug?"
The knife yanked free, hot blood rushing down over Dean's leg and pooling beneath his feet. Alastair grabbed Dean's ruined jaw and yanked his head up, peering hard into Dean's eyes.
"You're still holding their faces." And Alastair plunged the knife into Dean's right eye up to the hilt and left it there. "You'll break eventually. The longer you hold out, the more it'll hurt when you do."
He shut up, then, simply went about his work in silence, systematically cutting Dean off from his surroundings, from his memories, from everything but Alastair and the pain, and when night fell, he left.
As the night progressed, the tissues making up Dean's corporeal soul began to reknit, putting his body back together one agonizing piece at a time. Only when he was completely whole again did Alastair return, eyes bright and eager for the day's work.
"So what'll it be, kid?" He held out the knife, hilt first, just like every other morning. "You ready to be all you can be?"
And Dean lifted his head, just as he had every other morning. He thought over the pain, like every other morning, and then thought of his brother and his father, and he told Alastair no, like every other morning.
Then, this morning, he smiled, and Alastair's expression clouded over. He didn't bother taking Dean's ears, eyes, and tongue, just tore and cut and broke and carved with renewed fury.
And Dean withstood it, and when the night came he breathed deep the foul stench of the pit and let his lips curve.
Because there in the hot, stinking, bloodied dark, Dean had heard the sound of trumpets.
Maybe his brother, his father, and his friends weren't coming for him.
But something, oh, something was.