SPN: Pride Before A Fall
Title: Pride Before A Fall
Author: egoteprovoco
Spoilers: Through "On The Head of A Pin"
Challenge: Seven Deadly Sins
Summary: Without being too spoiler-y for anyone who hasn't seen the last episode, this story is about Alistair's role in the mytharc. If you haven't seen the last ep, I wouldn't recommend reading this.
Word Count: 715
Rating: PG
All demons were like oozing blisters of sin, but Alastair liked to think he was among the worst. He cultivated his Wrath like a rose garden. He Envied everyone for everything as a matter of course. He Lusted for power, but was determinedly too Slothful to achieve it. All in all, he was -- as he occasionally sang to music loving inmates -- the very model of a modern monstrous torturer.
But of all his sins, the one he was most proud of was his Pride. He ruthlessly quashed any who insulted him. He perfected his technique until he could ravage a fresh soul in three slices or less. While most demons writhed and moaned their way through Hell, grasping wildly at any chance for escape, Alastair loathed their weakness. He embraced the pit as his chosen home. He learned its secrets and flourished under its harshest pressures.
Vain though he was, it wasn’t Vanity that made Alastair call himself the best torturer that Hell had to offer - it was only the unvarnished truth that no other demon was as cruel or as creative as he was. He was not surprised when Azazel appeared in his dungeon with a freshly harvested soul. Not surprised to be included in the Great Plan. After all, who else could be trusted with the legendary Righteous Man?
John Winchester was delightful…just how Alastair liked his souls; strong and proud and defiant…and oh so satisfying to break. John wasn’t aware of how important he was. He had no idea how long Hell had been waiting for the Righteous Man to arrive. So Alastair told him. Told him about the prophecy. Told him how stupid he had been. How he hadn’t saved his son but instead had doomed the entire world. He watched John’s eyes widen in understanding and savored that first small crack like a wine connoisseur savors the first sniff of a rare vintage.
But if sheer obstinacy had been one of the Seven Deadlies, John Winchester might have ruled Hell on the strength of that trait alone. Day after day, year after year, he resisted all of Alastair’s tricks and techniques. As decades passed, Alastair grew increasingly frantic. There were very important demons waiting for the first seal to break. He was holding them back. And John knew it; he saw Alastair’s desperation and it made him strong. He reveled in Alastair’s panic and despair, and when knives and fire drove every other thought from his mind, John clung stubbornly to the knowledge that just by staying on his rack he was hurting his tormentor far more than he could even if their places were reversed. Nothing could give him more pleasure than denying Alistair for yet another day.
The Gate opened - as planned - and the tormented multitudes surged forward. From every corner of Hell twisted, rotten former-souls scratched and bit and raced toward freedom. Alastair breathed the free air and closed his eyes, exultant in the Great Plan’s first success. When he turned back to his work, John was gone. Slipped away in the confusion or carried forward by the chaotic rush.
He had nearly lost them the war before the first battle could even be fought. If it hadn’t been for the freelance work of a little red-eye just days before, he might never have had a second chance. Might have wound up on his own racks while Azazel or someone else tore him apart.
Alastair was still proud of his intelligence, however. He knew he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. When Dean Winchester appeared on his rack, he didn’t gloat. He didn’t preen. He didn’t let the slightest hint of the boy’s importance slip past his lips. He told him he was worthless. That everyone who ever knew him had already forgotten about him. That no one cared about his suffering. (Even as every demon in Hell watched with bated breath and prayed - if it could be called praying - for Dean to break.)
When Dean’s screams died down to breathless whimpers, Alastair would whisper in his ear. “This is your existence now, my boy. Pain and suffering. Humiliation. Nothing matters anymore…not what you’ve done, not what you will do. You are a nothing. But I could make you something Great. Someone to be proud of.”