Masters - Supernatural - 1/3

[twisted_slinky]

Title: Masters
Author: twisted_slinky
Artist: agirlnamedtruth
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Spoilers for up to season 7. Violence, language, torture, gore, het sex, dub-con/non-con, religious subtext, Hell
Characters/Pairings: Meg/Dean, Meg/Castiel, Crowley, Alastair, Azazel, Lucifer, Sam
Summary: They knew her by Meg, but in Hell, she was called a different name. Dean just didn’t realize it at the time. Castiel, though, always knew. This is the tale of the fall of a demon with a cause.
Wordcount: ~15k
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Made for sick twisted kicks, not profit.

Notes: Please don't read if you're under the age restriction, especially this first part. The timeline on this skips around a bit, but just, fair warning, the italics are supposed to be Season 7 'Nurse' Meg chatting to coma!Cas. Dean's right-she does enjoy the sound of her own voice…

A big thanks to agirlnamedtruth for the beautiful art! Check out her masterpost, where you can see other wallpapers and a fanmix.

Art Masterpost  II Story Masterpost





I.

The Evil That Men Do

"It's a hell of a thing, isn't it? Me and you, here. Alone. Kinda like the beginning of a joke: a demon and an angel walk into a crazy ward. But our audience is long gone, so we're stuck with a laugh track. Guess we can drop the act then.

"…I was never an actress, back when I was alive, but you know that already, don't you? Still, ya gotta admit, I can put on a damn good show these days. Just ask Sammy boy and Dean-o. They bought front row seats once upon a time. And, well, I can tell you the entire staff is in awe of Nurse Masters' devotion to her patient…When it comes down to it, though, I don't enjoy the work put into acting-the effort behind the lies-as much as a demon probably should…Not anymore. What I do enjoy is the play itself, the entertainment value.

"So, how about this? We'll pretend like this is the beginning of a play. We've probably got time for that, don't we? Why, it's not like you're going anywhere.

"So, Act 1. This is the part where I tell you what you need to know to understand the story. Of course, beginnings don't always start at the beginning, do they, Clarence? You should know, you've probably been there for all the beginnings, every first that ever was…

"I'm going to take your silence as an agreement."

2011

On the rack again:

The scream reminded her of home. It was only afterward that she recognized it was her own. She nearly smiled. Nearly. Would have if her fellow demon, a no-named hack-fucking hilarious, wasn't she?-in a meatsuit that used to belong to a hunter, hadn't twisted the blade right then. Christian. His body's name was Christian-couldn't make this shit up if she wanted to…Angels and monsters and Winchesters, oh my! This little trip down the rabbit hole was getting funnier and funnier by the second.

Except for in the ways that it wasn't.

A touch of madness was always preferable to accepting the reality of torture. Or, at least, that had always been her philosophy. Had always made her time down under a bit easier, laughing like she loved it all.

Being on the rack again, while top-side, was not on her agenda, but it wasn't entirely a surprise. She was told, every time she got off of it, that she'd always be back for more. The only difference between here and home was the straps holding her down. Specifically the symbols etched into the leather over her breasts, her lady bits, her neck-they were meant to make sure she stayed in a body.

Not that they were really necessary. Christian, the dumbass, hadn't bothered to take off her necklace when he'd stripped off her clothes. Woulda been funny to see him try.

The nudity itself, the position of his knife at the V of her legs, it didn't have a thing to do with the appeal of her form. It had to do with humiliation. It had to do with reminding her of home.

Full circle: she cried out again and then rolled her eyes, annoyed by the sound. Breathless, she gave the world a crooked grin. "You know, you're sticking that thing in all the wrong places."

Christian rose up into view, surprisingly clean, which meant he was either an amateur or an expert. Meg voted amateur-she'd been trained by the best and this pathetic bag of smoke was having too much fun to get any proper work done.

"Really?" he asked, all cocky. "You sure were squealing."

"Knock yourself out. It's a host's body." A bluff. She knew as much, but he didn't. Most demons weren't quite so attached to their meat, but Meg…Meg had put up with a lot of shit to keep this one. "Some girl from Sheboygan. Moved to L.A. to be an actress-this is probably not even the worst thing that ever happened to her."

Meg knew for sure it wasn't, actually. But details, who needed them?

Christian laughed, seeing through the comments in a rare display of intelligence, and then bent back down out of her line of sight, putting the knife back to work. The girl she was in…the girl's body would be ruined, more than it already was, but the pain forced that odd strain of thought straight out of Meg's head.

Wet sounds, the kind that should never be made because of a knife, greeted her, bringing a grimace to her face. An unacceptable sign of weakness. Madness, she reminded herself, was a friend, so she forced a laugh, letting her head raise slightly, her eyes drift down to see what kind of damage the blade had done. She was greeted by a happy surprise.

No man, whether demon or human, liked hearing chuckles instead of moans when working a girl's downstairs. Christian shot up, frowning at her.

"What are you laughing at?"

The best joke ever played on her, apparently, because, there, right behind the torture rack, stood Dean. The hunter slipped closer, and in a too-quick move, grabbed the knife right out of the demon's hand, shoving it through Christian's chest. The demon stared, confused-for their kind, death was never expected.

She smirked. "Dean Winchester's behind you, meatsack."

Dean's jaw set hard, and his nostril's flared. The expression was one she recognized as grim satisfaction. He twisted the blade and then pulled it back out. The movement was familiar-how many times, she wondered, how many times had she seen Dean pull a blade out of a body?

As the demon's host fell forward, abandoned, the hunter stared down at her, his gaze avoiding her wounds. Perhaps because she was in a woman's form. Perhaps because they brought back too many memories for him. Meg wanted to comment on the fact that he hadn't killed her yet, that he'd rescued her instead. But she held her tongue, mainly because of the look in his eyes.

Just for a moment, she thought he knew. That he'd put the pieces together. That he'd remembered.

"We need to move." The impatient voice, Soulless Sam's, came from behind, where the other hunter watched through the entryway as lookout.

Dean gave him a glance before turning back and glaring at Meg with something akin to disgust, no doubt kindled by the thought of letting her go. His hands moved across the buckles holding her down, so familiar with their workings. When they locked eyes again, Meg smiled back, willing him to remember.

Dean swallowed hard.

You know me, she thought. You know my name.

But he didn't speak it, not even once. Perhaps he never would. But that didn't change things. It didn't make what she'd seen him do in Hell any less real. It didn't change the fact that she was at his side the entire time.

"…A girl doesn't really know a person until she's known them in Hell. See, Dean and I got close in my third tour. This trip downstairs wasn't planned, at least not by me, and, unfortunately, I couldn't blame it on a couple hunters bumbling through an exorcism. This fall was, much like my first, all about betrayal…

"Ever wondered when that smarmy dick started rubbing me the wrong way?"

2007

The lifeless body on the floor twitched, its bones crackling as it rolled its muscles, the entity inside filling in all the empty spaces. After a moment, it pulled itself up off the shadowed floor, eyes wet and glittering and pitch black in the faint light of the parlor room. The corpse's mouth opened, words spilling out.

"You've got brass balls, calling me here, Crowley. My father won't be happy."

The other demon stood from his lounge on the sofa, a smirk on his face as he glanced her over his shoulder. He knew a bluff when he heard one, unfortunately. "Now is that any way to greet a friend? You pull yourself out of Hell and don't even bother to visit afterward? Could hurt a man's feelings."

Meg rolled her eyes, annoyed, but managed to keep her mouth shut. The room was silent a moment, too quiet for her comfort. It never sat well when lower demons refused to gloat, and she could feel the presence of at least two of them nearby. With a questioning tilt of her head, the lackeys at the door stepped out, giving their master and his guest their privacy. Meg didn't take that as a particularly good sign either. She straightened, putting on her best poker face.

"I didn't know you cared," she finally replied. Impatience wasn't hard to feign.

"Darling, how have you been? The way I hear it, your daddy's a bit peeved with your little trip to see the Winchesters. Seems you went off script," Crowley said, pouring himself a glass of Craig. His eyes flitted in that smiling way, even though his lips were drawn tight. Meg recognized the expression; pissed, but happy to have a chance to act on the aggression. She mimicked it.

"Then I should be talking to him. Not you."

He raised a brow. "And you think he still has time for your antics? You swept all your pieces off the game board in a temper tantrum. Tried to make a statement and got sloppy. Which is not at all like you-"

"As much as I just love water cooler talk," Meg interrupted, staring at his back as he replaced the bottle. Her rage had not disappeared in the least since her last 'temper tantrum', and she had places to be, Winchesters to mindfuck. If there hadn't been a circle beneath her feet, holding her in place, she'd already be back on course. After all, promises were promises, and she'd told a certain hunter he'd regret his choices…"I've got orders to carry out."

His laughter made her stiffen. She was used to be being lorded over, but Crowley was young, at least amongst her kind. The bastard had stepped on a lot of toes to move up the line so quickly, but Meg refused to see him as a higher-up, even if he ruled the soul purchases now, even if he was, supposedly, Lilith's right-hand man. Even if Meg hadn't come here of her own free will. She was still Azazel's. That should have meant something. It did mean something. Which was why she was concerned when another demon was cocky enough to pull her off task for a chat.

The summoning had taken her by surprise, more so when she found herself shoved into a cold corpse she hadn't chosen and staring out through new eyes at the finely tailored suit of the King of the Crossroads.

She'd had her fair share of run-ins with the demon, back before he was wearing his new meat, and the bastard hadn't quite let go of those centuries she'd spent torturing him, but, still, he'd never dared pull a move like this one…Meg had friends in low places; one didn't screw around with Hell's favorite children.

He swept the liquor off his bottom lip with a flick of his tongue, then turned fully, standing posed as if he were pondering the wonders of the universe. "Oh, it's no business of mine what you do. For all I care, you could march around wearing a hunter any time you like-bet you're rather fetching in one of the big lugs…But your boss and my boss have had a meeting of minds, you see, and I've been called in to do their dirty work. It's nothing personal, of course."

His boss. Then it was true. Meg shifted her weight. "Lilith is in Hell."

Crowley raised a brow. "Until Azazel finishes his job of fully freeing her…yes," his casual tone heightening to a hiss, "and you've still managed to piss her off."

Meg could hear them, the heavy, low breaths of the beasts coming up behind her. The closest hellhound snarled, growling into her ear. This time, there would be no fleeing. Crowley had made sure of it.

"You're going back," he announced, sitting down his glass. "Your father's orders. You know how the tyrant likes to utilize his victim's fears, so this really shouldn't come as a surprise to you, should it?"

She narrowed her gaze on him, disgusted. "You don't even know, do you? Busy doing Azazel's bidding, and you don't even know what the plan really is, what my father's got in store…You're a worker bee, Crowley. You'll be sacrificed, too, before this is over."

Crowley's eyes glimmered darkly. "Oh, darling, I know more than you think. I'd wager that both our bosses like to keep their cards close to their chests. Only, mine? She's not sending me to be 're-educated' for trying to get a looksey."

He stepped as close to the barrier as he could manage. The slight frown at his lips was a mockery of pity. "It's sad really, the real reason you went on your adorable little vendetta. It had nothing to do with helping or hurting the grand plan. Nothing to do with loyalty or treachery…You're not your daddy's favorite anymore. He's looking for your upgrade now, giving all his attention to the new batch of special children. And you're jealous. How human of you." Crowley leaned in, hand raised to block a stage whisper. "If I were you, I wouldn't let anyone downstairs hear about that-you know how your old mentor loves to exploit one's weaknesses."

"Fuck you, Crowley."

He smiled, almost kindly. "Enjoy your sabbatical-what was it they're calling you these days? Meg?-enjoy your sabbatical, Meg. See you in a few centuries…"

The hellhounds tore into her from behind, throwing her host body to the ground as they dug their claws into her stomach and ripped free her soul. It was almost as fun as an exorcism.

"… Hell was exactly as I'd left it. Which is part of the whole 'being Hell' thing. It never changes. Top-side? Societies are built, disasters strike, societies are built again. But Hell is Hell, always and forever. Or, at least it was in my day.

"There was one tiny consolation prize for my return trip, though. John Winchester was still there. I just couldn't wait for my turn to gloat to that pesky cockroach, tell him what I did to his boys. How I stained Sammy's hands. How Dean wasn't going to follow through on his orders. And sure, I might have wanted to embellish it a bit, since technically, he'd won the wager I'd made before escaping…

"Demons, we lie, you know? Just like you angels.

"Unfortunately, I was shit out of luck if I thought I'd have any say in the matter…"

On the rack again:

The screams were a constant chorus, her whispered words almost lost to them.

"The jig is up, the news is out, they finally found me…The renegade who had it made, retrieved for a bounty…" The song lyrics bubbled up with a fresh spew of black blood over her chin, and she smiled, choking on the laugh and the strip of stomach lining working its way up her esophagus.

Alastair twisted the blade just right, spilling stomach acid down over her groin. Meg convulsed against the sensation, tugging at the hooks holding her arms in place.

"I like that one," Alastair commented, in that slow, lazy speech with which she was so familiar. "You always had the loveliest singing voice, Jehanne." The blade lifted up and out with a wet rip. "Though, I must confess, I do prefer to hear you screaming."

"You always know-" Meg gurgled, feeling her vocal chords give at the strain. "-how to make a girl-" Her eyes rolled back in her head when the knife slipped back inside her body, but she brought them forward again, focusing. "-feel special."

She cried out as the forked metal tip scrambled her intestines. Long, thick chunks of purple organs hit the rock at Alastair's feet with a plop. Meg trembled, riding out the agony, and the torturer patted her hip, content with her efforts.

"Well, you were a favorite pupil of mine. Never carved anything so pure before I cut into you…And you've come such a long way since then." Alastair sighed, reminiscing. "I only wish I had more time to spare for you, dear, but, alas, I've been asked to put my efforts elsewhere."

He ran his hand down between her bare breasts, drawing a shape in her blood, and she could feel the wound beneath close. The pain remained at every curving twist of metal and bone hooks holding her in place, but she could speak again. The small reprieve was part of the process-Alastair had always taught her to start on a fresh canvas. It was the reason here, in this place, where no forms were necessary, every victim appeared to be in bodies of flesh and blood. As they were in life.

Black smoke and twisted mounds of decayed flesh simply didn't feel pain the same way as a victim staring down at his own mangled body. It was visceral and realistic, and it was part of the artistry. Meg remembered her lessons in it well. After all, she hadn't been gone long, not this time around, and she'd always taken her apprenticeship seriously.

She was almost back to feeling at home in her own, freshly-skinned flesh. The body, the one she'd died in, was only slightly younger than the hosts she'd chosen top-side. The breasts high and small, not fallen with age, the stomach bloated slightly with hunger, hips full and past ready for childbirth, arms hard with the muscle of a country worker, dark hair cut shorter than her gender was allowed, the face…Meg couldn't quiet remember her own face, truthfully.

But the name remained: Jehanne, as Alastair enjoyed reminding her. Meg thought that maybe she'd snatched up Meg Masters because of a desire to own that face, pretend it had always been her own. She'd chopped off her hair, hardened her features with paint, trying to recreate a form she couldn't quite recall ever having...It had been a failure in all but the name; that part had somehow stuck, but not here in Hell.

"Let me have John Winchester. I can break him." She wasn't beyond begging, and Alastair enjoyed it far too much to not hesitate, but he shook his head in response.

"He's a special case. Requires my special attendance. Last time I let you have a stab, you dug around, played with all his secrets, and then ran away...What did you do while you were free, dear? I really would like to know the full story."

Special-Meg didn't answer him, consumed by his choice of wording. The children were special. Sam Winchester was special. John Winchester was special. She was special. Fuck their 'special'-Meg was growing sick of it. She growled in frustration, pulling at the chains leading out into the ether. "In the past, you would have let me have him," she snapped.

Alastair shrugged one shoulder, humor in the gesture. "Orders are orders. If you'd obeyed yours, you wouldn't be in this mess, now would you?" He leaned forward, grinning. "But if you're a good girl, I'll let you watch."

If you're a good girl…That had been one of Alastair's favorite games with her. The trick was, good girls didn't go to Hell. Which meant she'd never get to win.

Alastair's pale face distorted, growing horns out of his head and out of the ridges of his cheeks, his chin lengthening to a sharp point. A mask, custom designed for his next 'patient'. "I'll give John your regards," the torturer promised.

She barely felt the chains yanking her away from his rack, back into the pit of flesh and bone.

"…You know that phrase, 'as boring as Hell'? Actually, never mind, you probably don't…"

Time in Hell oozed by, a decade wrapped in a month, over a century in a year. Day and night were one, weeks distorted by agony, and calendars without place, but it was easy to keep up with time because it was another one of Alastair's methods. If ever you forgot how long it had been, he'd remind you. Not out of mercy, because the passing of time was only a mercy if there was an end in sight.

Time left Meg stuck in her own head. Old tricks-naming the screamers, counting cuts, guessing which tool would be used next-didn't work as well as they used to, back before she'd gotten her freshest taste of the land of the living. Before she'd had a chance to wear Sam, to be Sam Winchester.

Playing that part had been interesting. She'd expected to grow bored-patience was a virtue, which meant it wasn't looked kindly upon. But, she'd never been a man before, or worn one. In life, she'd wondered what it would be like. Granted, the roles of men and women were very different back then, but still, her curiosity remained. What had surprised her most, though, had nothing to do with the week she'd spent playing with Sam's body and planning out the best means for forcing Azazel's new favorite candidate's sweet family to implode on itself. No, what had surprised her was how much she enjoyed pulling Dean into the mix.

Watching him struggle, watching him standing his ground-it was frustrating at first. She'd been so aimed to prove herself right, show that Sammy wasn't worth the trouble. It would have set things back on course for her: Sam would be dead, and Dean, having killed his little brother, would be a broken man. Which would be exactly what the asshole deserved for sending her back to Hell.

It should have worked.

But then Dean hadn't done his part. That hadn't been what John said…No, when she'd tortured the old-boy, he'd swore his eldest would always make the right choice. And, Meg could see it in his eyes, Dean was a killer. Like her. A soldier. Like her. He took orders.

And like her, he'd gone against orders for once, choosing Sammy over his duty. Like her.

Meg didn't want to think about that anymore.

"I do so look forward to meeting him."

Alastair's words pulled her from her own thoughts. Her mentor had been quiet of recent, after losing John Winchester's soul, after losing more demons that he would have preferred in the breakout. After Azazel's death.

Death. The final one. Meg couldn't comprehend it, couldn't understand why it mattered to be finished. Azazel-her once-Father-was dead, and Hell was chaotic without his stiff rule.

Her torturer ran the razor over the tips of her fingers, shaving off the skin. It curled like tiny strips of parchment. She grinded her teeth, what were left of them after a day's work. Another demon, a man in a mask made of stringy, blood-soaked chunks of human hair, stood at her back, his erection pressing against her-the new ones were always so obvious. She didn't understand his appearance until he yanked at her short-shod hair so that he could see the edge of her scalp. The glitter of a cleaver caught the light off the flames below.

Ah. The mask made more sense. Silly her.

Alastair's words finally circled back to her.

"Who?"

He paused in his movements. "Why, the hunter you were talking about, dear Jehanne. John Winchester's eldest."

Hell's racks weren't a good place for keeping secrets. They spilled out like bile. Meg couldn't remember saying the names floating across her mind.

"Dean," she supplied. She jerked against hair-boy's pull before raising a brow at Alastair. "Why didn't you escape with the others? When the gate opened? I couldn't-for obvious reasons-but you could have left this place if you were so apt to nab another hunter."

Alastair chuckled. "I enjoy my job too much. You know that-I despise when the higher-ups sent me top-side. Tender-bodied humans are more entertaining, but they expire far too fast for my liking."

"Then when do you plan to meet Dean?"

The demon waved a hand, stopping his assistant before the cleaver's blade could fall. He leaned in, his smile so wide it nearly broke his face. "Then you don't know? Why do you think we allowed John Winchester's escape? The bastard was too stubborn, and we've already got his son's soul on contract."

Meg's blinked. Her father was dead, but his plan…His plan hadn't been stopped entirely. "How long?"

"A year. Top-side time, of course. Then he's all ours." There was a hard glint in Alastair's eyes, despite his delight. The failure to break John Winchester hadn't gone unnoticed with the other demons. He would have to make up for it. "How would you like to come off the rack when he gets here?"

Only about a hundred Hell-years left to wait. It wasn't so long, really. "The contract…He made it to save his brother, didn't he?"

Alastair raised a brow. "How did you know?"

Because she'd told Dean he'd regret it, letting Sam live. She laughed. "Sam's the only reason he'd ever break his own rules."

Alastair nodded, approvingly. Or to give the scalper permission. Meg couldn't be sure which.

"Like father, like son," he said, softly. "Rather pathetic, aren't they?"

Alastair's methods were famous for a reason: they worked. Most of the time. On the rare occasion that they didn't, everyone in his corner of Hell suffered for it.

If Meg could have felt sorry for the hunter, she would have. For a hundred years, the torture master had been biding his time, considering the flaws in his approach with John Winchester. Meg had been the one to point out the obvious, that the righteous were made of different stuff than the pigs they usually received-"Don't beat yourself up, Al. He wasn't your usual fair."

The words sparked something behind his eyes. Something dangerous. Meg grinned back at him, letting him rip her apart, letting him remember all the things he'd done when she'd first arrived in Hell, because if anyone could relate to the Winchesters' do-gooder sensibilities, Meg knew it was her-the old her, the dead her, the girl who came before the demon.

"Soon," Alastair promised her, tugging the muscle from her bones, "our boy will be here soon."

It was like Christmas day when the hooks dug into the soul of Dean Winchester.

"…Pain felt in Hell is different from pain felt on Earth, for humans at least. It's not less; it's not more. But, it's easier to keep a grip on yourself if you can tell the difference between the two. Of course, it wasn't very helpful if your torturer knew that, too…See, Clarence, the best way to cause a person the most pain in Hell is to make them relieve the pain they already felt on Earth.

"But, hey, why am I telling you this? I'm sure you're figuring that out already in that broken noggin' of yours…"

Again with the patience. Meg wasn't a big fan, but she enjoyed watching the moment unfold, even if it was one she'd seen before.

Crimson light, the hue of sunlight through stained glass, flickered over the two men, holding the shadows at bay and setting the scene for a new round.

Sam Winchester's face was so sweet, his eyes so pleading, his messy hair just boyish enough to charm, that Meg found it hard to not reach out and pet him. That or rip off his meat and wear him for Halloween. She was unsure as to what the urge she felt actually called for, though. Instead of acting on it, she simply watched from the darkness surrounding the pair, hidden from view as the young hunter approached his bound and bleeding brother and hunched down to cup his cheek tenderly.

Dean's chains had been lowered, leaving him on his knees, hands pinned in front of him by a metal rod through his wrists, neck encircled by the chain holding him upright. His head lolled, as if it might fall off his shoulders, and his dazed eyes watched his brother without betraying a single emotion. As if he didn't spend every moment of his first month in Hell screaming this man's name until his throat was bloody. As if he didn't know what came next.

"Why can't you let me go, Dean?" Sam said, his voice broken with grief. His thumb ran down a cut across his brother's cheek, tracing it gently. "Why can't you just let me go for once?"

"Can't, Sammy."

The words were so quiet that they were nearly lost, but Meg heard them, and they excited her. He was playing today. Some days he wouldn't.

Sam shook his head, gaze drowning in pity. "I died, Dean, just like Dad…I died to get away from you, and you still won't let me stay gone."

If the words still hurt, Dean didn't show it, his gaze roaming Sam's face, re-memorizing the details. "Not…" His voice caught in his throat as he struggled to fall forward, the metal links digging into his throat. "Not real."

Sam smiled, an almost chiding expression, and slowly stood back up. "But I am, Dean. I'm real…I came here to thank you. Thank you, Dean. Thank you for going to Hell. Thank you for giving me some peace for once." He cocked his head, his grin widening into something cruel. "If you hadn't, I'd be stuck in Heaven. I'd never have a chance to grow, to become who I'm meant to be." One slow blink later, and his eyelids opened to reveal murky yellow orbs. "Thank you, Dean-thank you for leaving."

"No." Dean smothered the word with a grimace. "No!"

Meg felt something stir in her at the image, but she held it down, ignoring those yellow eyes-ones she'd never see again-in favor of focusing on Dean's reaction. It worked, every time, breaking the hard expression on his face, chipping away at his insides better than a pickaxe, because Dean knew: it wasn't real, but it was true.

Sam stepped back, his face dissolving into smoke and reforming until it was Alastair standing over the hunter. Meg stepped out to join him. As fun as this play was, she knew it wouldn't break Dean any time soon.

Seeing Sam…evil, tortured, taunting-it didn't matter. Each vision seemed to strength the hunter instead of hurting him. Which Meg was fine with-the stronger he was, the more fun it would be to play with him. Alastair, however, was not as amused. He had a job to do, after all.

"Dean," Alastair sighed. "Dean, Dean, Dean-what are we going to do with you? If you won't say your lines, we'll have to go back to another technique. It's like you're not even trying these days." He shrugged, disappointment clear on his face-another part of his game. "And here I thought you'd appreciate what I'm doing for you. It is, after all, our anniversary." Alastair raised a hand and the stake pinning down Dean's hands flew free from the rock beneath with a wet pop, letting the chain around his neck jerk him back upon to his feet. "Six years, Dean. Six years together, you and I."

Dean clung to the metal at his neck, his hands too slippery with blood to give him any strength, but he managed to suck in a breath of air. "Did you buy me flowers?" he asked, choking against his own shit-eating grin. "Or jewelry?"

Meg startled at Alastair's heavy touch as he patted her bare shoulder. It was all the permission she needed to take her turn with him. The master torturer stepped aside, into the shadows, to either watch his apprentice work or attend to another soul.

Meg enjoyed the dark room, its single beam of red light casting Dean in her favorite shade. The pit was usually preferred for most souls, where they could hang, humiliated, amongst so many others watching their pain. But, Dean…Dean needed attention. Dean needed isolation. He could be weaker without the audience.

From the darkness came a baying of hounds. The sound sent a tremor down his body. Meg took that as her cue, and waved her hand. Thin, biting chains shot out of the darkness, snatching his wounded wrists and ankles, pulling his arms out wide, and spreading his legs until only the tips of his toes grazed the pile of bones beneath him.

He grimaced, face swollen as he tried to suck in a breath. "Bitch."

She raised a brow, expectantly, but she'd given up on him recognizing her years ago, despite how much he fell back on his favorite nickname. She'd considered, on more than one occasion, telling him who she was-his 'Meg'. The one who had his daddy snatched. The one who killed so many of his little hunter buddies. The one who'd possessed his baby brother. It would have been fun, rubbing salt in that wound-but she'd told herself she'd hold out a bit longer. Her plan for him wouldn't work if he knew who she was quite yet. Afterward. After he broke, she'd tell him and watch him wither. It would make her century. It would make the memory of all those nasty things she did to him so much sweeter.

"I've missed our alone time, too," she noted, her voice soft, girlish.

The hellhounds were closer now, their growls coming from right behind him. Meg had made sure they'd be chained just out of distance, just close enough to swipe at him, but not close enough to tear him apart before they were finished.

Meg stepped closer, her bare breasts pressed against his chest, close enough for her to feel his body tense when the first hound's claw sliced into his shoulder blade. She leveled her hands over his hips, holding him still for the second hound to rip at the soft flesh of his ass. He growled, jaw clenched shut against the pain.

"I want to try something new with you," she said. "I don't think you quite understand what you are yet…What you're going to be...So I'm going to show you."

Meg leaned forward, pressing his bowed forehead against her own, her voice soft as a whisper. "You're not going to be just any soul, Dean. You're not meant to hang on a rack-you're meant to be the one hanging souls on the rack. You're going to be like us. You're going to be-"

"No," he hissed.

"You're going to be a demon," she finished, flashing her eyes to black. "See, I've been watching you, all these years, and I know what you're hiding. I know how much you like the pain. It gives you power. Control. It makes you feel alive. A real feat considering how very dead you are."

"Jehanne-"

His plea broke off when her hand reached down between them, fingers grasping his cock in a vice. He didn't try to speak again, his breathing labored, eyes open and staring down his body. She squeezed a bit, just enough to make him wince, before jacking him once, again, again. His body rocked as a hound managed to rip into his back again, but she felt the tremor run through his shaft, too, and grinned.

"That's my boy," she whispered. "Surrender to it, Dean."

"Don't," he gritted. But her reply was to quicken her speed, and he whimpered, anticipating her next move.

She didn't blame him for shivering against her tough-how many times had she held his manhood against her palm, only to dig in her nails, only to pull a vine of thorns out of his belly and wrap them around his balls. Meg felt a wave of pleasure at the memory, but she resisted the urge repeat that particular performance.

When she said she'd wanted to try something new, she hadn't been lying. She and Alastair had big plans for Dean, and corruption was a subject she knew intimately.

Meg slid down to her knees, holding to his spread legs as the hound snapped at his flesh, trying to put its claws into him again. She ran her free hand beneath him, her ring finger following the trail of flesh up to the tight circle of muscle at his hole. It was slick from the cuts across his back, dripping down the cleft of his ass, and she traced it lazily.

His muscles tightened: fear or frustration, pain or pleasure. She opened her mouth, swallowing the head of his cock, and slowing the pace of the hand sliding up its length to give her tongue time to catch up. It wasn't real-flesh wasn't real in Hell. No, it was left behind in a dirt nap upstairs, but that didn't mean salty sweat wasn't rolling down his body or that she couldn't taste the tang of his pre-cum. No, reality was perception, just like pain.

She angled him down, so her eyes could roam up his form and see his wide, frightened gaze. He was expecting it, any minute now. Teeth that would grow long and bite him off. Or a razor blade kiss to split him in half.

She hummed against him, a song she knew he'd recognized, and suckled him until he came in hot bursts down her throat. It was the first time she'd ever let him come after six long years of playtime.

Meg stood straight again, reaching behind him to touch the shredded skin of his backside. She caressing the exposed muscle at the small of his back, bathing her fingers in the warmth pouring out. "Happy anniversary," she said, and gave him a wicked grin.

The shame on his face was fresh, like he'd just arrived, all over again.

"…There's this line, it's kind of relevant, especially for demons. 'The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.'…I taught Dean that lesson myself. Figured the boy could use a bit of Shakespeare. Granted, I didn't realize he'd be getting his bones back any time soon. Sucks, really, because he was downright good at being bad. Some might have said he was an artist…"

So close. Always so close.

What had it been now? Nearly thirty years? It was a drop in the bucket here, but Alastair was on edge, leaving his lessers to his other duties as he devoted himself entirely to his hunter. Meg wasn't sure what he had been told, but she knew a higher-up was whispering in his ear enough that he let Meg aid him in most of his sessions. It helped, being one of his favorite students, and Meg could only smirk in glee at the other demons who wanted a chance to dig into the hunter again.

No. She wouldn't allow it. He was their toy for at least another century, if she had her will, but she had a feeling he wouldn't last out that long.

So close.

He would break soon. She could feel it. One day, Alastair's offer would receive the right answer.

Her lips hovered over his, breathing into him. "I've gotta say, Dean. You might not have much going for you upstairs, but you sure do hurt pretty."

His long lashes flickered open, green eyes not finding her closeness a surprise. "Bet that's what you tell all the guys."

"Oh, my little dimwit-you're the only one, I promise." She grinned, then tugged the razor wire holding him to the stone altar tighter before she threw one leg over his naked body and crawled up to join him. She straddled his hips, rubbing her slick center against his shaft with a purr at her lips. "Mmm, what's it going to take today, Dean? Want me to burn out your eyes while we play?"

A chuckle sounded from a few feet away, where Alastair stood at a second altar, arranging a table of his favorite tools. Blades caught light as he lifted one at a time, examining their gleaming edges before moving onto the next. Behind him, a mangled female corpse, still moaning in pain, remained from the 'little break' he'd just taken from his favorite.

"I must say, I am particularly fond of the sound eyes make when they pop," he noted, "but so long as you children are having fun…"

Meg ran her nails down Dean's beaten chest, avoiding the wires cutting across his nipples. They'd barely begun for the day, and he was mostly whole, but the gentle scrape was enough to keep his attention on her. "I think we should chat, first, before we begin, don't you?"

But she could already feel his erection pressing against, begging for attention, and it was all she could do to contain her smile. It had taken so long to get that reaction from him, to train him to associate pain with pleasure, but it had been worth the almost constant look of shame on his face. Soon, he wouldn't know the difference between one sensation and the other.

"Gonna talk…'bout the…weather?" the words barely made it out, but when they did, they were casual, another conversation for another day. "Another…scorcher."

Alastair laughed a bit louder, picking bits of flesh from the teeth of his saw blade. "Someone's in a mood today."

Meg grinned down. There was some form of normality in the exchange, something she'd come to…enjoy. "Same pitch, different day, kiddo," she said, with a short, mocking sigh, "but that comes last, as you know. No, I thought we'd talk about what you're going to do when you get off this rack-everyone appreciates a young man with a five-year-plan, after all."

"No-"

She pressed a hand over his lips to keep the word inside, refusing to accept the answer just yet. "I want you to think real hard, Dean, because I don't think it's ever quite sunk in, no matter how many times I've said it."

She raised herself up, sliding down onto his cock. He moaned, and she began to rock her body, riding him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Alastair approaching, hands at his side, watching without even a hint of lust in his gaze. Always the professional. But he patted Dean's leg, nevertheless, encouraging them to continue.

Meg lost track of her mentor, her head spinning as she lifted up, impaling herself down onto him all over again. "Dean," she breathed, "this is Hell. You know who goes here…Bad souls. Wicked souls...The ones you'll have on your rack, they won't be innocents. They won't be men like you, who sold themselves for their loved ones." She sped up, riding him hard, her voice coming out in hard, steady breaths. "You're a rare breed, Dean-you deserve better." The words caught in her throat, and she felt Alastair's eyes searching her-this wasn't on script. This message was new, one Meg had been holding back for so long. "You deserve to be the one putting them in their place, Dean. You're a hunter-this is what you do."

He grunted, trying to form a no and losing the word.

She could almost feel the confusion in him, in her mentor as well. Alastair simply didn't understand his prey-her mentor knew pain, knew guilt, knew deception. But he didn't know Dean. He didn't know what it was to be a soldier, to be loyal to a master, not the task itself.

"Do your job, Dean," she hissed, moving faster against him. "That's all we're asking."

Without hesitation, she reached out, pulling a short blade from Alastair's hand, and leaned down. Dean's eyes widened a moment in surprise, his mouth open to speak, but she moved too quickly, sliding the edge along his throat. Hot blood sprayed across her face, and she felt his hips buck beneath her as he shot his load inside her.

Pain. Pleasure. So close. "Atta boy," she whispered, kissing the spill at his lips as he gurgled up his words on a tide of red. She abandoned the knife, pinching his jaw between her fingers to hold his deadened gaze. "They deserve what you're going to be doing to them, Dean. All of them deserve to be on your rack. And the day you realize it's the right choice-that's the day, I'll put the hooks back in my skin. That day, I'll get on the rack again, just for you…"

Alastair stepped up again, and if he was surprised by the offer, it didn't show when he made his own, the same one he'd been making to the hunter every day for the past thirty years.

"…I'd never felt pain like I did the day Dean Winchester came off the rack. Might not have book smarts, that boy, but he's got talent. I know Sammy's supposed to have the dark vein and all, but Dean knows his pain. Reminded me so much of Alastair, the way he used his blade to work me over. Too bad he never got a chance advance up the foodchain. Coulda went far, that one. Could of taken me with him…"

Link to Part 2