Author's Notes: Wrote this in 30 minutes after reading too much angsty fiction. XD Not really happy with this, but oh well.

Written for 50_darkfics at LiveJournal. Theme 49: Razor.

Disclaimer: Supernatural & any recognizable characters belong to Eric Kripke & the CW. The story is my own.

The First Cut Is the Deepest

-

"Oh, the first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch. That was the first seal."
-Alastair, "On the Head of a Pin".

Time was different in hell, Dean was sure of it. He wasn't quite sure how it was different, or how he even knew. Call it intuition.

Alastair helped him keep track of the days; a cut for each day he spent rotting in the Pit. If the demon ever happened to lose count, he'd just keep cutting away at his flesh, one cut for every day he still had left to spend in Hell. Dean always made sure to count, just in case. Of course, when the proverbial clock struck midnight, the bloody cuts littering his body would be gone (and his innards would magically return to their rightful places) and Alastair would start the process all over again, replacing each scar one at a time, plus one more for the brand new day. Nothing ever changed.

However, one very special day in Hell did end quite differently after 30 years' time.

Time seemed to hold still for that one moment when Dean finally caved, screaming through bloody teeth. "Anything! Just get me off the rack." The endless downward spiral that was eternity seemed to quiet for a split second.

It felt like forty years.

Suddenly, everything seemed to move in a chaotic haze.

A fresh soul was already strung up on the rack Dean had just gotten off of for the first time in three decades, all fresh and clean and ready to be baptized in blood. A tray of pristine tools was placed at his elbow. They looking strangely out of place, surrounded by fire and brimstone as they were.

Dean simply stood there for several long moments enjoying his newfound freedom, Alastair hovering patiently beside him.

"Freedom tastes like sulfur," he thought.

At least it wasn't blood.

He was brought back to the present by the sound of sobs coming from the rack. Dean thought he heard his name choked out in between each sob, but attributed it to the madness that had lingered at the edge of his mind for so many years.

The whimpers filled him with rage. This bitch hadn't seen anything yet. Not like Dean had. No one knew pain like he did.

"I'll give you something to cry about."

"Time to shut the little bitch up, Dean," Alastair crooned.

His pupil clumsily snatched up his razor. Without even a moment's hesitation or the slightest bit of finesse, he plunged the instrument into the vulnerable flesh of his victim's navel.

"Dean!" came the terrified shriek. The body arched, muscles quivering around the intrusion.

He was vaguely surprised that it knew his name. He hadn't been surprised in a long time. Had he been in his right mind, Dean would've understood why every instinct was screaming at him to pull the blood-slicked razor out and throw it away. He would've remembered floppy hair and giant feet; evil yellow eyes and earnest hazel ones; motor oil and candy bars. Two words filled his mind instead: "Bitch. Jerk."

Hell rejoiced when something buried deep in the Pit broke. Dean never heard it as the razor plunged deeper.

Sam screamed.