Title: we shall thirst in Hades, in the blood of our children
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Denise Levertov
Warnings: violent imagery
Point of view: third
Prompt: SPN, Torture-Master Dean, being this bad shouldn't feel so damn good
It was easy. That's what haunts him later, out of the Pit and in a (soft) bed, listening to his brother snore, angel brand aching on his shoulder.
It was so easy. Closing his eyes as he whispered yes, baring his neck to Alistair (a name he doesn't know doesn't know doesn't know topside), taking the razor with a smile. It was all so easy.
But he's out now. He's out and he's up, angel tap-dancing on his (branded) shoulder, brother giving him shaky grins, pretty little demon in a new meatsuit watching him warily (yes, he knows he knows he knows that stench).
Even spread out on the rack, torn wide open and cut into pieces, it was easier than this life he's been forced back into.
And he misses it. That's what he won't admit to Sammy's puppy eyes or Castiel's righteousness. He misses the Pit. He misses Alistair and the razor and the bloody screams of agony that danced to his tune out across the lakes of fire.
There isn't a lot that Dean's good at. Killing things. Manipulating people. Anything he can do, Sam can do better, and so could Dad, way back when.
Dad was in Hell, too, and he never broke. Alistair made sure Dean knew that by telling him every day. (That's how Dean knew days passed.)
Dad never broke. Dean did.
No, there's a lot of things Dean isn't good at, and his fingers ache for the razor, and his ears for the screams, and he has to take a deep breath, hold it, exhale –
It was easy, in the Pit. So easy.
And fuck, does he miss it.