Bela can't see the other person, but she knows someone's there. She can hear breathing, rabbit-quick and rasping and occasionally wet with tears or maybe blood. Probably blood.
The demon at her side picks up a knife.
It's no use fighting, a tiny detached corner of her mind says, whispering in cool mocking tones like the ones she used to feign so well. You're in Hell, Bela. Where do you really think you could go? But when the demon smiles down at her, all perfect white teeth and gleeful chuckling, she tries to get away anyhow. She struggles and thrashes until her wrists are bloody, and it doesn't do a damned bit of good.
It hasn't done a damned bit of good any of the other times, either, but she clenches her jaw and shuts her eyes and repeats Don't scream don't scream like a litany in her mind.
The knife comes down. Bela screams.
"Now, you see this?" The demon's talking, but it takes a few pain-fogged moments to realize it isn't talking to her. "No challenge at all. Gives it up like a streetcorner floozy to anyone who wants a piece." She chooses that moment to open her eyes, and it's a mistake, a terrible mistake, because the demon is holding up a piece-- a piece of her-- as if to demonstrate. Bela chokes and shuts her eyes again and tastes bile, bitter and burning at the back of her throat. She can still see it in her mind, though, and she has to resist the mad urge to look, to count her fingers even though she already knows how many won't be there.
There's no response behind her save for the panting breaths.
"Don't give me that look," the demon says, the brutal edge of a laugh bubbling up in his voice. "I'm doing this for your benefit, you know. A young man's education is a terrible thing to waste." Stiff fingers caress Bela's cheek, leaving a trail of wet warmth behind, and the smell of blood fills her nose. Don't look don't look don't look.
They trace across her lips, and she lets out a high, thin sound, too weak to call a scream.
The demon goes on, oblivious. "Really, now, she's the perfect candidate. Got plenty of reason to resent this lovely lady, don't you? I mean, it's got that personal touch and everything. Poetic justice. It's practically Shakespearean."
There's gurgling behind her, and then a wet spitting sound. The person coughs, weakly.
The demon coos. "Now, now. I know you must be getting so terribly lonely over there by yourself--" And fingers trail through Bela's hair, a grotesque parody of a soothing touch-- "but we can fix that so easily. You just say the word, and I'll be over in a jiffy. I'll even get you off the rack. It must be getting a little uncomfortable by now, hmm?"
Bela thinks she hears a mumbled response, but it's hard to tell over the sound of blood rushing in her ears, the heavy thudding of her own heart. She feels sick and afraid and a little bit numb.
A surprised burst of delighted laughter is the demon's response. "Considering your condition, I don't think that's possible, but I'm flattered, my boy, I really am. However, it doesn't really answer me."
The slice comes so fast it actually takes a moment to feel it, but when she does Bela screams again; a high, clipped sound that quickly peters out into broken whimpering. There's no room for shame, though she knows she sounds like a beast, like a weak and wounded animal. I am, she thinks, as the place where her left ear used to be throbs, the blood spilling hotly over her neck and shoulder. I am.
"Last call," the demon sing-songs, almost sweetly. "This is a one-time special offer, just for you, Dean Winchester. You can take the knife, or you can take her place."
And Bela hears it this time, somehow, even over her own sobs: "Fuck. You."
There's a pause, and then a short, soft patter of noise-- it takes her a moment to realize it's clapping. The demon is giving him a golf clap. It can't be him, she thinks wildly. It's not Dean. It can't be Dean.
Then the demon leans over to whisper in her good ear. "Did you hear that? Wouldn't do it even for you. Guess that shows how little you rate, don't you think?" His lips brush her skin and she flinches away, cries out when the movement pulls at her wounds. "Useless in every way."
The demon straightens and shifts; Bela trembles and doesn't look as he walks around the rack she's on, trailing proprietary fingers over her naked skin and then tweaking her toes, one by one, like he's counting the little piggies.
The touch abruptly ceases, and it leaves Bela feeling strangely lost.
"Well, I'm sure you've got catching up to do." There's a sneer in his voice now as his footsteps are taking him away. "You two have yourselves a lovely chat, and I'll be back in the morning to... finish things up. Toodle-loo." There's a clank and a creak, and then the echoing bang of a heavy slamming door.
Bela trembles, alone.
No, not alone. It takes five minutes of shaky breaths to summon anything like a voice. "Dean," she rasps, "is it... Dean? Is it really you?"
If she strains, pulling hard at the clamps and angling her head up and to the side, she can just barely see a figure from the corner of one eye. All she can make out is a bowed head and a heavy slick of red and a tumble of thick ropes.
Not ropes. She feels the bile rise again, burning, as her mind fills in the blanks and she realizes she's seeing bits of the human anatomy that should never be on the outside. "Dean?" she squeaks, again.
There's a tight wheeze and then a laugh, gurgling-wet and breathless. From the corner of her eye, Bela sees the blood-soaked head raise.
"Told you I'd see you in Hell," Dean whispers, in a voice like broken glass.
Bela gives in and cries.