Howdy All! So, this is my first Supernatural fanfic…and first oneshot attempt, so I hope you enjoy it and pleas leave a review on your way out.

Alastair ran his practiced fingers over the smooth, cold surface of the table, counting the number of fun little tools at his disposal. His lips curled into a cruel smile, a smile of pure joy and excitement, as his hand settled on the handle of a pair of jagged pliers. He tested their bite on his own skin, black blood dripping from the cut on his forearm with just the smallest, very painful, pinch, and continued to examine a line of wickedly sharp knives. The fires of Hell danced in his eyes as he set aside one that resembled a chef's meat knife and raised it to eye level, imagining how its blade would slid into the flesh of the poor, unfortunate soul he was about to rip into for the millionth time.

The soul in question hung limply behind Hell's number one torturer, his arms suspended above him by hooks inserted into his wrists, pulling consistently on the tender muscles and tendons. He was breathing raggedly through the piece of cloth he had been gagged with and his eyelids could barely remain open anymore. Every demon that had passed by, who had seen this soul laying upon the rack for the last thirty years, knew he wasn't going to last much longer. Dean Winchester was breaking.

The white-eyes demon placed the knife back on the table, saving it for later, and turned to face his captive, pliers ready to paint their picture on the blank canvas. "Hello again, Mr. Winchester." Alastair drawled. He stepped closer to his prey, who slowly raised his hazel eyes just enough to look his tormentor in the face before becoming lost behind those heavy lids. Alastair, who did not appreciate impoliteness, grabbed Dean by the chin, forcing the ex-hunter to open his eyes again as he growled dangerously in his ear, "I said 'Hello' to you, Dean. You don't want to be losing your manners now, do you? After all this time? You have a reputation to uphold, after all."

He threw the chin out of his hands, smiling to himself as the chains jangled in response to the movement, drawing a hiss of pain from the man connected to them. Those eyelids were screwed shut again as he willed the pain away, knowing no amount of will or prayer would help him escape. No amount of screaming or cursing or colorful insults would relieve him of his eternity upon the rack.

Alastair slowed the body's swinging with a flick of his wrist and Dean was immediately immobilized; he wouldn't be able to move even if he had the strength to do so. The expert torturer placed the pliers against the hunter's skin, branding him with its burning hot metal, and slowly inserted the teeth into his victim's skin. Blood dripped onto the burning ground and ran down Alastair's arm.

"Deep breath, my boy." Dean's torturer drawled again, as he had so many times over the centuries he had been blessed with this beautiful job. "This is only going to hurt—a lot."

And he began to tear away skin from muscle, muscle from bone, his hands drenched in his prey's warm, sticky blood. He went on for hours and hours on end, ripping away at every inch of skin he could reach, reducing the once strong hunter into nothing more then a limp, un-dying, bloody skeleton, and then snap! He was whole once more; fresh and ready to be painted red again. Alastair returned the now ruby-red pliers to the table and instead took up the knife and began carving eccentric patterns into Dean's arms, chest and stomach. They depicted fire devouring the earth, brimstone falling from the sky, the dead rising up, dogs and cats living together—the words abyssus in terra inscribed along his muscled shoulders. Hell on earth. The apocalypse.

Alastair marveled at his design and snapped his fingers again, instantly removing the blood red drawings like an eraser moving over a whiteboard. And then he began again. And again. And again, until the hours added up to far too many for the agonized man to count. It never seemed to end. It never would end.

Then finally, the end came. Alastair wiped the blood off the knife with his shirt and laid it back upon the table beside its brothers. He looked for a moment at the pathetic mess of skin and blood before him, shaking his head in disgust. He clapped his calloused hands together sharply and Dean returned to normal, his skin whole and blood returned to his body. The gag fell freely from his mouth and he drew in an audible gasp of relief at being able to breathe with easy.

Alastair slithered up close to Dean so he was able to whisper into his victim's ear softly. "Dean—Dean, Dean, Dean. Was that not the most fun you have had in three decades?" Dean's response was a pained sigh as he began to slip back into unconsciousness. Alastair growled. "Now, now, don't think you can go escaping from me into those silly, little dreams of yours every time we sit down to have a nice chat. Just tell me—how do you feel? Does it hurt, Dean? Does it hurt a lot?" He paused, but when the older Winchester boy said nothing, he carried on. "Because, you know, there's a fast, easy way to end the pain. End the suffering. End it all. It's been thirty years, Dean, how much longer do you believe you can hold on? You know the offer, my boy—take it or leave it."

He took a step back, waiting bitterly for the inventive insult sure to escape his victim's lips, as they had ever day since the Hellhounds had dragged his sorry soul down into the depths of the pit. But today, he was forced to wait longer, much longer the usual, and he was beginning to fear Dean had fallen into the secure blanket of unconsciousness too early.

But then, with an effort, Dean managed to raise his head, conflicted eyes moist with tears. He stared for a moment into Alastair's waiting glare before his head drooped back down against his chest. Another moment passed and Hell's torturer could feel excitement starting to bubble inside him. This is it…

"Enough." The hunter said, his voice hoarse from screaming and hushed from lack of proper use. But most noticeably, his voice was weighed down with the sweet sound of surrender, music to Alastair's ears. "I—I'll do it."

The moment the words passed his chapped lips, the chains that held him vanished, the unforgiving hooks that dug into his wrists disappeared, and Dean Winchester fell disgracefully onto Hell's floor—free. He lay at Alastair's feet, curled into a sad little heap before realizing the pain had vanished along with his bonds. He could breathe more easily now then had been possible for thirty years. He glanced at his wrists and was stunned to find then whole and functional, the torn tendons restored and muscles woven back together.

A pair of polished Italian shoes, drenched and spoiled in a deep red liquid, entered his blurry field of vision. After a few short, disbelieving gasps, Dean lifted his head, dizziness miraculously forgetting to attack him from the small movement, and met the happy, dancing light in his tormentor's eyes. Alastair's lips were pulled into on of the few genuinely giddy smiles, one of the few that were not accompanied by the howl of the damned and the screams of the tortured. He looked—proud.

"That's my boy, Dean." He said smugly. "Always knew you'd pull through for us." Then suddenly his hand was on Dean's shoulder, helping the man get to his feet. The touch burned into the hunter's bare skin, making him wince and grit his teeth. But then it, too, vanished, just as Alastair had promised. The pain—all of it—was gone.

Dean allowed the demon to drive his soul towards the table, where the instruments that greeted him were pained with his own blood. With his tutor's encouragement, Dean viciously grabbed one of the knives that lay before him, turning it over and over in his own calloused hands.

"An excellent choice." Alastair encouraged into his pupil's ear. "Come this way, my boy, and show me what you're capable of."

He led Dean a small distance from the table and stopped him before another damned soul, bound with the same hooks and chains that had once held him. The woman's eyes were wild with pain and bore into Dean's broken soul with a pleading, desperate look.

Dean stepped up to the plate, knife held hesitantly in front of him. The woman began to shake her head earnestly. "No. No. Please! Please don't! I'll do anything! Anything!" She repeated over and over until the words echoed inside Dean's skull, basically the same words he had repeated throughout the three decades he'd been in this literal Hell Hole. They sounded empty and annoying to him now.

"Shut up!" He growled and he stepped even closer, raised the knife, and, reveling in the fact that he would never again be in her place, drew a deep, red line across her forearm, hand's immediately soaked through with their first taste of blood in thirty years.

Alastair stood proudly behind his new student, arms crossed and the smile still upon his lips. The woman screamed at the first touch of the blade and the sound reverberating throughout the seven layers of Hell, across the earth, and into the Heaven's, where the angels would realize they had failed. They had lost the war before it had even begun.

"That's my boy, Dean." He repeated again to himself. "'As he breaks, so shall it break.'" And Dean began his second incision, a smile suddenly on his own face as well, and Alastair laughed. The laugh echo back at him from his pupil, who began to cut again and again and again, until his first victim was nothing more then a pile of bloodied meat.

Alastair had never been more proud.

Well, that's all folks. Thanks for reading. For those of you who go the Ghostbusters reference, I applaud you. Here, have a cookie. And please leave me a note in the review box on your way out, I promise it would bite ;-) Thanks!