Summary: This was written for hoodie time sick dean prompt #9: Dean meets a soul he tortured down in Hell. This story is complete. Part 2 will be posted on Friday.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only and not for profit.


Rosalie, Dean thought numbly. It's Rosalie.

She was younger now, barely sixteen from the look of her, but he remembered how her mouth felt and tasted, years ago. She screamed as he worked his knives, panted into his mouth as he kissed her blood slick lips.

Rosalie smiled up at him and Dean couldn't understand why he couldn't step away from her. Time slowed to a crawl around them; the traffic sounds on the street faded away. People on the sidewalk passed by and didn't give either of them a second glance.

Dean felt his lips move, and he wondered what he was going to say: "I'm sorry I tortured you down in hell? So how've you been, otherwise?"

Pathetic.

What came out of his mouth instead was a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

"Missed you, Dean." Rosalie smiled up at him, quiet and serene. "You never call, and you never write."

Dean stared down at the knife in her hand, watched numbly as she pulled the blade all the way out of his side and then pushed it back underneath his skin. The bottom part of his black tee shirt and his jeans were soaked with blood. He couldn't stop shivering in the warm sunlight.

"I put something on the blade," Rosalie murmured. "Good poison. Just enough to relax you. Feels good, doesn't it, baby?"

Dean's knees buckled. The girl leaned into him, held him up; she was stronger than she looked. Dean jerked a little as she pulled the knife out of him and wiped the blade on his jacket sleeve. She closed the jackknife up and slipped it into her jeans pocket.

Rosalie reached up with her free hand and gently patted the side of his jaw as his chin bumped against the top of her shoulder. "Come on, Dean. Time to put on a show for your baby brother."

Heat flooded through Dean's body, loosened his muscles up all over and swept him away on a tidal wave of darkness.


Sam jerked himself awake. There was no pretense, no playing possum. His body still reacted to the sight of the four men who'd burst through the door of the motel room. They grinned at him, gleeful and black-eyed, and he fought them until something cold touched the side of his neck and everything turned a quiet shade of blue.

Now Sam reared up, lashing out wth his left hand. He couldn't raise his arm.

His right arm didn't work either. He couldn't move his legs. It felt like wood and steel underneath his body. His arms were stretched out to the sides; his legs were strapped together.

"Poor baby," someone crooned softly, and Sam opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was Dean.

Dean sat quietly, patiently, in a large wooden chair. He'd been stripped down to the waist, and they'd taken his work boots off as well.

Two of the possessed men from the motel room stood on either side of Dean. They leaned down whispering barely audible words into his ears.

Sam blinked. Dean wore what looked like maroon tribal war paint.

His face was striped with it. A thin line of dark red paint divided his face in half from the middle of his forehead to his chin. Other, shorter curved stripes ran from the corners of his mouth, his eyes, and from his cheeks back to the front of his ears. His bare chest was covered with fine thin lines of maroon paint that swirled and accented the hard toned muscles of his chest and arms. The design covered his shoulders, ran all the way down to his wrists. The long curved lines of the design on his right shoulder masked Castiel's handprint and the anti-possession tattoo on the upper right side of his chest.

Sam saw blood on Dean's right side, lower down, near his side. It was a stab wound; someone apparently smeared this orange gunk over it to stop the bleeding.

"Dean?" Sam whispered.

Dean didn't blink. His beautifully blank stare went through Sam like he wasn't even there.

"He looks amazing, doesn't he? He painted himself using blood and soot sometimes," a female voice whispered into the shell of Sam's left ear. Sam jerked away from the sound, then turned his head just enough to look at her. She stood at his right shoulder. Long, wavy auburn hair, wide hazel eyes set in a heart shaped face. She couldn't have been any more than fifteen, maybe sixteen.

Her eyes went pitch black.

"Look. Look. You don't need Dean." Sam hated the frantic tone in his voice. He could hear the desperation in his voice, and that made the girl smile. "Whatever…whatever this is, whatever you want, you've got me. You've got me. Just let him go, okay?"

"Oh, you should have seen him down under, Sam." She leaned forward, put her chin on Sam's shoulder. "The first time I saw him he really, really took my breath away," she murmured softly. "I mean that literally. He opened up my ribs and pulled my lungs out with his bare hands."

"Who…who the hell are you? What'd you do to him?"

"I'm Rosalie."

Sam blinked at her stupidly. Rosalie pouted.

"He didn't tell you about me? Huh. Well." She straightened up, drew back, and Sam was secretly glad of that. "No real reason why he should. I mean, Dean tortured thousands of souls down in hell." She came around to the other side, where Sam could get a really good look at her. She was a girl, just a young girl, that was all, dressed in blue jeans and a frilly purple shirt and a black hoodie.

Sam ignored her. His throat was so dry it hurt, but he forced the words out anyway. "Dean? Come on, dude, wake up. Dean, you gotta wake up…"

Nothing.

Rosalie's face brightened. "I know why he didn't mention me. I wasn't his first. I was one of many. I came later."

"Later?" Sam twisted his wrists against the wide leather straps. Everywhere he looked just intensified the feeling that they were in a really, really bad place.

All four walls were mirrored, from floor to ceiling.

Sam stared at himself. He was laid out, strapped down onto a rack. There was a small wooden cart over on his right hand side, and the only other thing in the room was the chair Dean sat in.

The light rippled over the mirrored tiles, from floor to ceiling. The colors shifted, from silver to light gold, then deepened to a rose pink.

"The devil's in the details, right?" Rosalie smiled as she stretched her arm out, ran her slim fingers up and down the surface of the nearest wall. Thin streamers of pinkish red light curled around her fingertips. "We spared no expense to bring the right materials topside. We wanted to make this right for the both of you."

The corners of Rosalie's lips curled up in a smile. She reached out, and lazily traced a design with her fingers over the nearest mirror. It was a heart shape that shimmered and flickered in the air before it dissolved away. "Alastair set him up in a mirrored room. Did Dean ever tell you that? No? Well, he did. Hell watched him, Sammy. Your brother put on quite a show nearly twenty hour hours a day, for years. He made Alastair proud. "

"Why are you doing this?" Sam whispered.

Rosalie seemed surprised at the question. "Why? It's all about you, Sam. And Dean, too, of course. He doesn't want to talk about what he did down in Hell, and we think that's a shame. He did wonderful work. Just wonderful. He's ashamed of what he did. Both of you need a little reminder, that's all."

"We? Who's we?" Sam snapped.

"My sponsors. I won't let him hurt you too badly. Not really. They wouldn't want that. But you'll remember, Sam. You will. You'll look at the new scars we'll allow Dean to give you and you won't want to be in the same room with him after this."

"Dean!" Sam called out. "Dean, wake up! Dude, please, wake up --"

Dean didn't even blink.

Rosalie frowned up at the noise Sam was making. "Fine. Have it your way." She walked around to that wooden cart on Sam's other side. He stared helplessly as she picked up something that looked like a wide band of thin brown rubber.

He could still see her in the mirrored wall directly in front of him. Rosalie stood directly behind llSam's head. His eyes widened. "No. No---"

"You're being very very rude, Sam," Rosalie opened the band with her fingers, slipped it down over Sam's hair and forehead. He thrashed back and forth as he realized what it was: a gag. His nostrils flared wildly as she passed it over his nose; whatever this material was smelled rank and sour, like bile.

Sam shook his head from side to side as she lifted his chin and slapped the gag into place. "There now."

Sam glared up at her wordlessly.

"Oh, don't be so judgmental, Sammy. Not everyone down in hell is a sinner. I wasn't." She leaned down, twirled a lock of Sam's bangs around her long, slim middle finger.

"My Dad was in a car accident. Usual stuff. Lonely country road. He swerved to miss this deer in the road and wrapped his truck around a tree. My little brother Tommy was in the car. He was ten years old. Daddy and Tommy died instantly. Rotten luck, huh? It took my mom a little longer. A couple of days later she took an overdose of pills. I lost my whole family in a matter of days."

Rosalie sighed contentedly. "I found the crossroads about a month later."

She carded Sam's thick bangs with her fingers. "I made the deal. I brought them back. I had ten good years with them. I saw my little brother graduate from high school, then go to college, and a couple of nights later the hellhounds came. I was ready to go. I had a debt, and I paid it gladly. And Dean was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes in Hell."

She smiled at Dean fondly. "All I could see was mirrors. And Dean. Painted and wild and gleeful, one image over and over again. The room was so bright and beautiful, just like him. Wasn't what I expected. Not at all. After he pulled my lungs out he took my head off with a hacksaw. Then he propped my head up on the rack and let me watch. I could still see and hear everything that was going on. I could still feel, y'know. I screamed a lot because he was hurting me. He liked that. Said he really liked my mouth." Rosalie slowly ran her tongue over her bottom lip.

Oh, Jesus. Sam closed his eyes. He really didn't want to hear any of this. He didn't want those images of that Dean doing those things stuck inside his head.

"Umm, let's see…the second day, Dean skinned me, opened me up and turned me inside out. He did it slow. He's got really good hands, what my Dad would have called talented. I spent two weeks with him, and he always left my tongue in my head because he wanted to hear me scream. When I told him I made a deal to get my family back, he laughed and said 'I hope it was friggin' worth it, sweetheart.' I told him I thought it was, and he kissed me. Then he took a pair of pliers and pulled out all my teeth."

Sam's stomach turned a slow, greasy flip-flop.

"I've been a good girl since then. I got my mind right. I learned from what he did to me, and later on I climbed off the rack and took his place with the torturers after Dean left. I owe it all to him."

Rosalie shivered as she hugged herself. "Just think of it, Sam. All the tender loving care Dean gave me made me what I am today."

The happy, grateful tone of her voice made Sam's skin crawl.

Rosalie reached out and slapped Sam on the cheek. "Sam? Open your eyes now. I already stabbed Dean once. I'll do it again if you don't open your eyes."

Sam did.

"Good boy. Anyway. After everything healed up, the next day he took my eyes out of my sockets with a melon scoop." Rosalie laughed. "I always did wonder where he got one of those down in Hell."

Sam forced himself to breathe in and out through his nose. The taste of the gag against his lips was heavy and foul.

The two possessed ones straightened up. The one on the right gently patted Dean's right shoulder the way a human would stroke a pet animal. "He's ready."

Rosalie nodded. "Good. Turn him loose."

The demon on the right leaned down and said five words into Dean's ear.


Dean's heart thumped fast and heavy against his ribs. He could feel each pulse, each beat at his temples, fast and quick and panicky. His hands were slick with blood, but that wasn't the reason he fumbled as he held onto the blade. He hadn't been this clumsy with a knife since he was a kid.

What if I fuck this up?

It was his first day.

First day off the rack, first day working his knives.

What if they put me right back on the rack?

His stomach cramped up horribly. Dean leaned against the side of the rack. He nearly doubled over, the sour metallic taste of fear ripe and heavy in his mouth.

I can't go back there. I won't…

"Your grip is too tight," Alastair purred into his right ear. Dean startled. He couldn't tell if Alastair was pissed off or not, and that scared the crap out of him even more. "Loosen up, pet. Get some flexibility in those fingers."

Dean nodded as he blinked away the wetness and the grittiness in his eyes. His hands moved with a life of their own, picking out tools from the table (scalpel, icepick, hacksaw). The air around him was wet with blood, sharp with screams.

The soul on the rack was a skinny little old man with thinning grey hair and a receding hairline. He stared up at Dean, pleaded with his eyes, (pleasenonononopleasedon'tdothis) and Dean didn't want to, he didn't want to do any of this, but he was scared and tired of hurting, tired of being hurt. He'd held out for so long (for too fucking long, a part of his mind murmured darkly) and he just couldn't take it anymore.

The knife felt heavy and awkward in Dean's hands as he made the first cut right down to the bone. He split the flesh in two, sliced down the collarbone all the way down to the navel. His hands slipped and slid against bone.

Dean peeled both sides of the face back slowly at first, then faster, and his fingers slipped because of the blood (I'm standing here with my fingers stuck inside this dude's eye socket was his only thought) and the left eyeball squirted out onto the soul's cheek like a too-ripe grape.

His movements were a little more frantic that he would have liked them to be, not smooth at all.

Alastair stood there watching with hooded black eyes.

All Dean could think of was 'm sorry. 'm sorry. I can't hurt like that anymore, I can't. I won't.

A voice he didn't recognize whispered words inside his head.

Dolemas sehujes heremc mas limtas.

Dean blinked.

That jittery feeling in his gut melted away. He knew who he was now, and he was fine with that.

It was time to go to work.


Dean rose up out of the chair. He cocked his head to one side, swept his gaze over Sam's entire body, then glanced at the tools on the cart.

No. Oh God, no, Sam thought, even though he was positive God had nothing to do with this.

Dean's eyes were a swirl of pitch black and light, bright green. He stalked around the table and the rack like a panther. He was the most beautiful human Sam had ever seen, and the most terrible. The lines of maroon paint on his taut, well-muscled body made him look elegant and feral. He didn't give the mirrors a second glance. He knew he was on, knew he had an audience, and not just Sam, either.

The mirror on the longest wall darkened to a blood red tint. Dark shapes lurked just under the surface. Watching. Waiting.

Rosalie wiggled her fingers at Sam as she backed away from the rack. "Bye, Sammy."

The two demons walked into the mirror. Rosalie turned and smiled at Sam as she followed them.

Dean didn't notice. Instead he ran his fingertips over the tools on the wooden cart, his full lips turned up in a slight smirk. He leaned over, pulled the gag up and over Sam's head, tossed it on the cart.

"It's okay. You can talk while I work," Dean said briskly. "Talk, scream, whatever floats your boat. Cuss me out if you wanna. Not gonna be the first time or the last. So what's your story, dude? You kill somebody, screw somebody's pooch, what?"

"Dean," Sam sputtered. The thick, foul taste of the gag clung to his tongue and lips. "It's…it's me."

"Me, who?" Dean picked up a long serrated knife, ran his thumb over the blade and grinned a little as a thin line of blood marked his skin.

"It's Sam."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. There was absolutely no hint of recognition in those multi-colored eyes. "A word of advice? Never piss off someone with a cart full of knives and sharp pointy things, wavy gravy."

"Dean, it's me, it's Sam. I'm your brother."

"Yeah, right. My brother's topside. I made the deal for him." Dean picked up a curved blade and stared at the razor sharp tip end with a critical eye. "That your story too? Crossroads deal? Helluva thing, isn't it?"

"Dean, please, no, it's me, it's Sam --- "

"I had a set of scalpels here." Dean looked at the cart and frowned. He bent down, looked at the lower shelf. "This is my cart. Don't like sharing with anybody else." His face brightened as he found what he was looking for. "Hey, there they are!"

Dean smirked as he picked up a wallet made of pale human skin. He opened it and stared at his tools. "Sharpened them myself. That was something my Dad taught me, y'know? You take care of your tools and they'll take care of you."

"Dean, please, don't…it's me…it's Sam ---"

Dean pulled one of the scalpels out, examined the edge of the blade in the overhead light. "Hope you don't mind, but I gotta mark my territory."

"Wh-what?"

"Well, yeah. Just my initials, though. That's the least of your worries compared to what I'm gonna do to you after that."

"Dean, no ---" Sam's eyes widened as Dean pulled a smaller leather strap from the second shelf of the cart and threaded it through the upper slots of the rack.

Sam bucked upwards. He raised his head up but Dean pushed him back down without much effort and pulled the strap tight across his forehead.

"Okay now." A flash of silver in Dean's hand, and the buttons on Sam's shirt went flying off. A flick of Dean's wrist, and the knife in his hand was a silvery blur in the air. The rest of the plaid shirt was cut away.

Dean stared at his brother's bare chest with a practiced eye. Sam's eyes widened as he realized that he was deciding where to make the first cuts.

"Dean, no, please, no, it's me, it's Sam. You gotta believe me, you gotta fight this. It's me, it's Sam…no, no---"

Dean reached out, poked his fingertips into Sam's chest, just below the junction of neck and shoulder, right next to Sam's collarbone. Sam pushed backwards, desperately trying to get away from Dean's touch. The cords in Sam's neck bulged, rigid and almost distended. His hands hooked into claws.

"Dean, please, no --- "

"I keep my blades sharp, dude." Dean gave Sam a pat on the shoulder, lightly. There wasn't any anger behind it. "You'll barely feel a thing." Dean chuckled. "Better enjoy that while you can."

Dean leaned forward with the scalpel in his hand. The tip of the scalpel slid underneath Sam's skin, moved in steady, sweeping strokes.

Dean hummed "Some Kind of Monster" while he worked.

Sam screamed.


Part 2 will be posted on Friday.