This is just a little something to get the creative juices flowing! I was thinking about Ruby's character and then, apparently, I thought about Bela...and then blood, apparently. I think this is something of a dark!fic, just to warn you...not that I know. :( Huh. Ah, well.

Characters/Pairings: a little Dean/Bela, Alastair.

Warnings: blood. Language. Maybe a sexual implication...but nothing even happens, really.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or Bela Talbot, or Dean Winchester, or Alastair. They belong to Eric Kripke.

This might be kinda weird, but I hope you like it.


The Beauty and the Tragedy


Bela lay slack against the chains holding her on the rack, panting. Blood matted her once light brown hair to her head and ran into her eyes, dripping down her face. A deep gash that hadn't begun "healing" yet still resided in her abdomen. She was missing two fingernails, and her right third finger was simply gone. Her body still throbbed—and that meant that they weren't done with her yet for this session. It was something that had come to be expected. Nothing in Hell was done quick or easy…especially with Alastair, who liked to take his time and be precise. He wasn't her torturer for the past long while, however; it was one of the rogue demons, which meant that her inflictions were rougher and jagged and even more painful than usual. She was almost beginning to miss the other demon, with white eyes and a clever mouth. She wasn't sure how long it had been; time had no meaning in Hell.

She knew she deserved it. She was a bloody awful, cruel person…but that didn't stop her screams.

But she never pleaded, never begged. Not once. She had too much pride for that, and it wouldn't do her any good anyway, would only make her look more pathetic than she already did.

Bela screamed, thrashing and pulling violently against the chains holding her prone. Nothing had been done to her yet—other than the mortal wounds inflicted by the hellhounds—but she knew where she was. There was a real lake of fire, and lightning flashed from unknown sources. Her front was still torn up, her own blood sticking her shirt to her torso, her jacket still torn to shreds but hanging on limply. She wasn't dead, however.

They didn't let you die in Hell.

She couldn't see, but she felt when the demon came; the cold dread washed over her like icy water.

"We-ell, now, look at this fine specimen we've got here," the demon said in a much human-like but demented voice, giving a little laugh to it. "Bela Talbot. Or should I say Abbey?" he chuckled as he began to walk closer, his footsteps loud and echoing, and Bela began jerking at the chains again, trying to find a weak link.

And then he was standing in front of her. He looked human enough. But there were some kind of strange marks on them, like he'd been burned; some patches of the skin were even black. His teeth were literally rotting away.

He spread out his arms grandly, looking around. "…welcome to Hell." And he laughed again.

Refusing to let herself make a sound, Bela glared at him defiantly. At that, the goddamn demon raised an eyebrow in interest.

"So we've got ourselves a fighter." He shrugged, strolling over to table and casually picking up a long, jagged knife that was red from heat. Her heart began to pound as he came closer, holding the tip of it dangerously closer to her. "S'allright. Makes things more interesting. But, remember, sweetheart…"

He plunged the knife into her, and she threw her head back and screamed agonizingly, blood coming out of her body and coming up to color her lips and teeth both from the wound and the force of the scream.

"…everyone breaks eventually." Her vision was foggy, but she could see his smug smile as he added, "Call me Alastair," before he twisted the sword around completely, eliciting from her another scream.

That was her first day. Now? She wasn't sure how long it had been. Basically, all she knew was torture and blood and Alastair, who was always becoming more and more creative. The demon that had taken up the position now was typical, using knives and nothing else. If there was anything Alastair was good for—anything at all—it was intelligent conversation.

While she didn't just let the darkness overcome her, she knew it was soaking into her. But a still very human part of her felt something, recognized a soul. One that was bright as the sun but wavering. One that was unmistakable, dead or alive, heaven or hell.

And it was enough to make her fight again.

She struggled and shoved and jerked violently against the chains, which seemed weaker than ever. Soon, she was free of them. Still trapped in Hell, still bleeding, still inflicted, but free of her chains. And the inexperienced demon, for whatever reason, had abandoned post. So she bolted as fast as she could, stumbling—blood loss could still do something to you in Hell, apparently—but continuing on stubbornly. From there, she just followed the light, and it wasn't hard to find him.

When she did, he was leaning into the chains much like she had been, panting, blood running into his eyes. He was in much worse shape than she had been but was healing, the incisions that split his torso open knitting themselves back together. His eyes were closed, so he didn't see her.

Desperate, and so happy—almost relieved, if there was such a thing anymore—to see him, she limped over to him, cradling her hand against her stomach. Still, he didn't see her. So she dropped her injured hand and used her whole one to shake him. "Dean. Dean!"

He jerked upright, blinking at her, confused for only a moment before recognition flashed in those green eyes. "Bela," he whispered.

"Yes. Yes, Dean, it's me," she whispered, leaning her forehead against Dean's. "Oh, God, Dean, you…they got you. The mutts got you."

He nodded slightly, a weak movement that Bela registered by their contact. "They got me," he agreed, voice still rough and rasping somewhat from his pain.

"Dean, did…has Alastair given you his offer—?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, almost a groan, gritting his teeth. "The first day, on a silver platter."

Bela nodded, her eyes welling with involuntary tears at the sight of the man, so broken and ruined already but still so beautiful, in front of her. "Dean," she whispered, leaning even closer, her lips almost brushing his. "Listen to me; Alastair doesn't hand out that offer to just anyone. Only you. You can't say yes, Dean. Something terrible will happen if you do. Please, God, Dean, I know it's horrible but…I don't know what'll happen…" She was crying now, trying to keep it quiet but failing miserably. "Please, Dean…"

"I can take it," he whispered, the blood and wounds nearly gone now. "You know me. I'm Batman."

Bela laughed once through her tears. She could hear Alastair coming; they didn't have much time now.

"I'm holding on, Bela, but God, get out of here before he…" he didn't finish, looking up and over to the tunnel where Alastair's footsteps got louder.

"I know, Dean, I know," was all she got out before she gasped in a breath and pressed her lips to his, intensely and desperately, salty tears spilling down her cheeks.

Dean returned the kiss with just as much intensity, his heart pounding. And even when they separated, taking the time to breathe after, Dean said quietly, urgently, "Go, Bela. Now—"

"Dean," she whispered, still crying, kissing him again. And his mind cleared of everything, where they were, the pain, everything but of the heat and intensity and Bela. It was stupid—the part of his brain that had shut everything else out knew that—but for the love of God, Dean did not care. The kiss was passionate, it was intense, it hurt, and they needed it. They did not want it, they needed it. Then their lips broke apart, and they were both gasping once again as Dean pressed his lips against her forehead, hard. Bela leaned against his chest, tears still leaking down her cheeks.

"Well, isn't this sweet," an unsettling, sickly sweet, all-too-recognizable voice growled out from behind Bela.

Defiance spread through her once again, and she leaned away from Dean, turning around to face the demon and give him a hard glare. The humanity inside her was burning throughout her; no one could break her, not now.

"Alastair," Dean managed, "you stay the hell away from here."

"Actually, I think this situation is turning me on," Alastair said, giving Bela a very pointed look.

"Sorry about all this, but I think you want something that's mine," the demon that had done to her the damage she suffered now said, grabbing a hold of her arm from behind and dragging her away from the room—away from Dean—and onto the rack, shoving her on, the chains wrapping themselves so tightly around Bela it took her breath away. She had no doubt that there would be even more pain than usual for what she'd done, but she couldn't be expected to give a damn about the demon or any of his "tools", and barely felt her own pain as she listened to Dean's screams, trying not to cry once again.

It was Hell. The pain was unimaginable, and inescapable. But the strength Bela now held from Dean's kiss was beyond any of it.


This came to me quite suddenly. I was in a dark mood…but I'm not sure how I feel about it. But tell me what you think, please.