Disclaimer: Don't own these characters or mythology what so ever.
A/N: Okay, this is a totally different take on Dean down in the Pit. I love greek mythology and always pondered that Dean took on slight hues of the Persephone myth. Thus this fic was born. I also drew upon how Dean acted in the diner scene in Lazurus Rising and Vamp!Dean in Twi-Hard. So here we go.
The Dreaded One
Once upon a time the Earth crackled open, letting a three-head hellhound drag a bright, young soul into the Underworld. The screaming of the soul named Dean Winchester overcomes the sonic booms of thunder as the Earth sealed once more, drowning out the cries of the bright thing while the tears of a brother mourned over the cooling flesh of a body. It doesn't take long for the dogs to grow bored, throwing the frightened thing onto chains and hooks on the shores of the Abyss. An eternity passes as the soul cries out for help. He has nothing, no money or anything worth selling to cross over. But someone must have paid or he truly is worth something, for Charon comes.
The looming yellow skeletal man plucks the soul from the chains and hooks with no regard. Dean whimpers, clawing and fighting to break from the creature's hold. Yet Charon holds firm till he reaches his destination, far on the other side of the Abyss, where chaos reigns supreme with souls and demons and everything in between tearing and fighting against each other. There he binds Dean onto a rack of his own making, leaving him once more to the elements.
Demons from all around rip and shred trying to break this bright thing that didn't belong in the Pit. None of them succeed. Till a King arrives, parting the demons with the rivers of blood. A Grand Inquisitor who rules the Pit without pity. Out of all the demons, only he dares to woo and court the bright young thing. Alistair becomes a constant in the Dean's life, showering his affection with razors and thorns, whispering dead lies and burning truths before offering his blade. A union, a marriage of torturous Hell, he hisses seductively into that plump mouth, stabbing at the ripe freckles and brushing the soft rich hair. Still, the young soul doesn't waver. 30 years of starving and fighting, of clinging to hope for rescue, Dean keeps saying no in that flamboyant tongue of his.
Then one day, on the anniversary of his thirty-first year, he realizes no one is coming. No winged messengers are going to cross that Abyss to save him and return him to his brother. So Dean says yes. And in a nightmarish ceremony, Alistair at his left, hand leading the other, together they slice into young flesh of a child. They don't stop till she is begging for a God who doesn't exist and Dean breaks away from Alistair's grasp to finish the job. He doesn't stop till nothing remains that resembles a child.
In the haze of red and black, Alistair reaches in and rips the heart of the child's soul from the branch of a rib. Cradling the beautiful pomegranate red essence, the other soul watching with keen green eyes, Alistair plucks out the last tiny seeds of her innocence. Holding a ruby seed over Dean's mouth, he waits till those shredded lips open before dropping the seed in. It's so sweet and delicious, such a tiny thing erupting a dark hunger within the soul. Tongue flashing out, smearing the blood across his lips, Dean begs for more and for once his pleas are answered as he's feed three more seeds from Alistair's hand. Resting against the quicksand that is Alistair's chest, the young soul is content for the first time.
Running his talons through the hair, Alistair stares down at the lust heavy green eyes of his concubine. "Dean."
The soul barely shifts in response to his name, blinking heavily up at him as the Food of the Damned takes root deep in his soul, carving out a dark hole that nothing can ever fix. Smoke circles and presses into Dean, making him hiss in pain. The slim humanoid creature of Alistair with a tail made of cat-tail whips and taloned toes click with appreciation as razor fingers glide over Dean's back flesh. The demon cups Dean's face tilting it side to side as if he's undergoing an inspection. The face is obsidian with no definite shape just a few chips where milk-glass eyes reflect their own hellish flames, an unsettling match to the broken fanged rotting teeth. Hands caress Dean's sides as if he can't get enough.
And the freshly ordained soul lays there, not having the energy to fight as the demon melts into him, entering his mouth, kicking his legs apart to spear through him. Dean's body trashes, fighting till there is nothing left as the demon hammers into him, violating every aspect with hums of pleasure and responding tiny grunts of pain. There's a loud shattering far below them, as Alistair shudders deeply before pulling out of Dean, white eyes bright with bliss. Dean's a broken puppet in his lap, parts of Alistair dripping out of his eyes, ears and mouth.
Reaching up, Alistair wipes away the black ooze of himself from the corner of Dean's reddening lip. "Welcome home, my precious thing."
Dean whimpers before he dies one final time in Alistair's embrace. Coldness washes away the youthful, colorful features hardening them in a layer of icy damnation, marking him as Alistair's for all eternity.
Above, on the tarmac plains of Earth, Sam Winchester ravages and tears apart the land, searching for a way to bring his brother Dean back from the Pit. Minutes trickle into hours which bleed into days before snowballing into months. The stain of demonic sulfur he leaves builds and builds and the Earth hisses in pain, knowing something terrible is on the horizon. It's the thundering clouds that draws the young Winchester back towards Pontiac, Illinoiss.
Down below, through stone and lava, a winged messenger stands silently behind a thin wall, sparing a glance at an unknown rack across from him. It's rotting, chains and hooks merging into one while blood, bone and chunks of a soul bleed the wood downwards forming tiny bridges into the ground. Through the centuries, this rack will become another of the many stalactites cementing the original owner to the Pit for all eternity. The Dreaded One stands quietly as a taller demon caresses him, tweaking and carving here and there, while whispering deadly advice. Green eyes flash to his hiding spot, noticing his presence before that of the older one. The messenger's grace sings in recognition of the soul he was sent to find and retrieve.
Dean bows his head, dashing fingers over the broad chest. The angel realizes that despite the mannerisms and postures, Dean is not submissive or a whimpering mess that yearns to please Alistair, if only to avoid further pain. He's also not a lost, blood-crazed soul, unlike so many others who have lost their minds and humanity after years in the Pit. No, this one soul bids his time, using his sexual prowls and honed hunter skills to inch closer and closer to Alistair. To whisper into the hollowed ear, pressing hard into the form letting his taste for inflicting pain swirl in his eyes. A flash of a horrific dream flashes in his mind and he understands what Dean is doing.
Not one to rush in without a plan, this soul waits for a time when he finally can turn the tables and snare the Inquisitor onto a rack. It's a dream many demons yearn for but they lack the patience, drive and cold-fortitude which Dean flourishes. That one day, Alistair will be tied onto a rack and Dean will be carving into him soaking up precious screams and inhaling the bloody perfume of revenge. Alistair buys the ruse and slithers deeper into the caverns.
Dean watches with hungry eyes before pivoting and breaking out of the darkness while the messenger steps towards him. Eyes roam up and down the shadowed form of light, examining him like a piece of meat. Ever since Alistair carved Dean Winchester into a new creature, the Pit hasn't been the same. There's a cold, bitter twisted sense of justice encroaching over the domain, coating everything in an arctic mist the deeper they plunged into Hell.
Somewhere, red and orange drapes of fire blaze to life revealing a long melting limestone table littered with trinkets and toys. A few guards are stationed off in the distant entrances distracted by the diversion of blinding lights far off in the horizon. Winchester stops a few inches away. The pale skin is cross-stitched together, patches and scars of big and small weaving together the image of a man whose true flesh rotted long ago. Between the cracks where the threads of heart and muscle are worn thin from heat of the fires and the acid of hatred and self-loathing, blackness oozes out like the yellow puss of an infection. It's hard to believe that this collage of horror in the make-shift of a trashed puppet screams out hellish perfection.
The black ooze paints just the right amount of smoothness as if creating a new layer of skin to house the final shape. It runs down the legs in strips of what is a weak imitation of pants. But the chest remains bare; the skin patches from afar taking on a pale alabaster shade, the abs with just the right definition, tight and taut with each unneeded breath. Forearms are shed of any fat, just muscle and tendons twitching with suppressed glee and hunger indicated by long, slim fingers, the dull fingernails manicured with blood.
While the left hand twirls a pen knife between its polished white knuckles, glinting like rings, the right rises upwards stroking teasingly along the tight neck streaking it dark red. Dean tilts his head slightly upwards and left, those cheeks burned smooth with nitro and poked leaving tiny black holes where his freckles once used to be. There's no color on that once full of life face. It's stone, perfection carved and smothered into a facsimile of itself. Even the hair once thick and short, a compliment to the youthful demeanor of the hunter has been hacked down; shaven till only faint dark fuzz exists. The only thing with a speck of color on that haunted face is the jade eyes, ruby lips and a crown.
A charred forked tongue flickers out to catch the drops of blood from the fingertips. As the hand lowers, the tongue cradles the blood lovingly before smearing it over the lips painting it with honed skill as if he's done this every day, staining those lips with the blood of his victims. The eyes fall half-lidded with what almost looks like euphoria and a hum of approval fills the room. Dean is the youngest of Alistair's apprentices. But he's also the favored one, the beloved concubine in this Pit for the white-eyed demon's whims. And that position, that ranking shows in how Dean fixes the gems for eyes onto his form, body moving with royal gracefulness as his tarred bare feet walk ghostly over the ice, leaving behind sizzling pieces of himself in the footsteps. The red scratches and claw marks merging in a delicate design around his temple and forehead like a crown completes the picture.
"Now you come." Dean's voice reminds the messenger of a foreboding wind rustling through dead trees. It's soft and raspy, but there's hidden power behind the lips.
"I've come to return you to your brother, Dean Winchester." The winged messenger's voice is a searing blast of heat, the ice groaning and crackling as a layer is melted into a pool of water reaching up to their ankles. A curt laugh responds; sharp eyes and a long thin smile stretching across that alabaster face.
It's not a warm smile, doesn't reach those green eyes that are dead to the world. "You're too late."
Lightening crackles, illuminating the place even more as the moans and screams of other souls cry out. The baying of hounds slices through the air catching the scent of the intruder. Dean turns to face the direction of the sound. "Snap, Crackle and Pop, Alistair's hounds. Playful little bastards, they're particularly fond of ligaments...and the feathers of angels."
The angel flares out his wings, a multitude of layers and pairs, his three faces morphing into form before melting into a neutral blank canvas of light. Dean flicks the pen knife hard and fast into the rack making it crack upon impact, raining dust down on the water. "This is my rack. My little baby, my pride and joy and home for 30 years." Dean's voice doesn't waver, tight in memory and pride. "My throne for all eternity."
"You do not belong here, Dean Winchester."
"Yes I do."
There's a battle brewing near one of the entrances, the ice refreezing over with the presence of a powerful demon nearing. Dean glances at it in fear before something snaps behind the eyes as if a plan is forming. Breaking his feet free, he flashes a smug grin at the angel before tilting his hands open in submission. "Take me if you can."
The angel pauses wondering why the change in demeanor before he reaches out and lands his hand on the shoulder of the Dreaded One. Dean barely hisses, flesh sizzling into the shape of a hand before he twists and fights weakly to break free. "Alistair!"
The fear and yearning shocks the angel as that same demon from before roars into the room, white eyes wide with shock before drowning in rage and possession. Snapping open his wings, the angel named Castiel launches into the sky, his brethren quickly following his lead. Nothing follows them though, the white-eyed demon merely staring up at the sky as if he too has a plan, a reason for not pursuing.
Dean senses it and truly starts struggling, clawing and kicking to break free as if what he's planned is not going the way he wanted. "Let me go, you mutant firefly! Let go! Alistair! Alistair!"
Sneering in annoyance, Castiel takes one hand to Dean's forehead and whispers a sleep spell knocking out the young demonic soul. With Dean slumped in his grasp, the angel cannot help but think he's become a pawn in a game of power play between the two as his remaining garrison surges to the surface.
It's not until Castiel is on his knees, the fowl taste of meat on his tongue with Famine moaning out how Dean has a deep, dark nothing in his soul does it all snap into focus. The time when Dean was sitting in a diner, his brother across from him just after the incident with Pamela. How Dean was not fazed when dealing with the demons. Instead, he oozes with that same eerie restrained power, slamming the demon back into her place with a few slaps and chosen words. No blood is split and yet the demon trembles lightly in her chair.
There are multiple other times, how Dean faces demons and later Alistair himself. Then there's the test, the dream flash Castiel saw long ago in the Pit coming to fruitation. He truly believed what Dean said that he'd become someone else, the Dreaded One in the flesh. Despite it being a roughly a year, Castiel blinks and feels his shoulders slump in utter defeat.
In the long run, Alistair has won the game of ownership and Dean knows this, has known the moment when the demon pinned him to the metal star rack. Castiel has failed his charge more deeply than failing to stop the Apocalypse from occuring or protecting Sam. He's failed in saving Dean's soul.
Dean Winchester will forever carry the seeds of Hell within him, glimpses of the powerful creature he became peeking out when the time arises. How for four months out of the year, Dean blurs the line of living and dead, saved and damned. His soul darkening as it retreats to Hellish memories where he ruled by Alistair's side as his perfect Persephone.