Title: Every moment
Rating: R, lots of torture.
Characters: Dean Winchester and Alistair. Brief apperances by Sam, John and Mary Winchester.
Notes: Written for the fandom free-for-all, based on a prompt by tifaching.
Warnings: Spoilers for seasons 1-3, lots of torture, lots of hurt!dean.
Disclaimers: They don't belong to me folks. :P
Summary: Dean's in hell, and theres only one person who talks to him anymore.

He snarled once again, feeling the blood pooling against his skin as Alistair dragged a sharp, short blade along his shoulder. He was beginning to feel the way he had every day for the last twenty years, as if there was barely a shred of him left. He felt grimy and ill, but couldn't help feeling grateful that he had kept his eyelids this time. Yesterday's removal of them was still fresh in his mind, though the demon had managed to mangle them pretty effectively today with a corkscrew.

Alistair was a shadow figure, with no real definition except for the swirling, inky blackness he could glean from one ruined eye. Some days Alistair chose to appear as a person, but on most he would be this shadowy, indistinct thing. He was humming as he worked, some sort of horribly upbeat tune that he had never heard, and when he sighed next to Dean's face it felt like his skin was crisping.

"Dean…" His voice contained thousands of sounds, but the overwhelming impression was a strange hissing, like steam escaping a boiler. He groaned as the blade cut down into his flesh, sliding along the bone of his jaw effortlessly. "Dean…Sam will probably come get you, you know?"

He said nothing. The burning steel slowly pulled free from his jaw and he groaned again, reduced to basic, primal noises.

"Yes, I imagine he will. Make some sort of silly hail-Mary play and switch you out of here." He pulled back and said nothing for a while, and Dean grunted.

"You humans. So emotional." Another cut, this one deep into his thigh, and he managed a scream this time. Each wound burned individually in his mind, something Alistair had told him was a perk of not having a physical body. "Are you excited for the day when your darling brother comes riding in on a white horse? Are you ready for your saviour?" A small chuckle, which horrified Dean more then he thought it could.

"And then he'll be here, and I'll tell him all about the things I planned on doing to you before you left. So rude." He huffed as if Dean had actually escaped, and this time his knee felt as if it were encased in molten rock.

Sudden, glaring brightness assaulted him as his sight returned in an instant. Alistair stood in front of him, a little more distinct.

"Or maybe I'll just show him, hmmm?"

"Well Dean? My offer still stands."

"Fuck you."

"Pffft, so foul. It's a good deal Dean. You get to experience the real power of hell. And it's not like they don't deserve it."

"I said fuck you."

"As you wish."

Sam grinned, his eyes bright yellow as he brandished a wicked looking spiked implement that reminded Dean of a barbed rolling pin. Light flashed behind him in the thick red fog, illuminating twisted shapes and strangely dark places in the dense mist

"Come on big brother, don't cry! Look on the bright side."

Dean couldn't hold his head up anymore and had given up trying. He hung there, limp, muscles trembling and seizing from exhaustion. Not-Sam brushed a bit of hair from his face and smiled winningly.

"No? Oh well." He grabbed Dean's chin with one hand and forced his head up, staring into his pain-clouded eyes searchingly. He frowned at the spark of defiance that remained there.

"Ah, that Winchester fighting spirit. Doesn't it get hard to bear, brother?"

No answer was forthcoming, so he dropped the dangerous tube and backhanded Dean hard. A tooth flew from his mouth and disappeared from sight in an instant, as if it had never existed. He laughed, and it sounded so much like Sammy that Dean nearly sobbed. He'd been hanging midair, held by thick chains wrapped around his wrists for what seemed like days, listening to Alistair/Sam gloat. It was becoming almost unbearable, but when he looked up next Sam and his freakishly long legs had been replaced by a short blonde in a white nightgown. He looked back down quickly. Mary looked beautiful and creepily serene in the red light of the hellfire.

"Dean, sweetheart. Just take the deal and all this could be over." Her hand was soft and gentle against his cheek, just like he remembered. He said nothing. "All that pain? It will be someone else's to take."

She smelt like vanilla.

"Should I even bother asking today?"


"Hmmm? No witty retort?"


"Are you sure? It'll be a good time, I promise."


"Suit yourself."

"I'm going to give you a choice today, boy. I do enjoy mixing things up." Alistair held up two lengths of wire, both needle thin and sharp on one end. "Which side, left or right?"

Dean stared at him and said nothing. He was stretched out like some sort of horrible mockery of Christ, his arms pulled on either end by thick meat hooks pushed through his palms. Heat baked his skin and he blinked back tears of pain and exhaustion.

"No? Nothing to contribute? What a shame. I could always do one on each…" He seemed to enjoy that idea, and stepped up to the elder Winchester's right side and slowly slid one of the wires into the cartilage of his ear, laughing a little at the noise Dean made. It snaked its way down before punching through the thin membrane of skin on his earlobe. Dean screamed the entire time. Each breath he took burned and charred his lungs.

"You remind me of John, you know that?" Alistair sounded almost wistful. "John Winchester… Now he was a canvas. So perfectly noble it was almost unbelievable."

Dean cried out when he punched the second wire under his fingernail. The strange blackness twisted and resolved itself into John's form, every detail perfectly rendered but somehow blurred, like Alistair was having issues holding the form. It lasted only a second and then every detail was in high definition. The scruffy face, the demanding brown eyes. Dean felt his spine stiffen in spite of everything.

"You're a solider fighting for something he doesn't believe in. Fighting my battles because that's all you're good for." John leaned close and Dean nearly whimpered. "And you don't even do a half-decent job. Doesn't that piss you off?"

"Thirty years. Did you like your anniversary present? I worked really hard on it."


"Come on, speak up. I can barely hear you."


"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, okay? Yes. I'll…Yes."

"…Ha! You're serious!"


"Well Dean, welcome to the team."