Dear Readers,

Before you read this, please realize I have only watched up to the end of season 4. I don't know what happens after and do not WANT to know until I watch it. Please be careful not to give anything away if/when you review. Thanks so much! Also, if there are errors in my text regarding the plot, please forgive me and understand why I am so clueless. Hope you enjoy regardless!

As a bonus, those who leave the best reviews will be given cameos in my work! If you want a chance to tell Sam or Dean just how much you love them, be saved by the Winchesters, help them defeat a demon, etc. give a stellar review and look for the possibility of your name in the story!

(I do not own Sam or Dean Winchesters, more's the pity. However, I am quite glad I don't have anything to do with Alastair or Ruby. They should be grateful of this twist of fate as well, or I would make them suffer like holy water never did.)

Thirty Years

Alastair made another cut. A slow one that sawed right down to the bone and then through it. Pain and blood skyrocketed, hitting the low-hanging stone ceiling. Dean Winchester didn't scream. He couldn't. His tongue had been cut out, making the luxury of screaming impossible. Instead, blood catching in his throat and threatening to suffocate him, he whipped his head from side to side.

All around, the rising and falling of agonized shrieks came from the other racks. Dean used to wonder why they called hell an ocean of fire. Now he knew – the pain was the fire, and the ocean was the undulating sound the souls made as they poured their grief to the sky and it fell back on them, a hundred times worse.

Another cut. Another spurt of gore, and then a thud and a splash as Dean's left leg was unharnessed and allowed to roll off the rack and into a puddle of blood. Dean kept a tight control of the nausea roiling in his stomach. If he let it up, he'd drown in it. After thirty years of limbs being cut from his body, he should be used to it. But then again, if he did get used to it, then it wouldn't be hell anymore, which would be beside the point.

"Come on, Dean," sighed Alastair, stopping to go over and stand by the young soul's head. "You're making this very tedious. Won't you even consider . . .?"

Dean rolled his eyes up to the demon's hideous, wrinkled, blood-spattered face. Alastair sucked on the bloody knife.

"Aren't you going to answer me? Oh!" The demon laughed. "I forgot, you don't have a tongue this time round. Well, nod or shake your head, then. Just a little nod. And it will all be over. You never have to worry about being put on the rack again. All you have to do is take up the knife yourself. You know you want to. Make someone else suffer for a change."

It was force of habit now that made Dean shake his head. He had long since stopped caring about the people on the racks all around him, much less pitying them. He had even stopped pitying himself – pity was an emotion that tormented the soft. Every last bit of softness in Dean had been torn from him during the first twenty years. The last ten years, all that had kept him on the rack and unyielding to the demons' promises of freedom was sheer rebellion, a hard hate that made submission to their will impossible.

Alastair sighed. "Fine. But realize you bring all this upon yourself." The demon left Dean's head, went to stand beside the soul's bared abdomen, and plunged the knife deep through Dean's stomach. This time, Dean didn't care if he had a tongue or not.

He screamed anyway.