Author's note: Part 2, like I promised! Let me know what you think- it was getting a bit wibbly at the end in my opinion, but hey, that might just be me.
ALSO: I redid my math and there are 14,600 days in 40 years, not 14,400. My bad.
Again, REVIEWS ARE GOLD AND SPARKLES. Especially cause I'm stretching my metaphorical legs a bit and entering the hell!fic range and feel like writing gore and violence and need to know if I'm doing it right. that will be all. Enjoy! :)
Dean is happy to be working. When he was alive he hated the days when there was nothing to do, and now that's he's down here he excels at finding new ways to entertain himself. There's something beautiful about the deep burgundy of the liver, the royal purple of the spleen, the shining crimson of the blood that lubricates it all; Dean loves to swirl and mix the colors into new designs. Sometimes he dimly feels that Sam would be disappointed, but it's easy to drown out his conscience with the screams of the damned.
"You're my favorite student, Dean." Alistair slides possessive hands around Dean's waist, and Dean smiles as he flays the skin off the soul in front of him. (37 years, 102 days)
Dean is working hard, but the confusion outside seems worse than usual. He wipes his hands (Alistair is very particular about hygiene) and distractedly orders the soul in front of him to shut up so he can listen. Dean hates the noisy ones. He considers going to look for the source, but hesitates. Dean hasn't been outside this corner of Hell in almost forty years, and he isn't sure Alistair would allow it. Briefly, he wonders when Alistair's opinions became more important than his own.
"Problem, Dean-o?" Alistair is standing right behind him, breath hot on Dean's neck for the first time in a long time. Dean's momentary courage dies, and he raises his tools once more, losing himself in the work.
"You're mine Dean. You will always be mine." Alistair's voice is gentle, and Dean shivers as he nods. (39 years, 364 days)
Castiel finds his charge working at the rack, and stares until for the Righteous Man to notice him. When Dean Winchester turns, Castiel finds himself caught in the startling green of his eyes, eyes that contain a vitality that survives even in the midst of Hell. Despite the tarnish and stains that shroud the man's heart, Castiel knows that his is the brightest soul he has ever seen.
"Dean Winchester," he begins, "I have come to deliver you from this evil." The man's only response is a snort, but Castiel does not miss the way he turns back to the rack too quickly, afraid to consider redemption.
"I am sorry that this had to happen to you," Castiel whispers softly, knowing that Dean Winchester will not remember this moment. Before the Righteous man can do or say anything, Castiel seizes his soul by the arm and propels them both out of Hell.
The speed of their flight strips the filth from Dean's soul in an instant. As it drifts down like ash, Alistair's howl of fury rises to meet it. (40 years)