Spoilers: Through BtVS season six Grave and the very beginning of Supernatural season four, but nothing too specific other than Dean is out of hell.
Disclaimer: I don’t own BtVS or Supernatural and make no profit from this dark and twisted fic.
Dean would wake up in a cold sweat some nights, memories of hell and the rack too close to the surface. At least he’d managed to train himself not to scream. The horrified looks from Sammy those first few weeks were a bitch to ignore. Some nights he dreamt of his own time bound, and others…others he dreamt of those he tortured, like that one guy, the first guy.
He stood, actually stood for the first time in over thirty years, and stared down at the man chained to the rack before him. Allistair’s hot breath brushed Dean’s ear, and he fought the urge to shiver in disgust. His breath smelled like sulfur, or maybe he’d just been in hell long enough for the odor to permanently entrench itself in his senses.
“He was a very bad man, Dean.” The demon’s voice seemed to slither up and down his spine, and he clenched the knife in his hand tighter, caught between the urge to hurl or cry. “He enchanted a woman, made her think she was in love with him.”
Allistair moved from behind him to slowly circle the rack, the man’s terrified eyes flicking back and forth between him and Dean. Deciding to appeal to the less scary of the two, the condemned man turned to the one holding the knife.
“It was a little love spell. That’s all. I just wanted her to love me. Is that so wrong?”
Dean felt his right eye twitch. He didn’t want this guy talking to him. It would only make this harder, but he’d be damned it he was going back on the rack, taking this man’s place for another instant. He just couldn’t
. God help him, but he couldn’t take another day of that torture.
“Ah, but that’s not all you did, is it?” Allistair began again. “Once you had her under your spell, you fucked her, over and over. Fucking someone who had no control of their own will? I’d call that rape, wouldn’t you, Dean?”
The damn demon’s voice was almost conversational. How could he be so calm? Dean swallowed hard, but didn’t say anything…couldn’t.
“Oh, but it gets better. Once that pretty little thing got her mind back, she knew…knew
exactly what you did. She was going to turn you in, but you couldn’t have that, could you? So you chased her, pushed her down those stairs, murdered
Allistair’s eyes were alight with a sick glee, and the wide, twisted grin on his face was disturbing to say the least.
“It was an accident! I swear, I didn’t mean to kill her. I loved Katrina.”
” The demon spat upon the ground. “You chained her to you mystically, raped her, and then murdered her when you couldn’t get your way.”
“No! No! I was just trying to talk
to her. She wouldn’t listen, so I grabbed for her, but she pulled away. She lost her balance and fell down the steps. I didn’t kill her. I would never kill Katrina. I loved her, I swear!”
Dean clenched his jaw, wondering if that were truly the case. Not that he approved of what the man did, not in the least. He really did sound remorseful and like he believed the girl’s death had been an accident. The mind control and rape though? Not so much.
“Oh, but we’re still not done, Dean.” Allistair sneered across the rack at his newest apprentice. He just needed a push, he knew. The right words, the right sob story to get him teetering on that fine line, the proper climax to push him over the edge from God’s soldier to torturer of the racks. “Even after dear, sweet Katrina tumbled down those steps and broke her neck, you didn’t stop, did you?”
The man on the rack shivered in absolute fear as the demon’s claw-like fingers ran through his hair in an almost soothing manner.
“You tried to drive one of the warriors of the light insane, tried to kill her numerous times. You didn’t manage, you know?” Allistair once again turned his attention to Dean. “He went to her house, gun loaded, determined to take her out once and for all, the vampire slayer.”
Dean’s eyes widened slightly at that. He’d read about the slayer in one of Bobby’s books, but figured she was just a myth.
“She’s real, Dean. The slayer is a true warrior with a destiny to destroy those like me and my brethren.”
He really hated it when the bastard read his mind.
Allistair’s lips twitched in amusement. “While he shot her, she didn’t die. Shame, that. This one has been a pain in the ass and lasted longer than most. She just can’t seem to stay dead. Ah, but one of those bullets did hit a target, did take a life.”
With a wave of his clawed hand, an image swirled to life above the rack for both the man on it and Dean to clearly see. Long, blonde hair, gentle blue eyes, and a shy smile.
“Tara Maclay.” The hot breath was back against his ear. Allistair had moved too fast for Dean to track, but he felt the demon’s presence behind him again and swallowed hard once more. “Sweet little wiccan. She was a good girl, Dean, who followed the creed, tried to help the slayer and her friends fight the good
fight. She was in love, too, so happy with her little girlfriend.
With another wave of his hand the image wavered, changed, and began to move as if they watched someone’s home video collection. Two women stood in a bedroom, the pretty blonde, Tara, and an equally pretty redhead. Both glowed, and looked exceedingly happy. Dean watched the redhead reach for Tara’s belt loops and pulls her into a sweet kiss.
“Willow. Her name is Willow,” Allistair hisses in his ear.
He watched them look out the window, and the redhead, Willow, turned back to the dresser to open a drawer. The scene switched to some blonde chick and dark haired dude in a yard, and Dean frowned, confused. That’s when he saw the man on the rack burst into the backyard, gun drawn, looking angry, evil.
Things seemed to happen quickly after that. Shouting, gunshots, and the scene changed again back to the two girls, Tara and Willow. The sound of glass shattering seemed to be drawn out, time slowed, and Dean watched the shocked look on Tara’s face, the blossom of red on her chest, and the splatter all over Willow’s clothes and face. Things sped up after that and Dean watched the redhead rock Tara in her arms, her ragged sobs tearing at his heart.
“Baby, come on! Get up!” Willow’s sobs grew frantic. “No, no!”
Another wave of Allistair’s skeletal hand froze the image in place.
“Sweet little thing taken before her time, murdered by this animal in front of you.” The demon’s voice was dark, coaxing.
“It was an accident! I didn’t mean to kill her.” The condemned man protested.
“No, you just meant to kill the slayer, didn’t you?” Allistair peered closely at the man over Dean’s shoulder, held his breath, and waited for it. He was an expert a manipulation after centuries, and knew just how to push the right buttons.
“That bitch deserved it! She had it coming. Bitch ruined all my plans, and she didn’t even have the decency to die.” Warren Meers snarled up at the two hovering next to him, but then quickly sensed his mistake when the demon’s face turned gleeful, and the eyes of the man with the knife went ice cold.
The first slice of the blade was the hardest, but Dean blocked out the man’s screams by focusing on his words and the evil expression on his face in that one instant, in the memory Allistair showed him, the one of heartbreak and utter devastation on the redhead’s face that still hovered above the bloody body on the rack, and the man’s complete lack of remorse.
Allistair stood behind Dean, eyes closed, and listened closely, as if he could hear the first seal actually break over the sounds of Warren’s screams.
When it was over, Dean stood above the mangled mess that was Warren Meers, and trembled. He tried to breathe through his mouth and ignore the blood and gore that coated the knife and his spattered body. He had broken.
Dean Winchester choked back a sob, but couldn’t stop the lone tear that trailed down his cheek. He was damned.
The sulfured breath of Allistair once again tickled his ear.
“You always remember your first, Dean.”