Disclaimer: I own nothing, Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and large television corporations such as the CW. Any and all of the following is completely fictional and fan-made.

Summary: All Hell has risen, and so an old friend must rise with it. Sam and Castiel must strive to protect Dean at all costs, even if it means against his will.

Author's Note: Hi hi! So I know I really shouldn't be starting another story, but I just couldn't help myself. Go ahead, sue me… I dare you! ;) At any rate, I'd like to dedicate this story to 67impalalover – I've just had the greatest time chatting it up with her, plus I know that she is just sooo into Alastair.

For clarification, Recidivus Atrox translates to "returning horror" from Latin to English. Just thought I'd throw that out there ^_^ Without anything further, please enjoy!!

- Recidivus Atrox -

Dean Winchester's breath increased from its steady flow to a wild pant as he slowly shifted beneath the blankets of his motel bed. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest – a bizarre tingling sensation spreading over his entire body along with a terrifying sense of falling. Or being pulled into some unknown abyss. Suddenly it hit him like an ocean wave – burning heat that was nearly unbearable to withstand. Then came the screams. A terrified woman, an agonized man. All of them helpless and afraid. All of them damned to the pits of Hell for all eternity.

Dean took a cautious step backwards, watching as two demons – both in their horrific true forms – hauled a man off towards the rack. "Please," the petrified soul cried out into the darkness, "Please. I don't deserve this!"

A chill ran down Dean's spine as he shuddered at the man's words. Wearily he began lurking backwards once more, attempting his best to make sure his presence went unnoticed. Suddenly, the hunter lost his footing and he came tumbling back onto nothingness. Dean gasped, spinning his head around rapidly. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the unsettling darkness that surrounded him, his heart rate gradually returning to a somewhat normal beat. Without warning, the air around him suddenly constricted into a freezing wave – colder than anything Dean had ever felt in all his time spent in the far corners of hell. The only time in which something even relatively similar to this had happened was when an almighty demon was nearby….

In a now panicked state, Dean crawled backwards wanting – needing – to escape from whatever entity was coming for him. Then, out of nowhere, his hand landed on something that stuck out drastically from the surrounding terrain. Dean ran his fingers over the strange object, its material very closely resembling leather. Reaching just slightly further behind him, Dean could now feel laces belonging to that of a shoe – someone stood literally just over his shoulder.

"Why, hello there Dean," a familiar voice echoed in a nasal tone. Dean's eyes widened in fear as he quickly darted forward, desperately wanting to be able to face his long lost opponent. "So sorry to have startled you my boy, certainly not my intention," the voice continued smugly.

"Where are you, you son of a bitch?" Dean growled, his eyes darting in every direction possible.

A shrill laugh emulated from the nearby creature's throat, the sound of joints popping as it evidently crouched down to Dean's eyelevel. "Oh I'm here," the voice declared simply, drawing ever closer to Dean, "the question is, where are you?" With that, milky white eyes emerged from the darkness, Dean now unable to keep his body from trembling. "Where could you possibly be hiding?"

Dean closed his eyes tightly, feeling like a small child trapped on a haunted house amusement ride. It's just a nightmare, he tried to reassure himself, just a stupid, freaking nightmare. Almost as if his hope had altered reality, Dean opened his eyes to the solemn hotel room. Surprisingly, he had just awoken – no sudden gasp, no cold sweat, nothing. Throwing the bed sheets off his body, he arose slowly, glancing around his surroundings. Now feeling the tension melting away from his muscles, Dean let out a long drawn sigh.

"It's not that easy, Dean," that nerve racking voice came once again from behind the hunter. Reluctantly, Dean turned to finally see his tormentor – there before him, Alastair slid his eyes back into their human state. With the blink of an eye, the demon appeared unsettlingly close to Dean – close enough to just reach out and grab him as a matter of fact.

Dean swallowed hard, a tight lump forming in his throat. "This isn't real," he muttered, but it was more of a question than statement.

"Oh it will be soon enough," Alastair assured Dean, running a hand down the hunter's jaw line, allowing it to rest on his chin, "I'm coming for you, Dean. Remember, your soul still belongs to me."

Dean's lips quivered as he clenched back all the curses and furious comebacks that dwelled within him – he wouldn't speak, wouldn't retort. He'd just allow Alastair to have his mind games, and then the show would be over. Wouldn't it? Dean knew from much experience that Alastair fed off the hatred and unrelenting rage that so many people hid deep inside their souls. He knew all the right phrases to say, all the right nerves to dance upon – and damn, was he a skilled dancer. Still, the demon smiled pleasantly at the lack of Dean's response, contently staring into his hazel eyes. Dean, likewise, stared right back into Alastair's, looking into the pupils which very much resembled the demon's own soul – pitch black and cold.

Suddenly, there came another voice, which broke Dean's mental barrier. At first it came out a dimmed murmur, the hunter unable to clearly make out what was being stated. Still, it persisted until Dean could hear it plain as day. "Dean!" came the bellowing voice of the younger Winchester.

Dean searched the room frantically, looking for wherever nook or cranny Sam might be hiding in. His attention was then drawn back to Alastair, who still smiled contently regardless the circumstances. Silently, he raised a finger to his lips, urging Dean to say quiet – guard the secret of his arrival, if you will. "Shhh," he soothed.

"Dean!" Sammy's voice shouted again, this time louder than before. Dean gasped, his eyes flashing open. Recklessly, he shot up out of bed, panting heavily as light beads of sweat rolled down his temple. It was all a dream, just a dream, Dean thought to himself. Sam, meanwhile, was on the edge of his brother's bed clasping his shoulders firmly. A combination of concern and hysteria merged within his eyes, slowly settling back to semi-normality. "Dude, what the hell happened?"

But that was just it, hell had happened, hadn't it? Well, perhaps not but – Dean couldn't shake the empty feeling that rested in the pit of his stomach. Something was most definitely off here. He shouldn't have been dreaming of Alastair, he'd finally reached the stage where he was, for the most part, over the nightmares of hell and onto acceptance of pure nothingness. No dreams, no nightmares, just black – for the entire night too. Not only that, but Dean found himself somewhat more rested than he had before the time when he still actually dreamt. And he most certainly was more rested than when all he could see was hell when his eyes closed. Never the less, something had tipped the balance within him and Dean wasn't about to let his little brother see it. "It's was… just a dream," he sputtered finally.

Dean could almost immediately feel Sam's muscles relax, his brother loosening the grip he held on his arms. "Did you, well, wanna talk about it?" Sam asked hesitantly after a moment. He looked up at Dean with his large and oval puppy dog eyes, making Dean almost indefinitely want to tell Sammy everything.

But still, he couldn't. It wasn't worth getting Sam all worked up over nothing. Dean rubbed his eyes wearily, letting out an exasperated sigh. "What is there to tell really?" he chuckled somewhat, "It was a nightmare, and it was hell."

"Literally?" Sam urged.

Dean closed his eyes for a brief moment, images of Alastair flashing before him. Reopening them, he avoided eye contact with his brother. He cleared his throat before responding quietly, "Literally."

So I don't know what it is, I just enjoy doodling around with this paring… we'll see how it goes haha. For future reference, when I write about Alastair, I'm focusing more so on the version portrayed by Christopher Heyerdahl – I preferred him over any of the others, personally.

Thanks for reading, I would really appreciate input on this one!!