A/N: My take on Alastair and Dean, in Hell.

Timeline: takes place up to I Know What You Did Last Summer.

Summary: This is the companion piece to Pretty, Reloaded. Alastair's thoughts about his favorite, Dean Winchester.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment, not profit.

Such a pretty boy.

Breathtaking.

Most humans look like shit when they're bruised and bloody, wide-eyed with fear and pain and rage.

Dean Winchester was exquisite.

The welcoming committee had first crack at him before I got to him. He was bruised and bloodied. They put hooks in his sides and shoulders, the better to string him up while we prepared my rack for him. The hellhound ripped him up and out from his throat down to his groin. Left leg was broken in two, white bone sticking up through the skin, from where the hound pulled him down.

Usual stuff. No real finesse. I've seen that kind of thing before. I did more damage in the first three minutes of my first day on the job.

The day I walked into my workspace and saw that beauty strapped down on my rack was one of the happiest days of my life.

Dean glared at me defiantly, and I actually got a thrill when he opened his mouth and spoke. His voice was rough with pain and rage, but I could already see that he was worth the special attention we were going to give him.

"When I get loose I'm going to kill all you hellbound sonsofbitches. Every last one, you hear me, you bastard? I'm gonna kill all of you!"

Lovely.

Just lovely.

He was better than I ever hoped he would be.

I walked around him as he lay there, ran my fingers down his arm, over his body. He strained against the straps. He hated it when I touched him.

Good.

He was in perfect physical condition, better than most we get down here. Athletic, muscular, but quick on his feet. I could tell, even though he was strapped down like he was.

I took inventory, touched him all over, slowly, carefully, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

Soft, spiky dark blond hair, high cheekbones, wide green eyes framed by the longest, darkest eyelashes I've ever seen on a human male.

He was deep-chested, slim hipped, with broad shoulders, and his legs were bowed just enough. He was a combination of male and female traits that I'd never seen before, and it all worked somehow. He was pretty. He was beautiful. He was handsome and masculine all at the same time.

And he was mine now, all mine.

I noticed his skin first. In my line of work I've seen all types. Most humans have average or bad skin. Dean's was magnificent; golden, freckled and taut, a perfect fit over those smooth, hard muscles.

I like freckles. Have I ever told you that before? I do.

I wanted to see his mouth while I worked, so I didn't gag him. Those full lips of his gave me all sorts of ideas. That voice of his, oh so deep and whiskey smooth…sent a chill down my spine, even when he was screaming out in pain as I played cats' cradle with his guts. I never got tired listening to him bellow at me.

All that rage and anger inspired me, drove me to new depths.

I had more than my share of volunteers who wanted to help me work on him. Other demons, other beings that Dean and his family had sent down to Hell.

I turned them all down. If you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself, and I was not about to allow unskilled labor to work on Dean. I have standards.

I also have my reputation to think about.

I fucked Dean myself, every day, for the first thirty years. I had a couple of extra meatsuits. One of them was special, altered just for Dean.

He looked startled the day I showed up wearing meat that looked just like John Winchester. I knew what the boy was thinking, knew he was telling himself that this couldn't be his beloved Dad, couldn't be, because Daddy escaped through the Devil's Gate.

I touched Dean on the left thigh, caressed him there slowly, gently, and I smiled at him. "Hey, Ace. Been a while, huh? Good to see you."

"D_Dad?" he shook his head. "You can't be…can't…"

His eyes unfocused as I leaned down, rubbed the side of my face slowly against his. "It's me. Couldn't leave you alone in a place like this. Decided to come back."

Even the voice was perfect, a low rumble that travelled up and down Dean's spine.

He actually shuddered at the feel of that rough, stubble against his skin. And I knew he was smelling that spicy aftershave his Dad used, along with worn leather and gunpowder.

The devil's in the details, you know.

I leaned down and kissed Dean's mouth, took his breath away. "It's okay, son. It's okay. Daddy's here. Daddy's got you."

I spent that entire day fucking him all kinds of ways. Dean whimpered like a small child. He groaned to himself, but he never told me to stop.

Not once.

I made the offer at the end of every session. Well, that was the whole point of this little exercise, wasn't it?

Cut or get cut. Take the knife, pretty, and I'll let you off the rack.

Dean cursed me for thirty years. Can you imagine that? Thirty years of the most gloriously inventive curses and threats I've ever heard.

The day he said yes was totally unexpected. It was just another day between us, the same it had been for thirty years. I picked up this curved knife of mine from the table, thought I'd peel his face off with it first. I'd leave his eyes intact, let him see what I was doing to the rest of his body.

Variety keeps things so much more interesting.

When I stepped over to the rack Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His mouth moved. He was still hoarse from all the screaming he'd done hours before.

He said one word.

I cocked my head to one side. "What?"

He opened his eyes when I tilted my head down towards him. I put my ear to his mouth.

"…yes…"

"Yes, what, dear boy?"

"I'll… take…the… knife."

I smiled. "You'll take the knife and do what, Dean?"

"...do…whatever …you want me to. Whatever…whatever you want…just…don't…please don't…no more, please, no more…" his voice cracked, and I wanted to scream for joy. Dean shook his head from side to side, and a single tear ran down his right cheekbone.

I leaned down and covered his mouth with mine. He didn't flinch like he had before, didn't draw away as I pushed my tongue between his lips. He pushed upwards instead, let me plunder that mouth of his over and over. He moaned into my mouth, a broken, desperate sound that made me very, very happy.

"That's my boy," I murmured softly when I was done. "That's my sweet, sweet boy."

We all have our illusions. The way we think we are, they way we think we should be. That's what I love about Hell; everything is stripped off, ripped away. You are what you are, and everyone can see it.

I've had other protégés before, but Dean was the best. He never tried to play games with me. Some of them did, tried to manipulate, play office politics. Kiddie stuff.

I appreciate the gesture, but we're pros down here, folks. I put all the tricky ones right back on the rack.

Not Dean. He was open. And honest, from the day he said "yes". Sounds crazy, doesn't it?

After I let him up he just stood there swaying from side to side while the other rack was rolled in. He stared at the person on the rack blankly, he like saw and really didn't want to see.

"Dean?" He was slow to respond when I called his name. It happens like that sometimes. The name becomes just a word, a meaningless sound. He finally moved a little and looked at me when I said it again.

"Dean?"

He straightened up a bit. Squared his shoulders. He stared at me alertly, like a dog waiting for its master to unhook the leash.

"There's nothing wrong with a man enjoying his work. Go ahead."

Dean nodded. He stared at the instruments on the table, and finally selected a scalpel from the tray.

Then he stepped over to the rack, and I swear to you he did not even blink.

I had someone special for his first time.

Her name was Melanie, and she was eight years old. One day she took her two month old baby brother into the bathroom while her mom was downstairs fixing lunch.

Melanie filled the tub full of water, and she put Kevin in the water face down.

Dean skinned her first. He sliced her up. He dug deep inside her with his bare hands. Melanie screamed loud and long, and Dean never stopped.

I was so proud of him.

I wanted to keep him with me always. Even with Heaven storming the gates of Hell, I still wanted to keep Dean all for myself.

When I touched him those green eyes of his would glow. He made the most wonderful sounds. He'd grunt as I pushed into him, make that sound low and deep and hungry, as though he could never get enough.

He was calm and assured, almost playful at times, while he was working. As soon as he stepped away from the rack and into my arms, he was mine, all mine, and we both knew it. He'd open up to me, and I couldn't get enough of the taste and feel of his mouth. I'd kiss and suck at his nipples, map the freckles on his skin with my tongue.

Dean would practically purr.

I loved it all. Loved seeing that hungry look in those wild green eyes, the way he'd arch for me, with his neck thrown back, that golden skin of his shivering underneath my mouth and tongue.

He wasn't the first one I ever took under my wing. He was the first one that was born to do the work.

I like to show my appreciation for a job well done.

That mirrored room was a stroke of genius. Dean loved it. I could tell.

His eyes were still green most days. His eyes usually went to black while he worked. He hadn't been with us long enough for his eyes to turn black permanently. When he first saw the room he smiled a little, kind of shy and boyish, as he looked around at the mirrored glass.

"Is this for me?" he whispered softly, eyes slightly goggled, like he couldn't believe it.

I nodded. "You don't have to use it if you don't want to."

That was a lie, of course. It's our stock in trade, remember?

Besides, I knew he'd use the room.

The first day Dean worked twenty four hours straight.

He loved the mirrors, loved being able to see himself from all directions, all angles. He'd strip off that thin grey t shirt of his, work bare-chested most of the time. He never posed. He wasn't that obvious. He owned the room, and he knew it. Mirrors loved him in death just as much as the camera did in life. He didn't have a bad side, and watching him work was a glorious sight to see.

All of Hell was able to watch him through the mirrors. I don't know if Dean knew that.

If he did, I don't think he cared.

After Castiel took Dean away I never used the mirror room again.

Everything was melted to slag. Never tried using the room again after that. I could have fixed it up, put some of the other tormentors in there, but what would have been the point?

Dean was in a class by himself. I missed my boy.

I've heard all about what he did once he got topside again. Poor bastard. Thinks he's working on the side of the angels now, wants to atone for what he did, for all the blood he spilled.

That's a joke, the biggest joke of all time. There is a plan to all this. You might not be able to see it, but there is. Dean was meant to come down to hell, meant to rip all those thousands of souls up, meant to find his place with me. It wasn't an accident, or a flaw in the grand design.

It was Dean's destiny, and how screwed up is that? A Son of Light making a place for himself in Hell, of all places.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

I was wearing that pediatrician meatsuit months later when I saw the kid topside for the first time. Dean seemed pale, a shadow version of himself. I saw the look in his eyes, saw the wariness, the fear, and the hunger hidden underneath.

He spoke my name, and it was wrong, all wrong. Too weak, too uncertain.

He wanted me to touch him, wanted me to claim him, right then and there, in front of the angels, and oh yes, in front of his dear, beloved Sammy. I would have too, but things got a little hectic right then.

He ran from me.

Dean followed that damn brother of his out the window, and he ran from me.

I'm supposed to go topside again. I hate that place. I love my work downstairs. Love my place.

Bed's empty at night. Had a few bedmates since Dean. They never last. Too fragile. They break too easily.

They're not him.

I still want my boy back.

I might reach out to him the next time I see him. There will be a next time. Have no doubt of that. I want to touch Dean again, skim my fingertips over his cheekbones, settle him down, ease that panicked, guilty look in his eyes.

I want to tell him: "All is forgiven, little one. Come home to Papa."

-30-