#samstair

The halls of Hell twist and burrow deeper than imaginable by human or demon alike, but they never let a scream escape. Century old fear flees through the winding crossroads, the throats they were dragged from long since slashed and scorched and sewn to silence. There’s room for more, always one soul off the rack set loose on new meat. Their first times are deafening, for the torturers and tortured alike.

In the center of that cruelly constructed web, poised with an ear at each door to listen for his pupils' hesitation, with eyes over every shoulder to critique their artistry, with bloody hands guiding all the whelps still trembling from the pain he dealt them to take their fear out on some fresh-faced soul they never ask the name of, is the master of torture.

And Alastair loves his work.

The sweetest point is in turning them, and he can taste it now on this soul as he strips skin from muscle and leaves it to sizzle across hot coals. Working with souls allows certain freedoms. Flesh is weak—a balancing act of where to tear and where to stop the bleeding before he didn’t have anything left to play with—but he has missed the challenge these past few decades, locked away with all his fellows demons. That'll all change, but not soon enough for his liking. He takes his frustration out on this lesser work—a mass of corruption coming to a boil—severing tendons for relief as it wordlessly screeches.

Alastair feels Sam’s presence long before he sees him.

There’s no denying what he is or how he burns. A soul like that was meant for one creature to touch. Salivating at the thought of squeezing it between Alastair’s own fingers is blasphemy at best and mutiny at worst, but if Sam wants him to stop, it’ll take nothing less than a direct command from on high. Higher than Sam himself. For now.

Their Boy King fancies himself a ruler on promises whispered by Azazel, and he likes to take stock of his kingdom when he’s not walking the Earth to break the Devil's chains. Alastair remembers the first time Sam journeyed down into the belly of the beast to meet him, horrified by all the work done in Hell’s name like he thought his inheritance was a pretty destiny and none of what had grown out of it. Alastair named Sam crimes and punishments: a murderer here set upon by hellhounds, an adulterer there frozen alive, and if he slipped a few times and forgot to tell Sam about the ones only there out of desperation or love or sheer stupidity, then that was Sam’s fault for not choosing to push. He was a smart boy; he knew they dealt an even hand to every soul, no matter how much they screamed they weren’t deserving of it. If he didn’t want to look, Alastair wouldn’t force him.

He might get less visits if he did, and he wouldn’t want that.

He lifts his head on Sam’s approach. He wonders if Sam can smell the skin cooking, burning now. If it makes Sam hungry. Alastair hasn’t been in possession of a real stomach in centuries, but even he gets phantom pangs of it when he roasts a body. (Easily satisfied, if he wants. Maybe next time, he’ll offer Sam a bite. Maybe next time, Sam will be so used to his own station that he won’t question accepting it.)

"Sammy," he lets the word slink off of his tongue to caress Sam, and the way it riles him up pleases Alastair to no end. Weaker demons make that mistake all the time. Too chummy with their king, too fooled by the human shell around the soul meant to be a mirror for Lucifer. Sam likes to drain them, blood and smoke and screams. His power runs over Alastair, but Sam doesn’t try to strangle him for his insubordination. He’d rather growl warnings at Alastair as punishment and leave it at that, and that's not going to do anything but encourage him. "Do you want to join in? I’ve got one on the tipping point for you."

Alastair was one of Lucifer’s firsts. He still remembers the face of his Father.

Sam would love to know that Lucifer wore disgust the same way he does, and that’s exactly why Alastair won’t be the one to tell him. Have to leave the boy some secrets for when Lucifer ruins him, after all.

"I’m not helping you create demons," Sam says. Alastair tuts, peeling free the first layer of muscle with a deft hand. The soul whimpers, and they both ignore it.

"But you’ll gladly use them." He beckons at Sam, curling his fingers slow enough to be a taunt. Or a seduction. "Come meet your cannon fodder." The greatest skill Alastair has isn’t his capacity for cruelty or his vast imagination; it’s in how to apply both. He sees the knot of guilt in Sam—that unfortunate way he clings to his humanity like it does him any good down here—and he presses on it mercilessly. "If you really wanted this to stop, you’d make me." He lays a hand on the red and pink lump that once resembled a person. "I think you could still save him. Tear me apart, my Lord." Sam’s jaw is twitching, and for a moment, Alastair can feel Sam’s power sink into his charred soul like fingers digging between ribs to the soft organs underneath.

He grins, all teeth, drumming nails into his victim. Anticipation courses through his veins.

Sam lets him go.

He glares at Alastair as he comes closer. Alastair admires the way the smoke from the burning skin curls around his body. (The Sam who first came to him would have gagged. He’s learning. Good boy.)

The soul squirms under Alastair’s grip. It's hard to keep it still with how slick with blood and other fluids it is. If it wants a look at Sam so badly, it can have one. Alastair releases it to flop pathetically before Hell’s king. He follows its twitching progress and kicks it in the side to speed it along to Sam. There’s something familiar in its bloodshot eyes as they bulge out of its skinless face.

Hope. Alastair licks his lips. He doesn’t see that every day. Most broken things down here stay broken, but this one thinks anyone cares about saving it.

He stores that bit of inspiration away for later. An artisan who can't quickly adapt new methods is hardly worthy of being called a master of his trade.

The soul raises pulpy, naked hands up towards its only possible savior. Its flesh barely clings to its fingers. Sam reacts without a thought, stepping out of its reach and slapping them away. Alastair watches him waver between seeing this thing as once human and understanding it as worthless meat, fit only to be remolded in the image taught to Alastair by Lucifer himself. Sam's part in this is over, though Alastair delights in watching his empathy die to revulsion as he rejects the soul a second time. The soul’s hands fall in despair, then shake in rage, then rise again to Sam with one last plea for mercy. Alastair watches its humanity fully rot away as Sam slams his foot into its chest. A meaty thud sends it rolling across the floor into the coals, its burnt flesh sticking to its back. Now when it crawls back towards Sam, it understands its place. Another supplicant to throw to the front lines. Maybe this one will even break a seal all on its own and be rewarded with Sam not killing it for a quick fix.

Probably not. Alastair knows his own handiwork very well. He won’t be seeing this one again if it leaves Hell, except melted on the insides of a human once an angel makes short work of it.

"That’s your king you’re groping. Careful. He bites," he tells it. It cringes from him, afraid of one creator and revering the other. He scoops a coal into his hand as it gazes up at Sam, worshipful, and strikes it in the back of the head with one throw, denting its skull. "Get out," he spits at it. Sam can’t even bring himself to look at what he's helped make. It drags itself from the room, leaving behind only a slippery trail of blood and the scent of burnt flesh. "Good job with that one," Alastair praises.

Sam’s eyes flick to his, full of pride before his failing morality gives another wheeze and reminds him what shame is.

"If I could break all the seals myself-"

"But you can’t, boy." Sam takes a step towards Alastair. Another demon might have faltered. Alastair holds his gaze. "You waste all your time moping about this, and you won’t break any at all."

"I can replace you," Sam snaps. "Lilith learned to torture first-"

"But I learned it best." Alastair sounds gleeful, and only half of his delight is for the skill he wields. The other half is at the picture of Sam trying to order Lilith to do anything. He might be all of Lucifer that they can touch right now, but he is not Lucifer.

Sam huffs furiously. Sometimes, Alastair gets the sense that Sam can see the path between his little lamb hooves, bursts of clarity as he’s lead to slaughter that make him want to slip the leash. Too bad for him, the crown’s too heavy to escape now that he’s accepted it, and Lucifer is inevitable.

He’s glorious in that way. He’s the broken hope in every soul’s eyes made manifest. Alastair tries to repaint his vision for them all, again and again and again, maggot after maggot.

"Do you want me to put you on the rack, Sam?" Alastair can barely keep the mocking tone out of his voice. Everything Sam allows just makes him want to push further. It’s intoxicating, like talking back to his God and always getting an answer. Lucifer would never have tolerated it. Sam’s more fun than he ever was, the one quality he has over the devil.

Alastair moves in before Sam can react. Sam still carries his body in Hell, unlike every other human soul Alastair gets to play with. He can die. That’s so much further than he’d allow Alastair to go, but the tease of it makes Alastair want to moan.

"I’ve played with vessels before. They fall much easier than you’d think," Alastair says. "A load of martyrs begging for me to start carving, like enough suffering would win back Heaven’s attention." Sam stiffens as Alastair touches him, running his hand up Sam’s chest. His pulse is pounding in his throat, and Alastair could rip it out of him with one swift motion, teeth bared to see if any of him tastes like Lucifer did, too. If Sam burned Alastair's gums off and turned his teeth to ash, it'd still be worth it. "Is that what it’ll take to ease your guilty conscience?"

At his most base, Alastair’s no better than the kowtowing demons who worship at Sam’s feet and crave his touch. He’s just a little more aware, a little more willing to take from Sam than to wait to be given attention. He slides his hands over Sam’s body. Sam’s breath is coming fast and hot against Alastair’s face, and he steals it like he needs the air at all, like Hell didn’t suffocate him a long time ago.

"Do you want it, Sam?" he says. "Do you think it’ll bring you closer to Him?" Alastair is drawing bars of a cage down Sam’s chest—one, two, three—before Sam grabs his hand and finally puts a stop to it.

"Or I could throw you on there," Sam snaps back. "How long has it been since someone put you on the rack, Alastair? Maybe that’s what you need to learn your place." His grip is crushing, and his power turns to a fine knifepoint against Alastair’s throat.

Alastair starts to laugh.

"Please, Sammy." Sam’s mouth twists in a snarl. "I’d love to give you pointers. What’s your poison? Boiling water? Ants and honey?" He tips his head into the invisible pressure of Sam’s power to murmur to him. "You always seemed like a disembowelment man to me. I can show you wonderful things you could do with my insides." There’s hunger across Sam’s face now. Alastair wants to stoke it until it rises out of Sam’s control. "Say the word, and I’ll lay out the tools for you myself."

He knows Sam can feel it the same way he can. There’s always further to fall.

Alastair will push him right over the edge of a cliff.

Sam can’t take his eyes off of Alastair. His power, glutted on blood and fury, coils up and around Alastair's corrupted form like barbed wire. When he chokes on it, he still laughs. Sam has drive and talent and absolutely no finesse.

(And Alastair's had far worse clay to mold.)

The strength with which Sam throws him back would shatter bones to dust. Another thing that'll serve him well, now and when Lucifer gets to him: a flair for the dramatic. Hell obeys its King better even than his demons do. It reshapes itself. The rack is a bed of nails that Alastair is pressed into, each point pinning him further. His true form stretches to touch as many as he can and feel them pierce deeper.

Being given this life is a fond memory, the Devil kneeling over his body as he renamed him, gave him new purpose. Sam looks more like Lucifer with every step he takes.

Sam is still too human. Alastair isn't going to make a demon out of him—either a sniveling wretch fresh off the rack or the cream of the crop of Lucifer's finest. No, he needs to bring Sam closer to Lucifer. How do you squeeze a human soul until an archangel bleeds from it?

"Start slow," he urges. "You don't want to lose the stomach for it too soon." He twists under Sam's power and pulls himself barely free from the nails only to expose soft parts for Sam to tear into.

Sam bears down on him like he can force Alastair into submission. He considers playing along for Sam's benefit, a reward for good marks, but in the end, it's better to provoke Sam than to praise him. They all have their roles in aiding Sam's becoming. If Azazel's is to guide him and Lilith's is to challenge him, than Alastair's here to break him in for Lucifer to ride all the way up to the pearly gates.

Sam stops himself. Alastair watches his hesitation bend under the weight of everything Sam's made of. All the times he's been told this path is the right one for him. All the moments he's caught his breath enough to realize he never had a choice in it anyway. All the angels he's learned to slaughter that look down on him. All the demons who wait for him to contain their God. And every little jab of Alastair's own picking away at the cracks in him until he can't take it anymore and shatters what's left of his restraint all on his own.

Sweeter than turning a soul himself is watching Sam break all on his own and revel in it as he descends on Alastair to learn the same techniques that Lucifer passed to him. The mirror is Sam, but the reflection is Alastair's, standing in Lucifer's place to shape Sam until the final seal breaks.