When Dean Winchester finds himself at the mercy of Bella Talbot, desperate for information that might save his soul, he crosses paths with Nadia Turner-the strong-willed, fiercely independent daughter of hunter Rufus Turner. Though the connection be...
A weak grin spread across Alastair's face when he saw Dean roll the cart into the dimly lit room. His eyes gleamed with dark amusement as he began to hum a tune, swaying slightly in his confined state, the chains rattling with every movement.
"Heaven, I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak. I seem to find the happiness I seek, when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek..."
Alastair's voice dripped with mock joy as he twirled his hand in the air, doing a little shimmy, his gaze locked on Dean.
Dean didn't flinch. He stopped the cart next to Alastair, his face expressionless as he slowly pulled the cloth off the assortment of tools laid beneath it. His eyes briefly scanned the various instruments, but his hand lingered over the whiskey bottle resting near the top.
A fleeting thought of Nadia crossed his mind, the memory of her soft voice reminding him to keep his demons at bay. Thanks to her, he hadn't reached for the bottle as often in recent months. But now, staring at it, the temptation tugged at him, and he clenched his eyes shut, forcing the craving away. He didn't need it. He couldn't.
Alastair chuckled, clearly enjoying the tension. "I'm sorry. This is a very serious, very emotional situation for you. I shouldn't laugh, it's just that—"
Dean approached him, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his jaw set in a hard line. His eyes remained cold, the anger and frustration simmering just below the surface.
"I mean, are they serious? They sent you to torture me?" Alastair's tone was dripping with mockery as he took in the sight of Dean, standing before him, brimming with barely-contained fury.
Dean's jaw tightened further, his eyes turning into steely slits as he leaned in just a little closer, his presence unyielding. The room seemed to grow colder, the air heavy with the weight of what was about to unfold.
"You got one chance," Dean's voice was low and steady, the calm before the storm. "One. Tell me who's killing the angels. I want a name."
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