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...
Dean stood over Alastair, watching with grim satisfaction as the demon heaved and coughed up a thick, putrid mixture of blood and disintegrated salt. Alastair could barely catch his breath, his chest heaving with every effort, but that didn't stop him from speaking.
"Something caught in my throat," Alastair rasped, a foul mixture of blood and bile bubbling up from deep within. He coughed again, his body wracked with the effort, and blood splattered down his chin. "I think it's my throat."
Dean's chuckle was low, dark, and devoid of humor, his voice dripping with apathetic malice. "Well, strap in, 'cause I'm just startin' to have fun." He walked back to the cart, grabbing another container of holy water.
Alastair snorted, a mocking sound despite his weakened state. He kept his eyes on Dean, watching as he prepared for the next round. "You know, it was supposed to be your father."
Dean paused mid-step, listening. He poured the holy water carefully into a chalice, the liquid swishing in the container.
"He was supposed to bring it on. But, in the end, it was you."
Dean's jaw tightened as he set the chalice down, his hands steady despite the threat in Alastair's words. "Bring what on?" His voice was cold, suspicion building in his gut.
Alastair's voice dropped, hoarse but full of venom. "Oh, every night, the same offer, remember? Same as your father."
Dean's hand reached for the bloodied demon knife, and he poured holy water over it, the fluid hissing on contact. Then, with deliberate care, he sprinkled salt on the blade. The ritual was slow, methodical—just like his plan for Alastair's suffering.
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"And finally you said, 'Sign me up.' Oh, the first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch..."
Dean froze mid-movement, his hand hanging in the air. His eyes slowly shifted to meet Alastair's, his body tense, and his jaw clenched. The demon was smiling at him, a dark gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
"That was the first seal."
Dean's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as he stalked toward the demon. Every step felt like it carried a thousand pounds. His gut twisted with a mixture of disgust and realization. Alastair was playing mind games—had to be. If there was one thing demons excelled at, it was twisting truths and spewing lies. But Dean couldn't shake the feeling that the demon wasn't entirely lying.
He grinned, letting out a low, humorless chuckle. "You're lying."
Alastair's grin never faltered, his voice dripping with malicious amusement as he recited, "And it is written..." He sneered, the words coming easily. "That the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break."
Dean's stomach churned, a knot of dread tightening in his chest. The words reverberated in his mind, and the truth slowly began to sink in, like the heavy weight of an anchor dragging him down. His face hardened, the weight of it all pressing down on him as he absorbed the significance. It felt like a blow to the gut—like the floor beneath him had vanished.
