Hello, this is my first supernatural fic. I mean this to be a one-shot but I do want to write more so if anyone wants to ask me to write more I would be totally okay with that... hint hint!

She was sprawled doll-like, quite raggedly, on a rusted rack. Her legs hung limply off the edge. The floor and the walls were stained a telltale brown-red, rivulets of the stuff dripping from the numerous wounds over her body. The mechanical smell of blood hung heavy in the room.

Dean frowned as he peered through into the crude room. She looked familiar, and yet how could she still be here? He was sure she would have broken long, long ago.

He felt a sudden burst of rage. She hadn't broken? She must have been in here for what, coming on 500 years? And he, the ever-stoic hunter who was supposedly the vessel for a freakin' archangel, who had been deemed important enough to be dragged out of hell by Cas? He had broken in a mere thirty years. It was pathetic, really.

All of a sudden he found he couldn't bear it. With a growl, he tore open the door and stormed inside.

In an instant, she was alert. "Oh, do leave me alone," she purred into the solid metal beneath her, her body language so relaxed that she may as well have been lying on memory foam. "I still haven't healed yet."

He couldn't find it in himself to make a snide reply as it became apparent to him that she really had been here for all this time. Bela had officially been through far more pain than he ever had. It put her on a pedestal above him, like a martyr, he felt, and he wanted nothing more than to drag her off it.

"We both know the rules," she added with a sigh as she sensed the continued presence. "My nerve endings are still frayed. I'm afraid I won't feel a thing right now, but you're welcome to come back later." Yeah, this was most definitely Bela Talbot tied down in front of him. Now he understood why Crowley had sent him down here.

"I think I'll stay," he finally voiced and allowed himself a humourless smile at the sharp intake of breath she gave - the first indication that she'd realised something was amiss. Apparently she'd recognised his voice immediately.

And yet, she still didn't react. "We did psychological torture yesterday," she mumbled. "Come on, please be a little more creative."

He sat down on a nearby chair, all-too-aware that he was probably something like the fiftieth demon to take that very seat. "Well, flattered as I am that they use me to get you all riled up," he said, "things are a little different this time." Yeah, very different.

She stiffened. This time he took no pleasure from the sight. "It's really you, isn't it," she observed.

"Afraid so."

That's when she propped herself up on her arms and turned around slightly, resting her head on her arm to regard him. She didn't seem surprised to see him, or maybe she just hid it well. She was naked, he noticed, but so utterly caked in grime and blood and god knows what else that her skin, tinged blue from the cold, was more obscured than not. It bothered him a little to see her so undignified, because when his mind drifted to her memory, she was all sass and silk and a handgun. Not this.

"Heard you got out." He gave a tired smile - she had no idea. "Also heard I was the first seal."

He flinched, unable to stop himself. Looked her in the eyes for the first time. There was a defiant sympathy there and he felt another wave of anger wash through him. Something along the lines of, how dare she feel sorry for him, after everything that had happened between them? He controlled himself, trying to hide his weakness. He was supposed to be stronger than this, if the freakin' Mark of Cain meant anything. "Yeah, sorry about that."

One of her eyebrows arched. "I'm sorry too." He knew she knew what she was doing. He was certain she knew exactly how he was feeling right now. Now that he'd disturbed her little corner of hell, she was going to make him feel as much guilt and self-pity as possible.

"You're not," he shot back.

"You're right," she said blithely. "I'm not really capable of emotion, am I?" And she was teasing him.

Well, he could tease right back. That was his specialty. "Nope. Heartless bitch through and through." He'd never believed it, never truly, because he knew it wasn't true, he'd always known there was something, but it had been so much easier to pretend to believe it. This they both knew.

They were both grinning now. That was probably a first. Nobody smiled in hell... unless they were being sarcastic or sadistic.

"I don't suppose you came down here to rescue me," she teased at length. "And I'll admit I am curious."

It was obvious what she was asking. He looked away. "I died," he shrugged. Then he felt the familiar urge to lie, an as usual, gave in to it. "Guess I did some pretty heartless things and ended up back here." Tried to look nonchalant. Of course, she saw right through it. Not because he was a bad liar, because they were both excellent liars, but because she knew there was nothing Dean would let himself do that would get him sent back to hell again. She decided not to press the matter.

"I'm sorry." There it was again, he thought bitterly. The sympathy that he was convinced she was incapable of. Surely even normally people didn't say I'm sorry this much. What was she, a therapist?

"I got a question too," he began. Felt a little ashamed to ask, but then realized he was a demon; feeling regret in asking someone an insensitive question should really be the least of his issues.

Bela watched his discomfort with interest. She liked seeing him conflicted in how he thought he was supposed to feel about her. "Well go on. I don't have all day."

"Freakin'..." He scratched his head awkwardly. Suddenly he wasn't a demon with the mark of Cain burnt into his forearm and the first blade pressing against his torso through his shirt, he was just Dean asking a woman an inappropriate question to satisfy his curiosity. "Five hundred years, right?"

"More or less." She knew immediately what he was referring to.

"How did ... why are you not, you know." He looked at her eyes pointedly. "A demon by now?"

Meaning, how did she manage? And deeper, if one could read between the lines... why was she so much stronger than him?

She gave him her catlike smile, but he could see it crease at the edges, the first sign that suggested the toll that five-hundred years in hell had taken on her. "You want the truth or a cryptic, sarcastic answer?"

Well, obviously he wanted the truth, but that wasn't what he was going to get!

"I just didn't feel like breaking. I'm stubborn, aren't I?"

He grimaced. "That you are."

So they were both hiding things now. Big deal.

"Alastair's dead," he blurted out.

"Good."

"Sam killed him," Dean continued. It just felt good to talk. "You shoulda seen it. I was assigned as Alastair's torturer by a bunch of angels." It sounded crazy aloud.

"That's poetic," she commented. "Did you enjoy it?" Trust Bela to ask the important questions!

"Yes," he said automatically. "You know what that son of a bitch did to me and made me do."

Oh, all too well. She traced a hand absently over a scar on her belly that had yet to disappear, because it was a mark of the first seal of the apocalypse and never would heal. "I know."

He pretended not to notice. "It felt damn good, Bela."

She stayed silent, her way of imploring him to tell her more.

"There were a lot of different blades, there was salt and there was holy water," he said at length. "I picked the sharpest, not the biggest, just like he taught me. He laughed in my face." "But... man... when I dipped the blade in both? I thought he'd never stop screaming."

"You're a genius," she said dryly.

"Tell me about it." He paused. "It was like ... why was I ever afraid of him in the first place? Let me tell you, Bela, he was just like you and me. He could feel pain and he sure as hell didn't like it."

"What a surprise."

"Then he told me you were the first seal. Called you a 'weeping bitch'. I don't really remember anything after that. I must've lost it."

She held her silence.

"Sam tells me he managed to break free of the devil's trap somehow. Then he beat me senseless. Cas came to save me, and he beat the shit out of him too. In the end it was Sam who wasted him, with his freaky demon blood powers."

"Cas?"

"Angel who dragged me out. He's a character." Dean laughed. "You'd like him... but probably end up treating him like your cat."

Bela chewed her lip. Her cat was long dead, maybe even still lying where she'd shot it in the woods to spare it the hellhounds.

"So Sam literally is the antichrist?"

"Pretty much." He pulled a face. "He drank demon blood, like a lot of it, all to take out Lilith." At the mention of the female demon, Bela's face withdrew sharply before she could stop herself. She harboured an especially bitter hatred for Lilith, ever since the night after the deal had been made. Old habits die hard.

"Sorry," Dean said quickly. "She's dead too, by the way."

"Good." Quieter this time.

"She was the last seal, actually. Killing her brought about the rising of Lucifer."

Bela shot him a wry look. "Things really got screwed up while I was gone, huh?"

"You don't know the half of it." He shook his head. There was so much he suddenly wanted to tell her. So much he wanted to tell anyone, he reminded himself sharply. Still, that didn't help to quell the sudden urge he felt to drag her bodily off the rack and up, out of hell, slaughtering every demon in his way, damn the consequences. Her hair was filthy and matted with blood, but he felt no shame in admitting that she was as beautiful as she'd been in life.

They stayed there in silence for a few minutes, savouring each others company.

When he noticed she was shivering, he considered offering her his jacket. He just didn't feel right sitting opposite her, fully clothed and normal (ignoring the demonic influence for a minute), while she continued to suffer. Such a freakin' cliché, though...

The thought made him smirk, so he took it off and presented it to her.

There was a moment as neither of them moved, then she darted out a hand and snatched up the jacket. Draped it around her shoulders, wincing as it chafed the welts on her back, but relaxing a little into the physical and mental comfort it began to provide her. Comfort wasn't exactly a commodity in hell.

A rapping on the door behind him brought Dean back to the present. "Doc's here!"

Bela pushed hair out of her eyes and gave a quiet groan like she was being woken up early (which, to be fair, she technically had been). She raised her voice a little. "C'mon, Annie, it's a fortnightly treatment, not daily..."

Annie, who turned out to be an old man in a hospital uniform, opened the door and wheeled in a trolley laden with all sorts of instruments and bottles. "Sorry," he grinned in a manner that made it clear he wasn't sorry in the least. "Not my orders."

He seemed to notice Dean for the first time. "And who's this? A visitor?"

Dean longed to wipe that asshole smirk off his face. "Something like that," he said cockily. One of the perks of having the mark of Cain? Definitely being able to look a demon confidently in the face without a hint of fear.

Annie laughed. "Kidding, silly. I know who you are."

"You do?"

The 'doctor' gave a mock salute. "All hail Crowley, blah blah blah. Apparently, I'm getting a tea break. Job's on you, boy."

And after parking the cart beside the metal 'bed', he strolled out the door whistling merrily. Dean gritted his teeth as he usually did when he didn't understand what was going on, forcing himself to ignore Bela's questioning stare.

Dean leaned over and slammed the door. "Who was that?"

Bela sat up and swung her legs over the side of the rack. "Medic," she shrugged.

He eyed her dubiously. "Medic," he repeated.

She reached gingerly with a practiced air for a beaker brimming with thick black liquid from the cart and held it in the air up to her face. It was more cream than liquid, Dean noticed. "Don't tell me you forgot."

Dean shifted awkwardly. "I may have repressed some of my memories."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, as you should know, the healing process is important in Hell. This is liniment." A shrug. She reached for a large, flat-bladed knife from the cart and handed it to Dean with the handle facing him.

He looked at her dumbly. "What?"

"Annie said you're taking over today."

His eyes widened. "What? But you said you're still healing..." he finished lamely. Besides, he wanted to add, Alastair's dead and you're crazy if you think I'm going to do this again...

She scooted over on the rack and grabbed his hand, wrapping it around the handle. "No, not that, you moron. Bit eager to be back at the chopping board, eh?" Her voice was cold.

And that was classic Bela, an absolute artist with cutting remarks. There was no way for him to respond to that without opening up old wounds, so he had no choice but to keep silent.

"You just have to spread the salve on my wounds. Think of it like a butter knife," she finished sweetly.

He stared down at the knife. "I think I'll pass."

"Like hell you will," she replied smoothly. "Don't tell me you hate me so much you want to leave me to suffer."

He narrowed his eyes. "This is not about that. Besides, you know this just restarts the whole cycle again. It's not exactly a happy healing spell."

"I don't care. Do you want to get in trouble with Crowley?"

"I'd love to," he answered without skipping a beat. Nevertheless, he wilted under her glare.

Blindly, he dipped the knife in the beaker. Used it like a scoop to gather as much liniment as he could on it (might as well get this over with, right?). Dutifully, Bela stripped of the jacket and lay down on her front on the rack, head hung over the edge like she was awaiting a massage.

Dean cursed as a chunk of the salve fell to the floor in a sloppy mess. "You'd think a spoon would be better suited," he muttered under his breath.

"No spoons in hell," came Bela's muffled reply. "Only knives."

He hesitated as he brought the knife close to one of the wounds on her back. The skin felt rough around his fingers. He tried to ignore how she shivered under his touch and how familiar this felt to that day all those years ago when he'd been in the same position with Alastair's watchful eye behind him. Swallowed a lump in his throat and closed his eyes momentarily to dispel the memory.

He steeled himself and touched knife to skin. He definitely wasn't prepared for the poorly hidden scream that slipped involuntarily out of Bela's mouth as it happened.

He snatched the knife away from her back with a gasp of his own, yet still she let out something between a whimper and a moan that pained him to hear from her mouth. So much for opening up old wounds.

"What the..."

She took several breaths to calm herself down, and when her breathing had slowed, she spoke. "It's fine, Dean. The liniment hurts. It's another one of the ironic punishments down here. They added that after you left. Crowley's idea."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. He eyed the salve in the beaker with disgust. This was Crowley's idea of 'welcome to demonhood'? "Son of a bitch."

"Relax," Bela said smoothly, as if she was the one administering the liniment. "And hurry up," she added with a shiver.

Dean imagined Crowley watching on them right now, sipping something expensive and alcoholic. Crowley was a sucker for drama. The bastard would love this. Gritting his teeth, Dean worked fast, slathering gently. To her credit, Bela got used to the pain fast. A few minutes in, she was silent apart from the odd gasp whenever the liniment was applied somewhere anew. It became eerily similar to a massage as Bela found herself beginning to relax. It didn't hurt nearly as much when Dean did it.

She caught herself wishing this wouldn't end, and berated herself. This was hell. Anything good would end as soon as it possibly could. But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy this respite while it lasted. Even if it would be her undoing, because the next time she would be tortured, it was going to hurt so much more.

Dean felt he should be hating every moment of this. It should have been insanely awkward, but it wasn't. Suddenly all the issues between himself and Bela seemed to melt away as his fingers trailed over her skin. He could pretend he'd never sliced that blade into said skin, never broken after thirty years and never started the apocalypse. This didn't feel so much like hell at all...

Please review! And fave if you liked it.