Word Count: 387
Summary: They called Alastair Picasso with a razor, and if that was the case, then perhaps Dean was his finest work.
Author's Note: I just love the nickname “Picasso with a razor” for Alastair. It’s just such a great way of describing him – how he views torture as an art, and the way he cuts people up could be likened to how a Picasso portrait shows all the different parts of a person assembled in odd ways. It also makes me wonder if his victims could be compared to paintings. Guernica was originally painted to show the horrors of the Spanish Civil War, but to a demon, something like that would be seen in a whole different light. So this is just a little drabble inspired by that idea.
The razor twists and blood spurts out as more veins are severed. A visceral scream erupts from a dry throat, as intense as the pain itself until blood floods aching lungs and the noise chokes into a gurgling whimper. Alastair smiles as he watches his protégé at work. This was going so well. Thirty years he’d tried and failed to get Dean to pick up the razor, but now that he’d succeeded, watching Dean carry out his instructions makes it more than worth the wait. Being told where to cut, how to move the blade at just the right angle to inflict as much pain as possible, not to stop even when the victim is writhing and screaming in front of him; he does it all without question. And as much as Dean tries not to let it show, Alastair can still see the spark in his eyes that betrays just how much he is enjoying this. That makes Alastair proud, that the man who had once hunted demons so fiercely is turning into such a fine example of one himself. A few more souls on the rack, and he’s certain they can burn away whatever humanity is left in the former hunter. Maybe that will be soon, or maybe not, but he’s in no rush. There’s a contract written into the skin of rotting corpse somewhere that says Dean’s soul is his forever, and he’s going to take as long as he needs to mould it into the evil form he has in mind.
Alastair knows the other demons’ nickname for him, ‘Picasso with a razor’, and wonders what that makes Dean. Maybe he could be thought of as a student, but Alastair prefers to consider him one of his finest works. Dean is his Guernica. A depiction of something utterly broken and marred by the horrors inflicted upon it, painfully warped and cut into pieces before being reassembled into something dark and unnatural. Maybe it isn’t quite finished yet, but when it is, Alastair knows it will be his masterpiece. His brushes are razor blades. His palette is full of reds and blacks, and there’s no place for green there. Those pretty emerald eyes will turn black soon enough, and Alastair is going to enjoy painting one of the darkest demons Hell has ever churned out.