There's no water in hell. It'd been one of Alistair's favorites for a while, to leave Dean hanging for days in the heat and sulfur, let him dry out well past the point of desperation, come to him in his last moments and make a cut. Press the sluggish drops of Dean's own blood against his cracked lips.

And Dean had opened for them every time.

His lips part now, but nothing comes, and Dean opens his swollen, glassy eyes, tongue darting out without thought to taste.