Forgiveness is a Two-Way Mirror

Once again, sat on the edge of the double bed, Dean felt the lines between memory and reality blurring. It wasn't that he saw different surroundings, like Sam when he had visions of Hell, but that the guilt and the emotional weight of everything he did down there gradually built up until it smothered him, until all he could remember was how they had begged and pleaded with him to stop, to let them go, while in the background Alastair sang his praises, whispered ideas to him, and occasionally guided his hand to incite a new, more pleasurable sound from the ruined throats of his victims. And all that time, he had watched with… satisfaction as his handiwork, his craftsmanship, made those souls scream; thousands of souls, thousands of different screams.

The hotel door buzzed as the keycard was used to open it, and Laila stepped inside. "Hey," she said, turning to close it behind her. "I couldn't find any steak pie, so you'll have to make do with..." Her smile dropped as she caught sight of him on the bed, head bowed, hands shaking. She couldn't see his eyes, but she didn't need to - Dean was somewhere else. Somewhere bad. "Dean?" Laila called softly, putting down the shopping bags and moving to sit hesitantly by his side. "Dean what is it? What's wrong?"

Dean's lips twitched, as if he wanted to talk but couldn't. He didn't look at her, and his hands kept trembling, as if he was scared of something. A glance around the room, and Laila couldn't see anything that should have him spooked like this - the salt was still there, none of the trap coverings had been disturbed, and she knew the wards and sigils were perfectly drawn. Worried, she grasped one of his shaky hands, squeezing it tightly in the hope that it might break through to him. And maybe it did; Dean blinked, and seemed to find his voice. "I can still hear them," he whispered hoarsely.

Laila frowned. "Who?"

"The souls," he answered. "The souls on the rack."

"What rack?"

"In Hell."

With those words, Laila's heart skipped a beat. From the first moment she'd heard about Dean's time in Hell, she'd never questioned it, never asked him about it. After that night a few weeks ago, when they'd confessed their darkest secrets, she'd never wanted to know more than he willingly told her. It had been hard enough to hear about what he'd been made to do, even if he'd only touched the surface. Now, though, it only just dawned on her that Dean had tortured souls for ten years - why he hadn't appeared like this to her sooner was astounding. "Dean, you're not in Hell anymore," she said quietly.

He nodded, but his expression didn't change. "But I hear them," he said, "sometimes. When I'm... on my own, or asleep. Or when Sam tries to talk about it. And I can't... I can't tell him, Laila, I just -" Dean screwed his eyes shut, choking on his own words.

Laila gripped his shoulder. "And you don't have to," she told him firmly. "Nobody is making you talk about it, Dean - not Sam, not Bobby, not me. The information is yours to do with as you please."

Dean let out a sharp, humourless huff, and shook his head. "I don't deserve you," he said. "I don't deserve any of you -"

"Shut up," she snapped.

"You don't know what I can be like," he insisted, voice tight. "What I did to those people, what I felt - I was a monster."

"Things are different now, you've been topside for years, Dean," Laila tried.

"So?" He finally raised his head, looking at her with dark, bloodshot, watery eyes. "That doesn't mean I didn't act like that. Doesn't mean I won't again."

She shook her head, the tiniest slither of fear starting to penetrate her words. "No, that's not gonna happen."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're not a torturer."

"Oh yeah?" He smiled, twisted and bitter. "I was barely a year out of Hell when I tortured a demon for information. Then I find out that in twenty fourteen I'm more or less a professional who couldn't give a rats ass about doing it."

As the truth began to pour out, Laila was struggling to take it in. "Dean, I..."

"You know what the best part is?" Dean continued. "I enjoyed it, Laila. Every speck of blood I managed to carve out of that bastard I relished. It was my old teacher, you see. You have no idea how many nights I spent dreaming up ways of making him break, and when I finally got the chance -"

"Dean stop."

"And that's just it: I couldn't. I wouldn't," he told her. "All those times in Hell, when I was given a new soul to lay into, I did as much damage as I could to please him, to fulfill my role. I never talked to them, never listened to their pleas, never even looked at their faces - but I know what they all saw." He looked away as the memory took over, and when he spoke again his voice was bleak. "They saw some guy who didn't care what he did to them because he had no emotions left in him. They saw a demon." With those words, the floodgates broke.

Laila was speechless. There was nothing she could say as the hunter before her crumbled. It wouldn't be a full-out sobbing session (Dean Winchester didn't do full-out sobbing), but it would be more than Dean was comfortable with, and she had a feeling very few people saw him reach this stage. But now, with the knowledge he'd just thrown at her, Laila found it hard to believe this man would willingly hurt people for information, let alone find it pleasurable, despite what he'd said. He was still the Dean Winchester she knew and loved - and he needed to be reminded of that.

Believing that actions would speak louder than anything she could say, Laila held Dean close, kissing his tear-stained cheek. "Dean," she whispered, "it's okay. It's okay now. You are a good man, surrounded by people who care about you. Bobby loves you; Sam loves you; and to me you are the most important person in my life. I look at you, and I don't see an ex-torturer, or someone who spent time in Hell - I see a man who's strong, loyal, and determined to do whatever he can to help people, whether he knows them or not. It doesn't matter to me that you caved. There are probably hundreds of others who would cave on the first night, but you held out; and your guilt is a sign that you would not turn to torture willingly, and I don't care what you've seen, I don't think that you will. So please - try to forgive yourself. Things were beyond your control in Hell. You know that."

"Why should I?" he whispered back, sounding broken and tired.

"Because the rest of us have." Laila cupped the side of his face, gently encouraging him to look her in the eye. "You know I'm here for you to lean on," she said. "But a broken mirror won't fix itself."

Guilt was only a small part of the emotional turmoil she could see in Dean's eyes. He was battling with himself, trying to make sense of the state he was in and what she'd just told him. "Laila..."

On the verge of falling to tears herself, Laila leaned in to kiss him softly. She could sense his reluctance to return her feelings, possibly out of that stupid-ass belief that he didn't deserve to, but eventually he started to reciprocate. He didn't quite relax like she'd hoped, but it was enough for now. After that, it wasn't hard to convince him to go to bed - Dean was exhausted, emotionally more than anything, and only bothered with putting on a pair of sweatpants. He fell asleep quickly for a Winchester, and, oddly, curled up inside Laila's arms. No, she thought, stroking his head in time with his breathing - this wasn't a torturer lying beside her in bed. Dean was just a man who had seen and done what no man should have, and though the healing would take time, it would happen.