Character(s): Dean Winchester & Alastair.

Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing. Supernatural belongs solely to its rightful owner(s).

I haven't spent much time exploring this fandom, so I don't know if this kinda thing has been done before. I've just always wanted to explore Dean's time in Hell, and this piece is the little brain-child I came up with. It's a stream of consciousness more than anything, I guess. No real plot. So, please, enjoy.

Constructive criticism is, as always, welcome. No flames, if you please. Also, I am aware that I'm rather late to this party. ;-)

Abandon All Hope

oOoOo

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." — Inferno, by Dante Alighieri.

I.

Deep within Hell's inscrutable and nightmarish depths, beyond the scorching sea of fire, the inferno, the boiling brimstone, and the smoke-filled caverns; past the torrid river of blood and through the impenetrable darkness, the inescapable agony that knows all, consumes all, a lonely man let his thoughts wander aimlessly.

He does have his lucid moments, after all. Hell has not yet stripped him of that last haven: His mind. And as a result, he can dream, he can wonder, and he can even lament. These lulls, while far from peaceful, do give him a small reprieve, a moment of peace. And in the end, the excruciating torture seems a thousand times worse after he's had such a moment of respite.

They say that absence makes the heart fonder. Well, now he knows that it's true, even if in all the wrong ways.

Meanwhile, his mind wanders without direction. He had a name once. It had been short; straight to the point. He remembers that much. Recalling that name, however, is another story altogether. Here — now — it means nothing to him, and so he lets it slide through his fingers like sand . . . like so many other unimportant things. They were meaningless things. Trivial things. Things he didn't need to remember. Things he couldn't help but forget as the strenuous agony bore down upon him, lengthening into an eternity.

Yes. Strung out on the rack like a fish on a hook — because he can remember fishing, albeit vaguely — he can still remember some things. Not all, but some. It was better than nothing, and it absolutely helped, remembering the big things, the important things. The things he cannot bear the thought of forgetting. Even here, these are the things that make him human, that make him unique.

Indeed, for these special things, he holds onto them tightly, treasuring them greatly in his restricted world of torment and agony. And in the end, he pities the sinner who remembers nothing.

Even more importantly, perhaps, these are the things he falls back to during a time such as this, reassuring himself that he is, indeed, still human. He is not a monster . . . yet.

Still, it's funny — is it not? — that his name was one of the first things to go. Yes, once he'd had a name, and now that name is long-forgotten. Now, he is Nameless.

But he does remember some things . . . doesn't he? He hasn't forgotten everything. There are brief flashes of a doting mother. An absent father. Sitting in the Impala with Sam, talking about nothing and everything in between as the road winds down to another small American town. Only now does he wish that he'd kept the radio off and talked to his brother more often. The only family he has — had — left. But he, nonetheless, remembers not only the short-lived satisfaction after a job well done, with lives saved and another evil thing left permanently buried, but also the lasting guilt of another loss. Someone they could've saved if only they'd known how. Oh, the numerous, drunken one night stands and the blurred faces of the women involved. . . .

He still remembers a pretty girl with black eyes. Someone he hadn't trusted, and with good reason. What was her name? Oh, yes — Ruby. She once told him that Hell was all about forgetting yourself, forgetting what it means to be human. Well, she'd been right all along and now he'd never get the chance to tell her. Unless, of course, someone — Sam, maybe, if he wises up — exorcises her out of the realm of the living.

Slowly but surely, however, it's getting more and more difficult to retain even these memories when their natural inclination is to flit away until they're well beyond his grasp. So slowly, these treasured memories are being replaced with another image, more fearsome and terrifying than any he's yet to see.

Alastair.

Every evening — as he believes, but there is really no knowing anything about time here — it is the same. Nothing ever seems to change here. Nothing but himself and his ever-slowly-draining humanity.

Every evening, Alastair, the demon, arrives and offers him a solution. An escape. Carve, or be carved. Torture, or be tortured. A philosophy that's reminiscent of another, more familiar doctrine that's been shoved down his throat since he was a young boy — Kill, or be killed, and watch out for Sammy. Always. But Alastair's smile is cruel and unlike any fatherly smile he's ever been shown; almost as cruel as the jagged blade he carries always on his person. With a demonic leer, he feels its keen edge often, testing its sharpness.

Oh, Nameless knows that blade well. He knows its stinging bite, and how cold it feels when pressed against his tender flesh.

And Alastair is not human. That much is painfully obvious. The true forms of demons are malnourished, scarred, and ugly mockeries of their former selves; creatures that never could have been known as human as they have blackened eyes and an even blacker conscience.

By now, Nameless knows Alastair well. His awful face is all Nameless sees in his waking nightmares. He can even remember their introduction quite clearly. In fact, more clearly than anything from his former life. In some ways, Nameless doesn't know if this is a blessing or a curse. Maybe both. Or maybe it just doesn't matter.

Maybe nothing does.

"You know, I've heard of you," drawls Alastair casually. Almost conversationally as he slowly runs the pad of his thumb over the sharpened edge of his blade. "Dean Winchester . . . Yes, the hunter. Works with his little brother, Sammy." Nameless doesn't know a 'Dean Winchester,' but when Alastair's sadistic grin widens, he does know a thrill of terror. It makes him want to cry out for someone, anyone, who'll listen. He even wants to cry out for his dad and Sam, though he knows that they're not listening.

Still smiling, Alastair continues. "I know plenty of demons who'd just love to get their hands on you, Dean."

Nameless's answer is brash. Instinctual. It's all he's ever known. "Yeah? Well, they can go screw themselves." Even then, he sounded more confident than he actually felt. Inwardly, he's horrified.

That said, the demon's eyes flash dangerously. "I worked on your father, boy!" he snarls, and, for one singular moment, his face is more animalistic than humanoid. Only then does Nameless know what he's dealing with — Not a person, not even a proper demon, but an animal. A real, honest-to-God monster. And Nameless is afraid.

However, when the demon mentions his father, Nameless can do nothing more than stare at him in visible shock. He could feel his rage building, feel the veins in his forehead and neck pulse dangerously, the blood thunder in his ears, and he just wants to kill this son of a bitch. Even if the effort kills him. Especially if the effort kills him. But then again . . . He's already dead, isn't he?

Instead, Nameless snarls, too. More wrathful than he's ever been because God only knows that Hell has an awful habit of amplifying those sadistic emotions in a person.

"You bastard," Nameless growled. "I'll kill you. I swear. I will kill you."

This just earned him a amused chuckle from Alastair as he stepped forward, his blade gleaming viciously in the shadowy light.

"I'd like to see you try, boy," he murmured in return.

In all honesty, Alastair didn't need to say anything. His blade could do all the talking for him. And that was when the torture really began.

II.

There's nothing quite like Hell. Nothing that can be described in words, anyway. And Hell is nothing like Nameless thought it would be. To be fair, though, he didn't really know what to expect. Fire and torment, of course, maybe even little red demons with horns and pitch-forks, but he hadn't exactly worked out all the minor details.

Here, though, there is only agony. Fire and brimstone, pain and poison, death and darkness. There is no light save for that which is lent by the inferno below, and Nameless inexplicitly finds himself missing the Sun. There is only continuous agony as, burning, skin begins to crack and peel; and the smell of burnt flesh, singed hair, fills the suffocating air.

Here, he feels like he's dying, but there's no death to be had. There is no escape. He can't breathe; he can't even think. He desperately wants to die, to feel and to be absolutely nothing, but, again, Death is nonexistent. There is no end to the pain. No exit whatsoever. There is only violence, and bloodshed, and darkness, and decay.

If his situation weren't so dire, he'd shake his head and scoff. After all this time, the pretty girl with the black eyes was right. Hell is where you forget everything. Your memories, yourself, what it means to be human. You forget until all you have left is the blistering pain and the irritating fury in your gut, the fury that wants you to do unspeakable things in order to forget the pain, too. Indeed, to forget everything. To inflict your pain on others, the more deserving and the guilty.

Yes . . . After all this time, the demons were right. He couldn't be saved. He couldn't be helped. And if Nameless is completely honest with himself, he always knew that he'd go to Hell. In his experience, Hell is horrific enough to be realistic. Something Heaven, and God, never was. This is why he was never a believer like Sammy. Nameless was always too much of a cynic.

And even now, he remembers a certain dream with faultless clarity. The dream in which he'd met his other self, his demonic self.

"You're going to die," it had snarled, eyes blazing. "And this — this is what you're going to become."

But the fact remains: Nameless doesn't want to become that.

During the lulls between sessions, he cries and screams and begs for mercy. There is never an answering cry. No one hears. No one cares. Only the demons, the monsters, and they don't count. After all, there is only Alastair and the ultimatum he offers.

Carve, or be carved.

But there is another ultimatum, isn't there?

Kill, or be killed, and watch out for Sammy. But he can't remember a time when he wasn't looking out for Sammy. Was there ever? Nameless had certainly failed him in the past, but he can't remember never caring, never being there for his brother. Nameless knows he was many things, but he was never their father.

And yet . . . Sammy is the reason he's here, isn't he? Burning, drowning, dying. No matter how hard he tries, Nameless cannot find the strength to blame Sammy for what has happened. What matters is that Nameless made his choice; not Sammy. And to Nameless, this fact makes all the difference in the world.

In the meantime, Alastair still visits with clockwork regularity. At first, they always exchanged words. Sharp jabs and meaningless threats. Smart-ass that he is, Nameless cannot afford to let the demon know that he is afraid. But as the months wear on, he finds the effort it takes to say anything too much, the energy too valuable and difficult to find. Then, there is nothing clever to say, nothing but muffled whimpers in the dark.

And look — even now, Alastair offers him that same solution.

Carve, or be carved. Or is it . . . kill, or be killed? His memory has become more than a little faulty.

"No," Nameless whimpers, beyond caring about anything but the pain to come. All he knows — all he remembers — is that he doesn't hurt people. He doesn't do that. He never did that. He does remember killing the things that lurk in the dark; the things that hurt and kill people, innocent people. It's not the other way around. And Nameless still doesn't want to turn into the very thing he used to hunt, no matter how tempting a proposition it is.

Though . . . it would be so very easy to whisper a "yes" through his cracked and bleeding lips. To swallow his pride and, for once, take the selfish route out. So very easy. . . .

And why not? Why shouldn't he? He's done his time here; it's time to return the favor. From what he understands, there are hundreds of thousands of souls here, just waiting to be torn to pieces. He could turn all the pain he felt now, everything he had ever endured, upon them. Force them to feel everything he had. It would be a welcome release.

However, Nameless knows that picking up Alastair's knife and tearing into the flesh of another sinner would be final. It would be his undoing, severing the last ties to his humanity and he knows it. Nameless doesn't want to let go. He doesn't want to become his own nightmare.

But Nameless's wants mean nothing, and there is still a pain to be reckoned with. He hasn't forgotten, and neither has Alastair.

"Well," says the demon with a smile as he hefts his cruel blade, "I guess it's time I got started then."

And how Nameless squirms! Feebly trying to evade the blade that bites, that causes so much pain, he begins to whimper and beg like a mangy cur.

"Please," he whimpers pathetically. "Please, don't do this. Please . . ."

But Alastair has no ear for pleas or for begging. With a sadistic smile, he ignores Nameless, takes his position, and brings the knife down, searing flesh anew. This is when the screaming begins. Hoarse, excruciating screams of indescribable agony. The screams of a hopeless, dead man.

In the end, however, Nameless still has his dreams. In his dreams, he is victorious. In his dreams, Sammy never died and Nameless never sold his soul to bring him back. Never died and went to Hell. In his dreams, Nameless is still driving the Impala along an endless road, and Sammy's in the passenger seat, exchanging brotherly taunts with him. There's no destination or goal in mind. None of that ever mattered when it was just the two of them. Two brothers. Maybe this is his heaven that has been denied to him. Nameless doesn't entirely know and, honestly, doesn't particularly care.

But then, there are no golden-tipped dreams here. Now. He's stuck in a hellish nightmare with no end in sight.

Again, Alastair is still there. He reappears from the darkness, wielding his fiendish blade.

"Hello again," he leers. "Let's just go through the motions, shall we?"

Nameless instinctively flinches. Not again.

Then, the screams resume, on without end.

III.

Who am I?

Almost resignedly, he searches the deepest depths of himself, looking for answers. For something — anything. There are flashes of faces — a young man with brown hair and brown eyes, chuckling at something he said. The same man, a young boy now, playing soccer with his classmates. He beams with pride after he actually scores a goal, looking towards where he knows Nameless is sitting. Inwardly, he feels a rush of warmth and a tug of remorse.

An older man with grizzled dark hair and an unhealthy obsession. He touches the boy's shoulder affectionately. Nameless cannot explain why he feels something akin to jealousy.

Was there a car?

Flashes of a car, old but still sleek. Painted black. What was it called? Oh, yes, a 1967 Chevy Impala. Wasn't it? He could hardly muster the concentration to rein in the memories, keep them from scattering again. Random flashes. Images of things he could not remember, but felt that he should know.

Nameless closes his eyes.

Was this what Hell was supposed to be like? Had the girl been right all along? Hell was a place where you forgot who you were, what you were. It is what it feels like to lose one's humanity. Have it ripped out of them along with their heart. There was no need for such things here.

Now, Nameless no longer knows who he is or what he ever was. He cannot remember the little things, the big things. The things that made him human. He doesn't remember. It's gone. All gone. There is nothing left. Nothing but the pain and the knowledge, the temptation, of an escape from the pain.

No, he thinks weakly. By then, his body is slick with blood, both new and old. His blood. The chains hooked around his hands and feet feel cold against his skin, chillingly cold and tight, spreading him wide. His skin has long-since grown around the hooks that remain embedded in his flesh, supporting him. Just a piece of meat now.

Feebly, he tries to spit out the bloody froth in his mouth. His tongue is dry and tastes coppery. More blood rushes to fill the stuff lost. He doesn't bother to spit again.

No, he thinks weakly. No, that's not me. I don't hurt people . . . even if they are in Hell. That's not what I do. I'm . . . I'm . . . He tries to find his name, but it's on the tip of his tongue. He can't remember. After several unsuccessful grasps for the name, he finally settles with, I'm not a demon. Not a monster. I don't do that. I don't do that . . .

He used to hunt the things that lived in the dark. He remembers that much. The things that haunt his waking dreams, keeping him from escaping to his thoughts. There is no escape, and there never was.

Then, there so comes a time when his fear of pain is too much. Too intense. He can no longer bear to take it.

"You know what you have to do," drawls Alastair. "How much more of this are you willing to take? You've already been here for forty years."

With a slow, shuddering movement that consumes the entirety of his strength, Nameless looks up and peers into the demon's face, listening intently, making no movements to resist.

"Will you take the knife?" Alastair asks.

His voice is raspy after uttering nothing but screams; his throat raw from the years that have been viciously wrought upon him. He cannot form his lips around the one word that will prove his salvation.

His eyes, once a vivid shade of green, seem to glitter in the blackness. For once, there is no resistance, no whimpered, whispered, "No."

Alistair holds out the knife, close enough for him to take. He reaches out with a shaky hand and takes the blade. It's heavy in his hand.

Alastair's eyes darken as he smiles.

"Let's just get you out of these then, shall we?"

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