After 25 years in hell, Dean thought he just might be able to hold out forever.
But he couldn't have been more wrong.
After 30 years, he could feel himself starting to slip; he could feel his spirit start to fracture under Alastair's attention. With every whip, every cut, every drop, he felt a sliver of himself fall away and disappear, to be devoured by the other beasts of hell. He could feel himself give into it a little more each time, relish the pull of the Alastair's blade a little more, until he began to crave it, until he began to want to beg for it. And the next time Alastair asked, even though the pain folded him in half, he said yes.
After a year of tearing other souls apart, he began to see a face in the flames. He began to cut deeper, whip harder. He willed himself to forget, to believe it was just a figment of the fires and screaming so that he could distract himself. It didn't work as well as he would have liked.
After a couple more years, those eyes began to grow a body, legs, hands.
At 40, just as he bent to choose a new instrument, those hands touched him.
And he fell.
And those fragments and slivers and drops of his soul began to join again and once again the pain bent him in half. The brightness of the apparition repelled him, yet he wanted to be closer. He clawed at its feet and legs as each piece of himself burned clean and slotted back into place. As each piece fit into him, he fell further under their weight. The apparition just watched from above him as he writhed.
Only when it ended it did the apparition reach down, grab him by the shoulder, and drag him to his feet. And up. And up.
The fires of hell fell away, faded.
And he woke.
Cas never asked him if he remembered. He pretended he didn't most of the time, that it was a nightmare he only half-recognized when they came to haunt him at night.
Except for those times he put away the booze and looked into the mirror. His hand almost fit into the mark on his shoulder, but not quite. Instead, he closed his eyes. And pictured those blue ones watching over him. Sometimes, it was just enough to remember, that he could fall asleep.
Castiel never asked. Yet, he watched Dean every night he could. Sometimes, it was just enough. The flutter in his grace where a piece was missing would calm, as if it sensed the proximity of that small piece residing near the heart of one Dean Winchester.
Castiel knew Dean remembered. He didn't need to ask. It was enough to let his fingertips graze the mark on Dean's shoulder while he slept, to touch his fingers to Dean's forehead to just let him know he was there to pull him up when he began to struggle, fitting the pieces back together again.
Author's Note: I guess I just love angst. :) Also, I recorded a podfic of this on my tumblr. It's listed under theleanansidhe(dot)tumblr(dot)com/my_fic