The Road to Hell Is Paved with Good Intentions

Webs. Endless webs of thick, heavy chains stretched before him, behind him, into him. Chains infinitely intersecting into the nothingness around him. The air was an eerie green as constant spatterings of blinding lightening splashed around him and thunder rolled with an ear-shattering force. His arms and legs were bound, but massive hooks had been torn through his right shoulder and left abdomen. He hadn't even felt them pierce his skin, but he sure as hell felt them now and he cried out in pain. "HELP!" he yelled out to no avail. "HELP!" he tried again. Oh God I'm in hell, he thought as a vague notion of what he had done one year ago came back to him. Panic swept over him with a force that shook his very being. "No, no, NO!" Desparation overtook him. "Somebody help me!" But there was no answer. He cried out for the one person he thought could save him from this agony. "Sam!" he called out. Nothing answered but the echo of his cry and the constant crash of thunder. "SAM!"

By now he was having a full-blown panic attack. His breathing shallowed as his heart beat furiously in his chest. He pulled against his restraints, and an unrelenting fire roared through him at his side and shoulder. He cried out in pain again. "SAM!" he called again. Why hadn't he come? Dean always rushed to his brother when he cried out for him. "SAM!" he continued to yell, each time more desparate, each time sending shockwaves of fiery pain through his body. Hours passed, and still he tried until his voice gave out on him and he was left parched and alone. His breathing was labored. Although the shackles on his limbs had teeth that bit through his flesh, the two hooks seeming to endlessly dig into him held most of his weight. More time passed, how long he couldn't know. Finally he forced himself to calm down as much as his aching and scorching body would allow him. God, how could he feel such intense, sharp pain and yet be mind-numbingly achy at the same time? Hell, he realized again. How had he gotten there? He couldn't remember, and the constant, throbbing, piercing pain made it difficult to think. He shut his eyes in an attempt to concentrate. Sam. Dead. Oh, fuck, oh God. Sam's dead and I can't fix it. He opened his eyes suddenly. No, that was wrong. He'd made a deal, exchanged his own life for his little brother's. Suddenly, the terrifying growl and ferocious bark of massive dogs surrounded him. He jumped in fear, sending a new, somehow distinctly different wave of agony crashing through his broken body. He gritted his teeth and rode out the wave until it settled back to the constant throb. Hellhounds. He had to force himself to remember anything but pain.

Demons. There had been demons when the hellhound had dug his claws into him during his final moments on Earth. But where were they now? This was hell, wasn't it? Demon-central? He looked around him fearfully, trying to ignore his pain. Perhaps he should be thankful that he was suffering alone for now. After all, eternity awaited him.

"Sic him, boy," the taunt of Lilith echoed around him. The last words he had heard on Earth were that of a demon.

A single tear finally broke away from the corner of his eye. He'd left Sam. Oh God, how could I do that? His breath caught as he recalled more. Sam had been there. Sam had watched him be shredded in front of him. Dean hadn't heard Sam's anguish and pleas that had been drowned out by the vicious growls of the hellhound. Maybe he should be thankful for that. He didn't think he could bare to hear the cry of his little brother.

He gasped as the memory slammed into him again with a weighty realization. Lilith had been there. What had she done to Sam once Dean was dead? Fuck, no don't let him be dead. Don't let him be dead. He whipped around again frantically. Don't let him be here at least. But still there was nothing but the chains and the thundering and lightening and Dean. And for the first time, Dean actually saw, rather than felt, the state of his body. His light grey t-shirt was torn where the hooks sank into his body and was stained a dark, deep red. He couldn't see the wound on his shoulder, but the one at his side was still bleeding, begging for medical attention, for release from the strain put on it. The bottoms of his jeans were ripped where the shackles at his ankles had been torn into him. He looked up at his arms, his wrists bleeding profusely. He whimpered and begged for the sweet bliss of unconsciousness, but it wouldn't come. It, too, had abandoned Dean, along with Sam, his dad, everything. "Sam!" he called once more, the last hope of a desparate man. So at least Sam had been spared from hell. But how could he be sure? How big was this place? There could be infinite fields of this goddamn green nothingness, and Sam could be tucked in another corner of it, away from Dean. His little brother was, after all, the Ultimate Prize for Lilith. There was nothing Dean could do though. He could have prayed, but would the heavens he didn't even believe in listen to the pleas of the damned? So he wept, even though his throat was still dry and aching for water, even though as he cried it shot new shivers of pain down Dean's spine, up his arms, and down his legs with each shake of his body, each gasp for breath. Dean was completely and utterly alone.

Some time had past before he took ahold of himself again, how long he couldn't know. But there was nothing more to think about, nothing more that could take his mind off the ravaging pain. God was he hungry. He'd felt something similar before a couple of times when the food had run low while his dad had left him and Sam with far too little money. On these far-too-often occasions Dean had been forced to sell himself so he and Sammy could eat. He shuddered involuntary at the memory, and his body shot back with a vengeance. His hunger bit and knawed at him with it's greedy teeth. The longest he had gone without food was three days. This hunger pang felt ten times worse though, on top of an unquenchable thirst that was starting to drive Dean insane. Had it been a full week since he'd been in hell? He supposed it could have, but time seemed different somehow down here.

Again there was nothing Dean could do but endure the ever-building and unceasing pain. His wounds still bled and throbbed, his throat scratched and his stomach seemed to be tearing itself apart. How his body was still being held up by bunches of skin was beyond him. He wished it would all just fall away. Every moment was pain, every minute that passed doubled it. By this point Dean was too exhausted to do anything but moan and whimper softly.

Another week passed.

And then another.

Something dark, unseen by Dean, had been watching with building pleasure the entire time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. And that moment was about to come.

Dean's ears endlessly rang from the unceasing crash of thunder, his eyes, stripped of the pleasure of sleep, became weak and his vision spotty from the constant flashes surrounding him. His body was numb, but pain still wouldn't release it's firm grasp on him.

He was disgusted with himself. Only been in hell a few weeks, he thought, and I'm already broken.

A voice startled Dean out of his death-like state. "Oh, Dean, honey," the slow, silky, voice drawled, seemingly able to read Dean's thoughts, "You haven't even begun to break."