So, I'm back! I've had this idea floating around in my head for a long, long time, but I could never find the words to write it. As usual, the amazing loveintheimpala came to my rescue and helped me to write the first chapter! This is set season two, AU if Dean hadn't been able to make the deal to save Sam's life when he was stabbed. Dean would be 27, Hanna 25, and Sam 23.

Hope you enjoy!

Break Out

Chapter One: The Last Thing Expected

Carson City, Nevada — Springhill Prison — 3:32PM

The punches landed hard and fast to Dean's face, over and over again, relentless, to the point that he could barely even feel their impact anymore. He was bordering the line between consciousness and unconsciousness, and, at that moment in time, he wasn't sure which side of the line appealed to him more. Nothing seemed to hurt, and sometimes, when things were that bad he wasn't even sure that he was still human anymore, he couldn't find the energy within himself to fight back. Those were the dark days, when there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel for him. Everything around him faded away into nothing, because that's all it was to him, nothing. It didn't matter anymore. He was just going through the motions in life, putting one step in front of the other and breathing because he had no choice anymore but to live. The fight had gone out in him. And he wasn't sure there was any going back from the place he had found himself.

Dean could feel it happening, he was about to slip from consciousness all together, he was about to black out as a result of the constant blows to his face, he was ready to will himself into that dark place where he didn't know what was going on around him and where he felt no pain. He was ready to drift into that place of solace, where he knew nothing and no one, where the constant cycle of haunting thoughts that plagued his every waking moment were finally silenced, where there were no nightmares and no guilt, but he didn't make it. Not this time. A new force pulled the man above him away. He wasn't sure what had happened, but he could hear the distant sounds of shouting, he could see the blurred outline of men fighting around him, and he could feel someone slapping his face hard with the back of their hand. It wasn't out of kindness, and it wasn't out of concern, it seemed purely done with the intention of keeping him awake. "This one's good." A voice muttered, low and gravelly and frustrated. "Take him to get cleaned up, will ya?"

And, with those words, two men were unceremoniously pulling him up to stand. Dean cracked a grin and harshly pulled himself free of their grip, refusing to be carried anywhere. As far as he was concerned, he had walked in there himself and he would sure as hell walk out himself. He spat out the blood from his mouth and gave a lopsided smirk to the large man pinned to the ground by two officers as he passed.

Things had been different when he had first gotten there. There had been so much more fight in him. There had been a spirit in his eyes, a glint of mischievousness, a cockiness that no one there could match, he could have taken down anyone or anything that dared stand in his way. Hell, he had done. But things quickly changed. No one had ever seemed to understand it before, but there had always been a reason that Dean Winchester refused to let people into his heart. It had always been out of a fear of them leaving him. He hated the thought of being alone, he always had done, and it had taken him a long time to admit that to himself. It wasn't until he had found himself locked in a cell, staring at the walls with unlimited time to think, that he had even realised himself. All through his life, everyone had gone. His mother, his father, his sister, and even his brother. Whether voluntary or not, they were all gone. In that place, he was alone. More alone than he had ever been in his life.

His parents, that hurt him, it always had done, but he had carried on. When his sister had left the job, when she had found herself a life away from hunting, that had hurt, but he had wanted the best for her. He had missed her, but he hadn't blamed her. But Sam. The night Sam had gone, that had ended every last shred of hope in him. It was as though a light had gone out in him, and he had never been the same again. After that, everything became dark, as though a blackness had taken over his soul, a looming presence of loss that always lurked in the shadows of his mind, waiting for him, ready to remind him of how many times he had let down the ones he had loved. The death of his brother had changed everything.

That had been the reason he had never gone back to his sister. The guilt had been too much for him. He wouldn't look her in the eye, he couldn't. After Sam, he had barely even spoken to her. He refused to visit, and more times than not, he would ignore the calls she wouldn't give up making to him, because he just couldn't stand to hear her voice, not when he knew he was the one responsible for her losing her little brother. Dean thought about his sister every single day, and he missed her, he really did, but he wouldn't do anything about it. He wouldn't crash her life to pieces the way he had done with Sam's. He was better off alone.

From there, everything had become about hunting, about finding revenge for his brother. And when that was done, what more was there? Hunting no longer seemed to have meaning, his sister was better off without him, his parents were dead, after Sam, he had no one else. And then things had gotten sloppy. He no longer took the same care when hunting, he took risks and cut corners, and the sloppy hunting had quickly become hunting with rookie mistakes. Which became bigger and bigger until the day he had been bundled into the back of a police car and thrown an orange jumpsuit.

There had been no turning back after that. Lying in his cell, thinking, waiting on the trial he knew would result in the end of his life, he didn't care. He knew he wouldn't get off, he knew nothing would save him, yet he still didn't try. He made no phone calls, he didn't even meet a lawyer. There was no attempt at escape, because he was just so done with the outside world, he couldn't face it.

The one person he'd had left in his life that had offered him any kind of hope had been gone. The one person who had been there every single day for him, the one who kept him fighting the fight, he wasn't coming back. And, in a sense, neither was Dean.

After Sam, after his life sentences for the murders he didn't commit, Dean became a shell of himself. He had once been one of the most feared hunters to ever walk the earth. There were demons out there in the darkness who didn't dare speak his name out of a fear he would find them. He had always been known as untouchable, the fearless Dean Winchester that kept monsters hiding in the shadows. But he wasn't there anymore.

At first, Dean would walk through that prison and notice people make room for him. There was no one who dared stand in his way, no one brave enough to cross the path of the man sentenced to as many crimes as him, no one desired to be on the wrong side of him. But that was on the outside, that was only what people saw. On the inside he was a darker and much more broken man. He was no longer concerned with keeping himself alive. Somewhere deep down he just wanted it all to be over. He wanted to stop fighting.

And sometimes, he did.

On the really bad days, when there didn't seem to be anything left to fight for, he allowed the punches to come raining down without even an attempt to stop them. There were rumours about it throughout the prison. Some said that the ones he allowed to beat him were the unlucky ones, because he always came back stronger. He took his revenge on them when he needed it. They all knew, no matter what, if he tried, he could beat down anyone in that building.

Dean was dragged through the door of the prison's infirmary by the scruff of his neck and thrown down into one of the uncomfortable plastic seats towards the side of the otherwise empty room. "Wait here," The prison guard told him, his voice harsh. "Don't even think about trying anything, Winchester." The officers, by now, knew him well enough that they could leave him in there alone to wait for the nurse. They knew he wouldn't try anything, they knew that he didn't need supervising.

He rolled his eyes and slumped down in the chair, releasing a long sigh. "Wouldn't dream of it." he muttered, and he didn't even bother to force the sarcasm into his words. Sometimes he was just grateful for the change of scenery. An afternoon being stitched up in a hospital could be more entertaining than staring at the same four bland grey walls.

The door at the other side of the room opened, and he didn't even bother to look up at the nurse who had entered. He was all too used to seeing her face, hearing her dull tone.

But there was a difference this time. Usually it would only take a second for her to start laying into him. She had grown into a habit of warning him about his behaviour, telling him that the fighting was going to get him nowhere good. This time, there was silence.

For a long moment, nothing was said, and, although he could feel someone watching him intently, he simply could not be bothered to lift his head and meet their gaze.

Dean heard whoever it was take a small step forwards, their step light on the cold floor. "Jesus Christ," A soft voice spoke over the silence of the room, hushed and almost sad. It sent a chill down his spine. The door was slammed closed, a little too forcefully, and his eyes went wide as he looked up. The nurse stared down at him, taking in the orange jumpsuit splattered with his own blood, the deep bruising around his eyes, both old and new markings there. The splits in the skin of his face, the gash in his forehead, the cut in his lip, it all added to the blood that dripped from his face to his clothing. And it all made her feel a little ill. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Dean opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, he couldn't even begin to will his brain to form a sentence. The face he stared at wasn't the one he had been expecting. He blinked, hard, but she was still there. It wasn't a concussion, it wasn't an illusion, she was in that room with him, and she looked close to tears. He couldn't even breathe. Slowly, he rose to his feet, all pain in his body completely forgotten about, and looked over her slowly. "Hanna?" He frowned at her, shaking his head. No. This wasn't right. He had to be hallucinating. There was no way that she could really be standing there. He couldn't believe it. He didn't believe it. But there she was, his own sister, dressed in pale blue hospital scrubs and frowning right at him. "What the hell are you doing here?"