Chapter 1

The lights flickered, and the basement fell into a false light. The cold from the cement floor seeped into Dean's legs. Damp shadows laced the air, and a mustiness lingered. All sound had stopped. The blood spread from Dean's right leg where rebar had pierced it. The metal stood twisted in a knot, and Dean couldn't move from the floor. His angel blade was to his right, resting against a metal drum ten feet away. Every time the lights pulsed brighter, the blade caught the flash and reflected it onto Dean's hand, almost as a joke at the emptiness.

His right hand still held onto the metal bar in his leg, even with two of his fingers broken. His side bled slowly where the demon blade has glanced off his ribs; his shirt was heavy with blood and darkening. Dean looked like he was melting into the shadows. Bottom lip split, the blood mixed with the tears running down to his jaw. He only knew he was screaming when he had to take a breath and scream again.

The silence bled into slow motion as Dean watched the scene in front of him. Lucifer held Sam against the stone wall, his hand gripping Sam's throat. The demon blade was lodged in the right side of Sam's chest, and the blood soaked the floor below him. His chest barely moved when he breathed, and his eyes stared past Dean into the darkness.

"Well, Sammy, if you don't want to accept being my vessel, I guess you just grew too righteous for me. And you know what they do to those tricky little believers, right?" Lucifer dropped Sam to crumple on the ground. Dean tried again to reach Sam, but the rebar burned into his flesh as a reminder that he could do nothing. Lucifer grabbed Sam's foot and lifted it against the wall above his head.

"Warned you not to "cross" me, Sam."

Dean's soul tore with every swing of the hammer. Lucifer placed six nails in each of Sam's feet to hold him suspended above the ground. Every time he pounded a nail into Sam, the vibrations passed through the bar in Dean's leg. The pain clung to Dean's flesh, swam in it, burrowed to his bones. The scene pressed into his eyes, holding them open, crawling to the dark room behind.

As Lucifer stretched out Sam's arms, Dean could see Sam was still awake. The blood had spread over Sam's neck and down his face. His hair was matted with it, stuck in crags and twisting in the dirt on the floor.

After nailing his hands to the walls, Lucifer stepped back to admire his artwork. Sam was displayed in a sick upside-down crucifixion for Dean to take in.

"Just a few last touches to make it perfect," Lucifer announced.

He pulled the knife from Sam's chest so he could remove his shirt. He ripped the front open and used the knife to cut open the sleeves. Sam hung bare chested against the walls, and the lights continued to flash on and off. The movement was jagged as Dean watched Lucifer plunge the knife back into Sam's chest a few inches to the side of the first.

"Look away, sweet Sam. Look away."

Lucifer turned to Dean, flashed a smile of child-like glee, and twisted Sam's head around backwards with a snap.

Three Months Later

The hotel room was dark with the sour smell of garbage, alcohol, and body odor. Any available surface was cluttered with beer bottles, some collecting by the bed. Three empty bottles of tequila sat under the bedside lamp.

Dean slept across the bed, breathing quickly, his face contorted in pain. His chest was covered in sweat, and the sheets were twisted around his feet, holding them in place. He wasn't wearing anything, and his soiled clothing sat in a pile by the bathroom door, a mixture of worn boxers, t-shirts, plaid, and blue jeans. A cockroach was climbing to the top in the darkness.

Dean's struggling grew more intense. The sheets continued to pull tighter around his legs, and he started to mumble. Every few seconds his mumbling would cut off by moans that resembled calling out for someone. He began to almost thrash in the bed.

Where he wasn't a second before, Cas now stood beside the bed, his hand reaching for Dean's shoulder as he struggled. A pale light surrounded Cas as he gripped Dean, directly over the handprint he left puling Dean from Hell. The light traced the outline of his wings as well, and the room shifted as a slight breeze passed over Dean's body. He slowly quieted as Cas held his shoulder, his movement slowing as Cas brushed him thumb gently over Dean's shoulder, trailing a soft indentation in his flesh.

Cas took in the sight of Dean now resting across the bed. Dean's body no longer dripped sweat, and his muscles were relaxed. Cas scanned Dean's skins for any signs of cuts or damage, but there was nothing besides the scars on his wrists and legs. As his breathing deepened, Dean's dick began to grow slightly from Cas's grip on his shoulder. Cas finally stepped away, and with a small gust of air, he was gone.

Dean woke to an almost dark room, the light fighting around the edges of the blinds. He expected his head to be pounding, but it wasn't. Maybe his body was finally adjusting to a bottle of tequila before bed. His muscles didn't seem to bother him like they had the last few months, and the ache in his two fingers had quieted for the moment. If it wasn't for the images of Sam continually flashing in front of his eyes, he might have said he felt okay, normal even.

This hotel room had become his home over the last month. They never asked to enter the room as long as he paid the bill on time every week. That suited Dean since he was kicked out of nine hotels in two weeks before he found this one. Ever since Cas had found him nearly bled to death in that basement, he hadn't managed to bring himself to do more than survive. And he wasn't doing that well either.

He knew lucifer was out there still, collecting followers, working to take hell and spread it over the planet. And he knew he had no way to stop him. Dean had failed. Heaven had failed. There wasn't anything left for Dean to do.

His slid to the side of the bed and took in the room. The smell assaulted his nose instantly, and he had to gag. He never would have lived like this before; well, with Sammie anyway.

He covered his mouth and nose with his bicep and stumbled over to the window. The light pressed around the edges of the blinds still, and the dust was hovering around it, like hungry insects. His hand hesitated as he remembered long weeks in hotel rooms with his little brother while Dad was away. Sammie was always fascinated by the beams of light and dust.

The kid would stand by the window for hours swinging his hands through the light, watching the dust dart out of the way only to be sucked back into the light. Sometimes he would lay on the floor studying the movements of the particles through the air until he fell asleep on the warm carpet. Dean would always stay quiet when this happened; he knew how much the kid struggled to sleep at night when their Dad was gone. Sometimes Dean also used those times to jerk off in the bathroom, but that wasn't that often. By the time he was fourteen, he was finding girls from school to meet in the evening. Never too late though. He never let Sammie alone in the rooms through the night. Sammie was above everything else.

Dean looked down to see that tears had been dropping onto his chest. The droplets clung to his hair and the light clung to them. He breathed in desperately, and his body shook. His left arm shot out to grab the cord for the blinds, but he missed, and instead the he tore the yellowed plastic slats right off the wall.

The sunlight spread over his bare skin instantly, but the warmth spilled across his chest gradually, down his stomach, around his shoulders. His eyes squinted and he fumbled to open the window. The breeze outside raced over his skin and drew goosebumps, starting at his chest and rippling outwards. The staleness of the room began to change as Dean felt his heart pump with force. He hadn't felt this alive in months.

It was like his nerves had reawakened in his body, like they were brand new. He could feel every muscle, every inch of tendon and skin as it wrapped around his legs, his chest, his arms, his ass. The carpet pressed into his feet, and he dug his toes into it deeper. He began to run his hands over his skin, his chest. He felt charged just feeling the life in his body.

The rough skin on his palms ground against his nipples, and it sent a charge straight to is cock. A moan escaped his lips. He hadn't jerked off in weeks. He had lost his porn after breaking both laptops. No matter what he did, they seemed to never connect to the Wi-Fi. The alcohol hadn't helped, leaving him depressed and exhausted. He just didn't have the strength to jack off, no desire.

But that was gone now. His head was clear, and his dick was throbbing from the sun and the air and the open window, leaving dean exposed to the world in his living glory. With a quick motion, he licked both his thumbs and began to rub over his nipples with more force. Again he moaned and his body responded to everything. The pleasure rushed over him, every inch, leaving his hair on end from his neck to his arms to his chest to his legs.

His cock was like steel now. Precum dripped thickly from it, and he slid his hand down the trail of fur from his stomach to the base of his cock. He gripped the shaft, pulling the skin back from the head and finally began to slowly move his hips, thrusting into his fist.

If anyone was near the door, he was sure they heard him begin to grunt. He let his body take over and he couldn't stop what was happening even if he wanted to. No images played in his mind; it was just Dean, connecting with his body, connecting every nerve and muscle to his cock. He was lost in the ecstasy of pleasure.

His breathing got ragged as he felt his orgasm rush forward suddenly. It shot from behind his navel down to his dick, and suddenly he was screaming in pleasure as he shot robe after rope of cum onto the window in front of him. The thump of every shot against the glass mixed with his heart beat, and he lost all sense of being in that moment. He couldn't feel the carpet or the wind; he just felt the pleasure pulsing in his body.

He stumbled backwards onto the bed, gasping. Steady moans still leaving his mouth. He whimpered from the afterglow and downward spiral. But the sheets rubbing against his skin, his every nerve, kept his body feeling.

Still whimpering, Dean realized his hand was still pumping his hard cock. He had shot the biggest load he could remember over that window, and he was still writhing in horny pleasure on the bed. The endorphins were still in his blood, and as he continued to stroke and rub his body against the sheets. He felt like he was drifting above everything.

The hand that had been playing with his nipples, leaving them sore, now dropped to his balls. He gripped his cock in slow, steady strokes, and began to pull and play with his sack. He moaned loudly as the pain mixed with the pleasure and forced his eyes to roll back. He had never been this in tune, this connected to his body, and he took in every moment. He was aware of his hands, rough, toned hands, working every point of pleasure he had. Again, his hand dropped, and this time began to rub his thighs, pressing his fingers roughly over the muscles running below his cock.

A deeper pleasure was building behind his groin, and he began to rub harder, rolling back slightly to give his hand better access. And before he realized it, he was rubbing over his asshole, mumbling incoherent words between the moans. He pressed against his hole, and his ass responded to every sensation. He felt like he was aroused even deeper than just his cock had ever felt.

He lost a sense of time, he just knew he was stroking without stop, and then sucking on his fingers. His moans vibrated over them as he coated them with spit. Then they were back at his hole, rubbing, pressing. Suddenly his finger slipped inside and his orgasm exploded without warning. He was screaming again, and his cum was shooting over his head onto the wall, then over his face, his chest. He was still stroking, moaning and screaming and finally licking the cum from his lips.

His cock began to soften and grow sensitive. He drew his hands to his chest, lightly rubbing the cum into his skin as he lay spread over the bed, eyes still closed, chasing an orgasm that left him unable to think.

Slowly his breathing began to go back to normal, and he took a slow, deep breath to center himself again in the present moment,

"Hello, Dean," Cas said from the beside the window.