MAJOR A/N: This story is being updated and old chapters are all being replaced. There have been some fairly major edits but it's not necessary to reread. I'd like to hugely thank Kaeostennyo for being my beta-this precious angel read this beast of a story twice and I love her for it! Secondly, there are some absolutely awful scenes in this story. I do not condone or support any abuse of any kind ever. That being said, I am not taking a fluffy view of Hell that the CW obviously must. If hell were/is a real place, it would be dark, and it would be the worst possible things you could imagine.

Warnings: torture, non-con, dubious non-con, sub/dom, major character death (temporary), sexual abuse, emotional torment, physical abuse, delusions, psychological trauma, and one particular scene with something real gross that is NOT meant to be a kink for this fic but a depiction of the severe change in a character. Not that I have anything against any kinks whatsoever-to each their own, but just wanted to say that.

Yes, this fic is painful, and full of angst and sorrow, but I promise, good always triumphs.

THE WHOLE STORY IS DONE BUT BE PATIENT WITH ME WHILE I POST IT OVER THE NEXT COUPLE WEEKS. FEEL FREE TO UNCHECK YOUR NOTIFICATIONS. THOUGH I'LL TRY TO POST THE PARTS IN CHUNKS. THERE ARE THREE PARTS. DID I SAY THIS STORY WAS A BEAST... IT IS.

/\/\/\

PART ONE

1
Hi Dumpster, It's Me, Dean Winchester

"Your bony fingers close around me

Long and spindly

Death becomes me

Heaven can you see what I see?"

"Dear future me… (For the record, this is stupid)

Sam's making me do this as some dumb activity that's supposed to help. I can barely think beyond an hour, no clue what makes him think I'm gonna come up with anything decent to say to a future version of myself. I mean, shit, there's a good chance I won't make it to a future me. There's a good chance I'll kill Sam, Cas, and then myself in some bloody threesome slaughter show.

Fuck it.

…

Here goes… I legitimately hope you're past all this. In the incredible turnout that you're still alive, I hope you're halfway back to normal. I hope you're happy. Not that I even remember what that's like. There was that dream though… but I force myself not to think about it, and if you're still as fucked as me, don't. Don't ever think about it. It's better that way.

And if you ever get the chance to go back in time, book it to that fucking bridge and glue your damn feet to the ground. 'Cause let me tell you something, it goes bad, alright? It goes real fucking bad.

If you've made it, awesome. Good on you. If not, well, then I guess this letter is nothing but the unlikely diary of broken man.

Seriously though, if the future me is reading this crap and you're happy, burn this, burn anything that reminds you of this version of me. Guess that's all I've got for now..."

September 5th, 2013 – Cincinnati

It'd been a week or so since Dean had abandoned his brother Sam, and good friend Castiel—who also happened to be an honest-to-goodness angel, on that shoddy bridge; the rain pissing down on them.

At the time, no other choice made sense. The way his little brother had looked at him… Dean had never seen that before. Utter disappointment, with a side of unbanked resentment. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of hate.

So there it was: His only family, falling apart before his eyes.

In that look, with the tight set of Sam's jaw, Dean saw all the horrific presumptions he'd ever entertained about myself confirmed and verified. It's all your fault… Sam's eyes said. Blood boiling through a cold heart, he took one fleeting final glance at them both and turned his back; walking heavy steps in the musty-smelling rain towards his car.

Since that fateful night Dean had been grasping at straws trying to redeem himself. See, the thing he'd done? It was as bad as you could get. Sammy and him had been hunting monsters since they were kids (demons, ghosts, ghouls, etc…), and all sorts of bad and worse had happened over the years: Apocalypse, anyone? But this ditty? Well, apparently letting an angel you didn't know for shit possess your dying brother to save his life was damning and unforgivable.

Fine. So possession was a bit of no-no in the hunting world. Ya know, demons and all that, and most of the angels being dicks as well. But seeing as Sam was basically flat-lining with Death moonlighting the dude's dreamscape, shit had to be done.

So he'd done it. Shittily enough, turned out the angel who claimed to be good—even vouched for by Dean's best angel-friend Cas, had deceived them all. The man-angel who had called himself Ezekiel turned out to be none other than Gadreel—the one who'd let the snake into the Garden of Eden. Numero Prick Uno.

All of this led him to his current mission: Following lead after lead on Gadreel—the fucker that had put the rift between Dean and the two people he cared most about. That bastard-angel's death was becoming his Holy Grail, and this solo journey was his crusade.

Dean had been going forward for days with no sleep and only mental fortitude to keep him upright, dragging his ass from one place to the next, feeling hot rage and helplessness rise up to take him over like a damn rip-tide.

The lethal combination of emotions and exhaustion got the better of him on this Thursday night in boring-ass Cincinnati. It was dark, and wet from a recent downpour.

Drunkenly, he sang in murmurs as he walked around from the exit of the club towards the rear of the building facing the Ohio River, where he could feel a thick breeze waft in his direction.

"Alllll by mysseelllfff…" Dean laughed, continuing to hum the song loudly, gaining looks from stragglers after dark. One in particular eyed him keenly.

"What'ch you lookin' at?!" he barked. The middle-aged man swiftly turned his face away and picked up pace, putting eager distance between himself and the 'drunken idiot singing Celine Dion'.

Shit-faced, Dean stumbled along the flat back-side of the old brick warehouse, collapsing down under a loading dock platform next to a smelly dumpster with a clang.

Eyeing the rusted green thing, a maniacal laugh tore out of him and he thought: How fucking appropriate?

Shaking his head with frustration, he realized he'd been going at this for a whole friggin week and each and every lead had resulted in absolute shit for nothin'. He was a failure at fixing his own failures.

Awesome, Dean, really. Good job!

When he'd rolled into town hours earlier, only to find the snitch of a demon he'd been tracking gone without a shred of evidence—well—to say he'd been pissed was an understatement. After throwing a minor fit in the hotel room and flushing his deposit straight down the toilet, Dean had headed directly for the closest seedy bar, some kind of warehouse club—not his usual scene—but the anonymity of throngs of club-goers had been right on point for his state of mind. Which was: Wanting to get FUCKED UP. The goal for the night being to consume as much alcohol as possible until he was no longer standing.

Glancing sideways at the ground, he thought, huh... That mission had been a success at least. Point for me, right?

His bowed legs were sprawled haphazardly, his ass on the damp cement, his back half leaning on the coarse foundation wall, and something dripping on his shoulder from above. The thrum of music and repetitive beats radiated around him; the building too old to contain it. The annoying unh-tz, unh-tz banged against the inside of his skull. Each blink increased the sensation of burning in his eyes, and he wasn't sure if it was from severe exhaustion or a result of the epileptic-inducing lightshow in the bar. On top of that, his lungs had apparently shrunken in size, stealing him of air. Each inhale a fucking gasp and a struggle.

The shallow corner between the building and the metal garbage-box was rank with the smell of refuse and wet pavement, that earthy and sweet combo giving his gag reflex some exercise.

With the booze lifting the filter of his thoughts, he wondered, again, how Sam could have come to hate him so damn much? Was what he'd done—saving his little brother—so horrific? So unforgivable?

"Yup," he blurted. Because you sure as hell didn't do it for Sammy. Ramming his head back against the metal, he cursed aloud, repeating the motion twice more to further scramble his noggin.

All that banging around did was rattle loose shit he'd rather not see. Flashes of the faces of loved ones that he'd let down in his relatively short life: His baby brother, Cas, his dad, his mom, Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Kevin... Endless people, faces, lives. All displayed in his mind's eye as bodies piled up on top of one another like a grotesque mockery of his entire life's purpose.

In the face of that macabre mountain, what was the point in trying? All those lives… gone. What was the fucking point?!

Sammy deserved better.

He deserved a real family. Dean was nothing more than wasted energy. Not a damn thing went right. Thank god he wasn't the only one who could do right by Sam in his place. There was Castiel—their unofficial family member. The one person who—other than Sam—made Dean feel cared for and needed. And the only angel Dean had ever liked. The thought sparked something in him. A last shot for a good deed before fate got to him. Yeah, yeah, it's a good plan, he thought.

Just bow out. Bout' time, too.

"Cas?" he prayed quietly. The name of the angel tugged a cord somewhere deep but now wasn't the time to pull that thread. As if his life wasn't already fucked up enough.

It was possible that Cas might not even be listening anymore, but he hoped. And shit, it was basically his note, anyway. Deep down, he could feel it—the icy breath of Death coming for him. It wouldn't be long now. Dean couldn't place the feeling, call it a sixth sense or whatever, but he knew his days were limited. It wasn't like he planned on offing himself. He wasn't nearly that dramatic—despite evidence to the contrary. But that scythe was well on its way. The end for him was around some next corner and, ya know, he didn't care to fight against it anymore. Who or what that would be the one to perform the deed no longer seemed to matter. Someone or something was coming for him—they always did—and he no longer had the energy to withstand it. All his life he spent struggling to live, to keep others alive, and over and over again, he failed.

What else could he do, but pray?

"So here's the thing Cas... I, uhh, probably won't be makin' it back, man. Just wanted you to know that I'm sorry and… shit. Uhh… I want you to look after Sammy for me, will ya? Be his family. Be the family that he needs. Support each other and all that crap. Make him go on dates, and get the guy to eat a damn burger once in a while. Ya know, teach him to live a little. Same goes for you too by the way. Don't want ya getting all uptight like you were when we met.

Listen, I know he hates me. I know you probably hate me too and I tried to fix it. I've looked for Gadreel but the fucker's in the wind. What more can I do? Fuck-all is what. But then it occurred to me… Every time I try to make something better, I fuck it up, so I figure, I'm just gonna stop fucking things up. I'm no good to you guys, Cas. I'm useless. As a brother, a hunter, every goddamn thing.

Even as a friend, I fuck up. Ya know… to you. Know what I mean? Fuck, don't know if I'm making any sense.

Kinda wasted…"

Dean laughed bitterly before he could continue and realized he'd dropped over in his drunken state and now lay completely on the cement like a damn homeless junkie.

Awesome, Dean thought. Right where I should be, he glanced at the dumpster and winked like it were a hot chick he were about to pick up for a night.

Christ. In the attempt to drink himself to the ground, he should've factored in needing to be knocked the fuck out as well. He couldn't stand himself anymore, so annoyed with all his own bull-shit. Not to mention the way he'd been around Cas since Heaven fell, moving through their friendship with blinders on, being a total dick for the sake of his own sanity.

"I know...Cas," Dean continued, slurring. "I know how much of an ass I've been to you. I don't know why you put up with it. I'm messed up. I've always been shit at stuff like that. An'tired. Yeah...gonna lay down for a minute."

"Tired…" he repeated as his eyes slipped shut. The prayer fell silent as he slowly drifted into unconsciousness on the waves of eighty-proof.

A surreal light swept across the rear of the warehouse, illuminating the shiny, wet ground, the green rusted garbage container, and the man collapsed beside it, passed out, smelling of sweat and booze.

/\/\/\

In the nightmare, his body scraped over the grubby ground, arms being pulled by some force he couldn't see.

Suspected destination: Hell. Or, the memories of it at least.

No less terrifying.

There was no kicking or screaming this time around. Only acceptance. Or perhaps indifference. A part of him wondered if maybe the nightmare was real. The scary thing was? He couldn't quite bring himself to care.

When did I give up? he wondered. Was it on that bridge? Before? Didn't matter, he supposed.

After the first cuts of a razor sliced his skin, a voice pervaded the darkness. Not something screechy, or demonic, and certainly not his own garbled whimpers. A voice that felt pure, and beautiful. It was the most spectacular sound he'd ever heard. Something indistinct. Not male or female, neither exact nor vague...it was just the voice of something he knew.

Cinching his eyes tight, he wished the voice was as real as the pain. Not that he deserved it, but the lull of something so wonderful put a dent in the hollow feel of his indifference. It tempted him enough that his self-preservation made a blazing return.

Wake the hell up! he thought fiercely, fighting back on a surge of adrenaline, his heart starting to race.

With a growl of his own, he battled against the demon slicing into his skin but the binds were tight. Without reward, he fervently struggled, grunting, trying to escape the torments that he no longer accepted with passive impartiality.

The voice disappeared, but he hoped for its return, as waking up from nightmares of Hell had always been next to impossible. And the whole eyes open business never really calmed the terror anyway.

The exhaustion of fighting his own subconscious drained him, his desperation causing him to cry out, muttering strings of vulgarity, mixed with pitiful prayers. The demon only laughed and continued carving him up. The ardency of the pain made his teeth chatter. An irritating clack-clack-clack as he tried to form words around the distractions here.

"This is what you deserve!" the demon snarled. "You're death to everyone around you. They all suffer because of you, Dean. They're all dead because of you."

The demon twisted his wrist in a quick, sharp motion and he heard the bone snap under his skin. Even with his teeth gritted against the pain, he cried out. Then his muscles went wild on him, shaking and trembling. Dampness rolled out from the outside corners of his eyes and it pissed him off, but he couldn't help the reaction. It wasn't just the pain in the nightmare, or the feeling of despair in this reflection of memory, but everything. All the guilt buried deep breaking free. The exact feeling he couldn't stand.

Wake up! WAKE UP!

Screaming himself hoarse, it seemed no amount of demanding that he wake up would work.

Time dragged on.

Then it hit him—What if this wasn't a nightmare? Indifference had abandoned him to let worry take over. Because worse than getting ganked or offing himself, was being express-posted to Hell and being made to torture again. As much as he would have liked to think he could hold out longer than before, he simply didn't have the faith.

Somewhere in the back of his pain and disorientation, he felt that voice again—the perfect one—still there in his head. It spoke to him. Some sort of repeated question...over and over again! Louder and louder.

Fuck... What was it saying?

Dean couldn't focus. The pain consumed him. Between his own screams and the demons laughter, the pleasant voice was nothing more than a whisper of light against his ear.

The torture continued for an endless stretch of time. Slashing, cutting, bones breaking, screams—the sound of himself barely recognizable. Blood filled his throat to temporarily quiet him. But the agony and disorientation continued.

"Dean."

There it was again!

Damn, if he could only latch onto it. Dumbly, he thought of a carnival prize mechanical arm and imagined himself using one to snag this pleasant voice. His imagination portrayed the voices in the machine as little gold balls, bouncing around, one glowing brighter than the rest; the one he wanted.

It didn't sound human, but the tone of it, the way it wrapped around his name, brought time to a halt. This was definitely no demon; the voice was inarticulate and yet, somehow, familiar. But it wasn't really a voice in the true sense. It was the sound Dean was sure light would make if it could.

For a passing second he thought of busting glass, and pain lancing through his head as a sound pierced his ears sharp as knives. But the memory slipped away as the demon leaned closer.

His torturer was an eclipse of blackness. Its skin a charred, crispy surface that burned Dean wherever it touched. The press of its fingers left marks like cigarette burns. It had a gaunt face with sharp, shark-life teeth. It leered down at him and smirked—the image so grotesque that Dean could hardly breathe. Alistair's true form had been ugly as shit, but this...this was something else.

Way to go brain, he thought, really outdid yourself on this one.

When the demon was within millimeters of his face, it snaked out a long gray tongue and licked the side of his face from jaw to temple. Bile rose up in Dean's throat. He choked reflexively while the demon laughed sinisterly beside him. Rotten-sweet breath blew over his nose and mouth. A shriek escaped him because it was all he could do.

In past nightmares of Hell, he would remember the things he'd done. The monster he'd become. It used to terrify him, wondering why his mind went there, until he realized that Alistair was right: "Always knew you had it in you."

Realizing that he was a poison worse than cyanide judging by the death toll, it wasn't much surprise that his nightmares twisted on him. In those other nighttime horror-shows, perhaps because he'd been in control, he could eventually force himself to wake up after a time. This was different. Maybe because deep down, struggling or not on the outside, he felt this was where he deserved to be—under the knife as it were.

During a lull of stimulation, or maybe a glorious bout of numbness, he let his mind wander aimlessly. People believed that Hell was hot and humid. And it could be, but every now and then the temperature would drop so low that your bones shook. Your muscles seized and spasmed, making each infliction of a knife, or some other torture device feel that much sharper. The agony stretched out to other parts of you as every muscle trembled violently, and your teeth ached from the force of grating them.

Finding himself in that state, that clear and familiar sensation of Hell, Dean truly began to wonder if it was real. Time had stretched for far too long and he still hadn't woken up. It was beginning to feel endless, days weightless with their continuation.

Still, every so often, coming back to him over and over again, was that trickle of warmth and radiance that ebbed against his being like the flutter of a blanket drifting down to settle over you. Sadly, the blanket never stayed.

Damn that voice. Coming to him like a promise and then slipping away. The wordless sound of something flexing its way at him. It pushed as best as a voice and light can, and he tried to focus on it because it was nice. God, it was so nice. It was the closest feeling of home he could capture amidst the pain, and the sounds of his skin being yanked and torn, and the feel of blood dripping over his thigh, warm and thick.

And the smell. Fuck, it reeked in Hell.

The familiarity of the voice nagged him. Because he knew. Deep down he knew. No one else in the whole damn world said his name that way. Formed with intent and meaning and feeling. It always felt like more than his name. Each time… it was never just a name.

There was a break in the torture on his next breath, the light reaching him, endlessly saying his name, and finally he could concentrate on the question that had been on steady repeat since he'd felt his friends presence in the darkness of Hell.

"Let me in, Dean!"

Fuck… No! Oh, God, no. Reality crashed on him, and in a fleeting nanosecond he was suddenly sure, absolutely goddamn certain that this was no nightmare. He was really here.

And worse than that, was knowing that Cas was also here.

Dean shouted nonsense, feeling tears anew streak down across his inflamed skin because he had never wanted Cas to save him. He'd made a promise to himself that he wouldn't let anyone else get hurt because of him. Failure greeted him like an old adversary.

The demon slithered a hand up his body in a disturbingly intimate way and Dean choked, barking out a curse at the soulless pit of hatred that was getting handsy.

"Fuck you!" Dean bit off.

"You think he's here for you?" The demon laughed. "No one's coming. It's all in your head, boy."

A sharp slash across his stomach sent blood gurgling up his throat, leaving him sputtering, and coughing trying to bring air into his lungs. Each motion made the pain in his stomach flare and burn like lightning inside his abdomen. The demon crowed at his pathetic attempts to inflate his lungs.

"You don't deserve salvation!" the creature shouted, slicing a machete down to his fingers, slicing off two. The searing, blistering pain tore a scream from his blood-filled throat and he knew from experience that no amount of pain would cause him to pass out…'cause Hell just wasn't that nice.

All around them, the shadowed room began to shake, thick stone walls vibrating. The dust cascaded down in a grey waterfall of broken rock.

With a thunderous sound to rival a bomb, a light erupted through the dark cavern, the sound of its entrance shattering everything. Every object within a forty foot radius exploded into non-existence.

The demon vanished as the light made its way to Dean's bloody, torn-up body still strapped down on the table. It pushed at his skin, feeling warm and gentle. It was insistent. Pushing and pushing at him. Some part of Dean became mildly annoyed but couldn't figure out why.

Hell was evil and blackness, and pain, and humiliation, but it was Hell. And therefore it was predictable. This was...unexpected. He tried to remember something about the light but failed as his brain refused to work properly. Hadn't he known? Felt like maybe he knew before, but now he didn't.

Still, the lightness pawed at him. Not lewdly. It was almost sweet in a weird way. As he tried to concentrate, Dean realized he could hear the voice again. The pleasant one that would tickle at the back of his mind. The one that was familiar, a mystery he was sure he'd already figured out.

Then, like a rollercoaster barreling towards the earth, the soft voice began to roar, screaming, SHOUTING: "Let me in! Let me in! LET ME IN!"

Instantly terrified, Dean started to struggle all over again. It was demon, he thought, it's coming back. Shit, it'll possess me! But he couldn't let it. It would hurt Sam, or Cas. He thrashed around, trying to yank his broken wrist through the thick leather strap. He had to get out.

"Say yes, let me in!" No fucking way!

Dean yelled in a booming voice—as loud as he could manage—expelling a string of profanities so vulgar it was spectacular.

They went back and forth, the voice demanding entry. Demanding entry? Growing still, Dean came to the conclusion that it couldn't be a demon after all. Demon's didn't ask permission. Was it Gadreel? Coming to greet him finally, wanting a new body. He already drove one brother, why not the other?

But then the presence said his name again. Just once. In that singular way that was so… perfect. So damn familiar.

"Dean. Please, it's me."

Thoughts continued to be pushed at him: "Please... Say yes." The nature of these thoughts were somber with an edge of panic. There was no malice in it, but still… Dean'd made so many unspeakable mistakes and therefore making any decision, especially in Hell, he'd learned first-hand, was never a good idea, so he remained silent, even though his most basic instincts were telling him to say yes. Heck, his instincts were urging him to holler that shit.

The demon never returned. The light stayed by his side. It was soft, fluttering insistently; impatient with Dean's apathy.

"Let go... Say yes. Please, you can't stay like this. Let me help you."

Were these lies? How could he know what was really the truth, maybe everything was nothing more than a twisted nightmare.

The thoughts tickled inside his brain and he was so tempted. Man, how amazing it would feel to let go. It used to frighten him, losing control, but now it felt like a blessing. He wanted to be free of feeling, both good and bad.

Dean just wanted to be done with it all.

There was a pressure against his cheek. It felt like a hand, but there was nothing there. Only light, pure and bright.

"Dean…"

Warm streaks snaked over his temples as his will seemed to shatter with each touch and urgent delivery of his name.

Beginning to shake, working against his restraints, he let the word escape. "Yes." Quiet as a whisper but deafening all the same.

"Yes..." he said once more. The second time easier.

On the heels of his spoken word, everything warped. The light coalesced and flew at him, pushing into his mouth and down into his soul. It wasn't all that unpleasant. In fact, the more the light flowed into him the more his pain diminished, the more his brain reorganized itself into reality. He felt a sense of calm that he hadn't felt ever in his life.

It was so pure and peaceful that he dropped out of awareness from sheer elation at being free.