Dean knew that if he could grow strong enough, he could break free and get back to his Sammy. If he could just hold on to that, maybe…

Maybe he could hold on to himself.

On the thirtieth year of his torture, Dean finally took Alastair's knife and stepped off the rack.

The first cut made him gag. Red blood washed over his hands; not the blood of a monster every bit deserving of death, but the warm blood of a human soul. Alistair's barked warning reminded Dean of his purpose, and he returned to work. The first day, he dismembered seventeen souls. There was little finesse in his work, but Alistair still wore a small smirk when he handed back the knife at the end of the day.

We'll have you carving them up proper in no time, Alistair said, his voice flowing like lava into the cracks Dean could have sworn were healed in his skin.

This is for Sammy, Dean chanted, slicing through screaming corpses on his fifth day. He had learned a new technique for carving out eyeballs that day, prompting a particularly nasty bought of screaming that had had Alistair nearly skipping. For Sammy. Black began to creep into the edges of his vision.

I'll take care of you when I'm free, Sammy, he reminded himself, as he found new ways to mutilate and torture. Ten years of guts and grime and screams had darkness slipping cracks in his skin and peaking out through his eyes. When he spoke, smoke curled from his mouth to paint the faces of his victims in shadows.

He was nearly there.

I love you baby boy, he whispered when he was finally strong enough to escape. Sam writhed beneath his blade, and Dean made sure to take extra good care of his brother.