A/N: Hey everyone! This is my first Supernatural story so be gentle! I will also post this to my tumblr account afangirlrambles. Sorry if this first chapter is a little boring, but it'll get more exciting later I promise. :) Italics indicate Dean's thoughts. There was only one POV in this chapter but there will probably be a couple later on. I'll make sure to clearly show the switch between characters.

Disclaimer: Supernatural is obviously not mine. I think everyone is very happy it's not.

Dean nearly retched all over the floor as he pushed his knife deep into some woman's side. He never liked to think about who he was "working on". Dissociation from his actions was key to getting through it. He told himself that better men would have caved earlier, he tried to tell himself that nobody would blame him. Dean also knew that he was an excellent liar.

The little red light on the wall of his room turned green. Dean quickly took the knife out and took the black sack off the woman's head. (It helped with the dissociation.) She was crying and in so much pain she couldn't even make a sound. Dean took a shaky breath, trying to compose his own emotions, before kneeling down to rack-height.

"Shhh, shhh, sweetheart. It'll be okay. I'm so sorry," Dean whispered. He gently placed his hand on her forehead. She flinched away from him so hard, her head smacked the rack. Dean winced and grabbed some of the gauze and antiseptic from the table next to his right.

Dean had never understood why they were allowed to fix up their subjects after a session. Usually Alastair would have made them whole again in less than a second, but even Hell has budget cuts and labor problems. It was why Alastair had given him the choice in the first place. Hunters were getting smarter, which meant demons were getting slaughtered by the dozens on a monthly basis. Not enough for panic to set in, but enough for demons to start turning to humans as torturers.

It was a 9AM-7PM shift, if time really existed in Hell. A line formed outside his door, and Dean was expected to get creative with his knife until that little light turned green. Then, he had five minutes with whomever was on the rack to patch them up or sometimes just talk until a new victim came into the room.

"There you go. Just breathe. Shhh." Dean had patched the woman up and was just about to make small talk (what am I supposed to talk about in here?) before the door buzzed open and a little boy with black eyes came into the room. The kid snapped his fingers and he disappeared with the woman. This signaled the end of Dean's shift, but he was still forced to stay in the tiny room. Sam and I stayed in hotel rooms three times this size.

Sam was really the only thing that got him through the endless days. 32 years in Hell. 2 years off the rack. It broke his damn heart each and every time he raised the blade. But he just couldn't do it anymore. There's only so much pain one man can take, and Dean had taken it all. Alastair had torn him to pieces day in, day out. He tried so hard to focus on Sam, to focus on the days when he was in one piece and only had to worry about finding John.

Some pain you just can't ignore.

Dean lay down on the tiny cot, pressed up against the wall on the far side of the room. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face. He missed Sam, Bobby, hell he even missed the job. But deep down, in his soul, Dean knew that it would hurt so much more if Sam had stayed dead. That kid was his whole world, even if he would never admit it to Sam's face.

Exhaustion took over and Dean fell asleep to the sounds of screaming and the smell of blood.

Let me know what you guys think so far! R & R please!