Author's Note: This little idea came to me recently while I was traveling cross country with my husband and kids – my DH and I tend to speak in book, movie, and play quotes and somehow we managed to quote the majority of Macbeth back and forth somewhere around Wichita, KS. Once in my head I couldn't get this out. So. Here it is. I originally planned for it to be a one shot but it got a little lengthier than I thought it'd be so I just broke it up.

While this is in not a sequel to my fic "Interruptions" there is passing mention to some of the content. You don't need to read it to get this.

Reviews make my day.

Warning: Sexual content, language, and torture/violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. God help me.

Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: two: why,
then, 'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky!—Fie, my
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power
to account?

…

What, will these hands ne'er be clean?—No more o'

that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with

this starting.

Lines by Lady Macbeth, Macbeth Act 5, Scene 1

Dean barely managed to catch himself before he hit the floor.

He wrenched his eyes open as his mind slammed into consciousness, clenching his jaw to keep back both the cries and the bile that clogged his throat. So much, always so damn much. He didn't know why he bothered to sleep anymore. Sure, sometimes he actually managed to get some rest but mostly it was just… this. Night after night of clawing his way to consciousness, vainly hoping that he might get there before he started screaming, before the memories and sensations filling his mind overwhelmed him completely. Wakefulness wouldn't save him from them, but at least awake he could exert some amount of control over his own body. Things were always so much harder to hide from Sammy if Dean happened to wake him with screams, sobbing, or – god forbid – the unmistakable sound of Dean retching. As if that could get what was inside of him out.

If only things were that easy.

Slowly, feeling like he'd been beaten, Dean managed to drag his sorry ass back onto the crappy motel bed. He wasn't entirely sure why he bothered. Between the tangle of sheets around his sweat slicked torso and the fact that he was more than fifty percent of the way to the floor already it would have just been simpler – and probably less painful – to just let himself drop to the worn orange paisley of the carpet. But that made noise. And noise would make Sammy. Who would probably try and turn this into an episode of Dr. Phil.

Besides, Dean was pretty sure that having an in depth talk with Sam about what happened to him while he was in hell would be the absolute worst thing to do in this situation.

He already saw the monster he was when he looked in the mirror. He didn't need to see it on Sam's face. It was bad enough the kid already knew what he'd done. He didn't need to know the gritty details.

Ever.

Breathing heavily through his nose, his arms trembling with exhaustion, Dean flopped back onto the bed. It was a crappy bed. A crappy bed in a motel room that was crappy even by their standards. Figures that the latest case would be in a town so small it didn't even warrant a proper cheap motel. No expensive ones, either. Just this little dump tucked on the edge of town and run by a couple so old that he wouldn't be surprised to find them slumped over the check in desk in the morning, dead as a doornail.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath, scrubbing at his eyes. He can't shut them. He can't. It's bad enough with his eyes open – no way he's closing them again. Not right now.

Not tonight.

Or ever, if he could manage it.

Forcing himself to inhale slowly, Dean counted his way through the act of breathing and managed to quell the main surge of nausea through sheer force of will. I will not be sick. I will not be sick. I will not be sick, he chanted to himself as he let his eyes roam the room. He searched for something – anything – to fill up some part of his brain, to save some of himself from the unrelenting tide that still sought to consume him.

It was dark, the only illumination coming from the muted TV currently making the rounds through infomercial land. He'd been watching some shitty end of the world type movie in an attempt to not fall asleep. Clearly that had worked out well for him. The ancient alarm clock on the bed stand between the two full sized beds read 2:48. On the other side of the small divide Sam was still blissfully unconscious, his huge feet sticking off the edge of the bed and his face planted so deep in the pillows it was a god damn miracle the kid was still breathing. Relief that he hadn't woken his brother and outright envy at the kid's ability to sleep warred inside of Dean as his eyes came full circle and fell on the tangle of gold, brown, and white bedding beside him.

It was empty.

Of course it was empty. End of the World. Important Business. Demons versus Angel. Only Angel with a Brain.

Of course Cas wasn't there.

Not like the bastard knew how to sleep anyway.

Chances were good that if he had been there Dean wouldn't have gotten much sleep. He'd have been too busy convincing the angel that he didn't need to buy the Busty Bowflex Bender or the Super Speedy Kitchen Samurai or whatever shit they were currently advertising on the television. Dean would have probably had to resort to blowing him or something equally pleasant, which while enjoyable would have woken Sammy.

Even with a gag the angel was loud.

Now, why couldn't those memories be the ones pushing at the inside of his skull? Why couldn't those images and noises be the ones that filled him up until it was a god damn miracle that his fucking eyes weren't popping out of his head because of the pressure? Why did he have to be stuck with this?

Always this. So much of it. Over and over and over…

He would never be free of it.

… The girl shrieks, back bowing as Dean strokes at her heart through the hole he's carved in her chest. He can feel it thumping wilding against his touch, running and jerking like a rabbit as it tries to get away. Silly of course, where's the damn thing to go after all? It's nice that she's lasted this long, though. Everyone else he's been by to see today has given in so easy. Fucking pansies. Hopped off the first chance he gave them. Why, the last one – a congressman, he thinks – got himself released before Dean had the skin halfway off his balls. Damn politicians. They always did go too easily.

Of course, that's probably why they were here in the first place.

Dean wraps his fingers around the pulsating muscle and squeezes, the girl rewarding him with another scream that they can no doubt hear halfway across hell. So very nice of her. His fingers tighten and the scream morphs into continual wails and wordless begging. He can feel every little strand of muscle, every little thread of her frantically beating heart as they give way to the pressure of his fingers and slide back and forth like floss underneath the tips of his fingernails. With a wrench that no doubt looks easier than it actually is – he's one of the best after all – he rips her heart out of her chest and holds it between them.

It's a lovely thing that fits in the palm of his hand, still jumping like a god damn jackhammer and sending blood down his arm in rhythmic gushes. The girl is staring at him, shrieks dulled to whimpers by the shock of seeing her own heart outside of her body.

Newbies. They were always so much fun.

Everyone makes the same mistake at first. They forget that they're already dead. It doesn't matter what Dean does to them; it doesn't matter how much he breaks their bodies and tortures their mind. There is no end for them, no blessed relief of slipping away. When they're too broken to be fun anymore they wake up whole and unblemished, ready for the fun to begin again.

It takes time, but they learn. Usually after a couple of days. If they last that long.

Lately everyone's been cashing in their chips after the first round, or even before it ends, which is all sorts of disappointing. Some make it longer though – a couple days at least, which is the best he can hope for, honestly.

Like her.

Dean digs his teeth into the heart and rips a chunk out. Not as crisp as an apple, but you couldn't win at everything could you? This is Hell after all.

"So here's the deal princess," Dean explains around the mouthful of heart. "There are only two positions in Hell. On or Off," he nods pointedly at the rack. "You can party with the rest of us or you can be… part of the lovely entertainment-buffet combo." He takes another bite. "Really, it makes no difference to me but I'm required to ask. Rules," he shrugs and lets out a suffering sigh, leaning against the restraints that held her suspended.

"Be… like… you…?" she wheezes out. It's hard to understand her, but then again he had done a number on her vocal cords earlier. In fact, he's pretty sure he's got part of them strung around his neck like a god damn bow tie.

"Well… maybe eventually. Don't think you'll start off like this," he motions at his torso, limbs slick with blood and gleaming in the hell-light. "I'm special, sister. Most don't got what this takes."

She hesitates and he sees. He stands and watches, kneading the remains of her heart in his hands while she tries to decide just how brave she is. Just how good she thinks she is.

Please. Like anyone good ever ends up in Hell. That'd kind of defeat the purpose of the place, wouldn't it?

"No," she whispers. It's soft, even for the amount of damage he did to the vocal cords, rubs his hands together, stretching out his fingers. "So," he asks casually, flashing her a grin, "kidneys or breasts? Cause I'm still starving." ...

Dean stumbled off the bed, kicking off the sheets that clung to his legs and lunged for the door. Out. He had to get out. Out of here. Out of the dark. Out of this fucking box that trapped him.

It was the best he could do.

He sure as hell wasn't getting out of his own head.

The cool night air hit him like a slap in the face.

Dean staggered out of the door to their room, somehow managing to close the door behind him. Gut churning, head pounding he moved unconsciously, the stone of the parking lot crunching beneath his feet. He went down near the back of the Baby, hand slamming painfully into the curve of the trunk, fingers scrambling for purchase as his body dragged enough that he could distantly feel a knee digging into the gravel.

Everything that he'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours burned its way back up his throat and ended up in an indentation left by the Impala's wheels. His entire torso heaved, the additional pressure making his eyes bulge. His lungs burned for oxygen that he couldn't give them as his body sought to cleanse itself long after every drop of his stomach's contents was on the ground.

When he was finally done he stayed where he was, half kneeling, half slumped over the tail of the Baby. Dimly he was aware of a high keening noise. Not a sob, not a scream – both. Only quieter.

Him.

He'd certainly heard that sound enough to know.

"Son of a bitch," he swore as he pressed his head to the smooth, shiny surface of his car. Gradually, every joint screaming with pain, he managed to haul himself to his feet. He stood, arms braced against the trunk, swaying on his feet for a longer than he'd like before he gathered the strength to stagger down the length of the car to the driver's side door.

There was a bottle of whiskey tucked under the driver's seat for emergencies. Mostly empty, it was still better than nothing. Dean slumped against his car and raised the bottle to his lips, letting the amber liquid swish around his mouth before burning its way down to his gut. For a moment he debated climbing into the Baby and settling into the familiar dips and curves of its seats with the smell of sun warmed leather and the leftover traces of every fancy ass shampoo and aftershave Sam had ever bought. The very thought of being trapped, even in the safety of the Baby, sent his heart to hammering again, a cold sweat breaking out over his clammy skin.

It was another minute or so before Dean gathered the strength to hoist himself onto the hood of the Impala. Every muscle in his body screamed as he moved but he ignored them. Or rather, he ignored them as much as he could, settling gingerly down with his back to the windshield. On nights like this it was like they remembered everything that he had done and everything that had been done to him.

That was a lot of shit.

There wasn't enough morphine in the world to make it go away.

Dean tipped his head back and stared into the sky.

The middle-of-fucking-nowhere status that had granted them such crappy accommodations also blessed him with a beautiful view of the velvety blue expanse overhead. Heart hammering, hands shaking, Dean traced meaningless patterns across the sky with his gaze. It was easier to breathe out here in the cool night air, the light breeze easing the sweat from his shaking limbs as it flowed over him. Out here, at the very fringes of civilization, he could hear it rustling through the nearby trees and whispering through the motel's overgrown flowerbeds and the field across the street. It was, no doubt, one of the most beautiful noises he'd ever heard.

Breathe, you bastard, he told himself. In: one, two, three, and out…. In: one, two, three, and out… See? Breathing. You're alive. Hear the wind? See the trees? Smell the god damn flowers? You're not there. Cas pulled you out. God damn it, you got out. Stop being such a girl. Just breathe. You can't stop it. Just breathe. Just…

"Dean."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean jerked against the windshield, heart slamming to a complete standstill behind his ribs. "Cas," he gasped as he hastily clenched his hands over his kneecaps to hide their shaking. "Shit. What have I told you about just appearing?" He glanced sideways, heart giving a painful lurch in his chest as his eyes took in the sight of the angel reclining next to him, legs stretched out across the hood of the Impala. He'd be a piss-poor lying bastard if he couldn't admit – at least to himself – that the angel's presence eased some of the pressure in his head.

The angel blinked slowly. "I apologize for causing you more distress," Castiel responded with his normal care, his deep voice rumbling across the short distance between them and washing over Dean's skin. Easily one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard.

"What are you even doing – wait. More distress?"

Cas raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Are you not distressed, Dean? I could feel it," he added quietly as Dean looked away in response to his question. "I believe the social norm is to ask if you want to ta…"

"No," Dean cut him off harshly, scrubbing at his face. "No talking. Not about this. Never about this. I can't…I just can't, Cas. It's bad enough that I…" he shook his head and moved his gaze to the stars. Castiel was silent beside him for a long moment, shifting carefully until the sleeve of his trench coat brushed up against Dean's arm, the length of his leg following the line of Dean's, barely touching through denim and slacks. "I can't tell Sam. I can't tell you. I can't, Cas. I just can't," he added quietly, hoping that he didn't sound nearly as broken as he felt.

"Hell?"

Dean jerked his head, lips pressed into a think line. He wouldn't talk about it. He just needed to breathe. He'd be better in the morning. They'd be off on the case and he could focus, his mind filling with things he was stopping instead of things he had done. No more remembering. Not until he shut his eyes again.

"Dean?"

He sighed wearily and turned his head to look at the angel, who was studying him with the unnerving intensity he had come to expect. There was something else there, reluctance and thoughtfulness warring on his handsome face. "Yes Cas?"

The angel regarded him a moment longer and then reached toward him, clearly expecting him to flinch away. That, the fact that Cas knew that he would try and get away, made him grit his teeth and remain still as the angel gently wrapped his hands around one of Dean's. Under normal circumstances Dean was a tactile person. He liked to touch. He liked to be touched. He liked both all the more when it involved Cas.

But this, right now?

Son of a bitch.

"You do not need to tell me, Dean."

"Damn right I don't need to," Dean growled, weaving his fingers through Cas' and clenching until his knuckles turned white.

"You misunderstand me, Dean," Castiel continued quietly. "I mean that you don't need to tell me because I already know."

Dean snorted and shook his head. "Right. Because a fucking Angel of the Lord knows what I went through, what I did in Hell."

"Yes."

Castiel's calm, sure reply tore a bitter bark of laughter from Dean's lips. "Did I pray them to you?" he asked harshly. "Did I send them to you in some fucked up compensation for all the pornos?"

"No."

Dean inhaled sharply. God damn angel. Getting answers out of Cas sometimes was like trying to pull molars with a pair of tweezers. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Exhale, Dean. Exhale, you bastard. "Then. What. The. Hell."

"I was there," Castiel finally murmured after a long, drawn out silence in which he had stared reflectively into the sky, searching for something.

"What?"

"Hell. Dean, I was there." The angel offered him gently. "The hordes of Heaven, myself included, lay siege to Hell for forty years. Where else would I have been?" Dean blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and blinked again. "Hell is not a location; it is a plane of existence. The walls that surround it are not purely physical. Hell is like… a bubble… and we surrounded it on all sides. I was there, every day, all day when they put you on that rack and I was there every day, all day, even after you got down."

All the air fell out of Dean's lungs in a rush and his eyes fluttered shut for just a brief moment, torn between protecting himself from what was pressing against the inside of his skull and what was pressing against his ears. "You saw?" his rasped out, prying his eyes back open as the onslaught of images renewed their attack. That Cas had seen him, seen what he had done. Dean felt the sudden need to stick his head between his knees and gulp air until the sky stopped reeling. How could the angel stand to work with him? How could he stand to touch him? To hold his hand? To…

The evenness of Castiel's deep tone broke through the hysteria, drawing him back. "Yes. I saw and I heard. From the moment they drug your soul in to the moment my hand gripped you tight and pulled you out I could hear you screaming, begging for someone to save you."

"Thirty years," Dean broke in bitterly. "I only screamed thirty years. Should have held out longer."

"If that is what you really believe, then you are lying to yourself," Cas murmured. "That is the secret of hell. It is meant to cause pain, a judgment of eternal suffering. You are a righteous man – you are," the angel repeated firmly, overriding Dean's scoff of disbelief, "and the torture was painful, but the guilt? The guilt over what you were doing? I believe you hurt more in those last ten years than can possibly be measured. That is what Hell truly is. In the end, it is only you – trapped destroying yourself over and over again for all of eternity."

And wasn't that just twisted as fuck.

"The screaming was the worst," Dean finally admitted as a shudder rippled through his flesh. "More than the torture, more than what I did; hell, the screaming itself was worse than the fact that I enjoyed what I was doing. Because in the back of my head, I knew. I knew what I was, what I had become, and I knew I would never be able to escape it." He snorted and shook his head. "I can't escape it Cas. You saved me from the Pit and I managed to bring the fucking thing with me. During the day I can lie through my teeth and convince myself that I'm okay but nights like this?" He laughed. Even to him it was a hollow, bitter sound. "There's nothing I can do, Cas. Nothing. No matter how many people I save, how many monsters I stop … I'll never be able to wipe my slate clean. I will never be able to erase what I did." The angel sighed and reached across their legs with his free hand, covering the hand that he already held and squeezing it tightly. He shut his eyes and looked away, the delicate cage of his control threatening to shatter beneath the angel's touch.

… "Beautiful, Dean. Just beautiful," Alastair drawls, trailing the long length of his fingers through the ruined hills and valleys of flesh and blood. "You have always been such an artist."

He smirks, feeling the demon's eyes flicker over to him as Dean traces the long, curved edge of the blade with his tongue…

"Dean…"

"Don't, Cas," he cut the angel off roughly, wrenching his eyes open. "We're not talking about it."

He doesn't talk about these things. It doesn't matter – except it does – that Cas apparently knows everything. Even things Dean doesn't normally admit to himself. He won't talk about this. He can't.

Doing so would let it consume him.

Completely.

"Don't," he managed to growl out as a familiar sensation – something between the whisper of gently moving air, the tingle of faint electric shocks as you slid across carpet, and that itch you got between your shoulder blades when someone was watching you a little too closely – shivered along his spine. Every hair on his body twitched, standing on end as he moved, grabbing onto Castiel's arm with his spare hand, tightening his grip until to just this side of bruising. "Don't," he repeated roughly. "I need you." It was as close as he would get to begging. As close as he could get to opening his mouth and saying all the things choking in his throat.

Don't leave me alone with this. Maybe it's all psychobabble – because you pulled me out. Maybe it's because I love you. Your presence helps. It drives away the darkness. It makes me believe, if just for a moment, in something good. I need that. I need you. I'm drowning out here. I'm broken. I can't fix myself. I can't save myself. I can't. Don't go. Don't leave me out here with myself. Please.

God, he was turning into such a chick.

Castiel regarded him silently for a long, drowning moment. "Of course," he murmured. The deep, careful precision of his voice eased something in Dean's chest, letting him inhale sharply with relief. "Of course," the angel repeated.

"You…you sure you don't have some important angel crap to take care of?" Inside, Dean cursed enough to make a sailor's ears bleed. Why the fuck did he always feel the need to give Cas an out?

Because you don't deserve him, you dumb bastard. That's why.

Castiel's face twitched. "No," he replied firmly, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against' Dean's forehead. "I don't."

"Oh," Dean whispered hoarsely into the curve of the angel's throat. The tide in his head withdrew, just a little, at the angel's touch. "Good."

Because, when it came to this, that was as close he'd ever be able to get to saying thank you.