Evidently, he needed to crawl back out into the light, shoving aside matted fistfuls of earth and sucking in new, beautiful air into his reborn lungs, to really know how much of himself should have stayed buried.
He was good at it (deny). He'd done it (ignore) all his life. Old patterns (pretend) fit the new mold almost too well.
At first there were other things pushed to the forefront of his mind that made it easier. Find Sammy. Then find the thing responsible. Then find the reason for it. If Dean kept looking (kept running) he was sure he could find a thousand ways to keep his mind busy (distracted) enough.
He told Sam he didn't remember. It was easier not to remember. (He wished to god he didn't.)
If he buried it deep enough, maybe it would be possible to forget.
He hid it underneath his concern about Sam that turned to betrayal and fear and feelings he couldn't even name because whatever Sam was doing was so fucking wrong. And he focused on Ruby, the bitch. And her hand in corrupting his little brother, and Sam's lies and Dean's grief at how out-of-step he felt with Sam now, how Sam had moved on without him even though it had torn him up at first, and maybe Sam would have been okay. Maybe he should never have come back.
These were the things (not Hell, not that) that had him sitting on the edge of the bed in the middle of the night, pouring sweat and struggling to breathe. It wasn't Hell. It wasn't. It wasn't. He didn't remember Hell. It was easier not to remember. He needed to make himself not remember.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, looking for ways to bury it so it would stay buried. The screams (not his) and bone (not his) and blood (not his) and pain (not–
He felt the mattress sink beside him, and he kept his eyes closed, because maybe he could bury this too, the fact that Sam saw him and saw through him. Bury it all so far inside that Sam would never have to see it, be affected or dirtied by it.
Bury himself inside himself. At least he could do that much for Sam.
"Hey," Sam said tentatively.
"Leave me alone," he said, hoping there was enough spite behind the words to push Sam away. Make him angry enough to give up. Leave.
"You okay?"
"I'm great, Sam. Seriously." Sarcasm. Anger. Go. Leave. Look away. Don't see.
Sam was quiet for a moment. "It's Hell, isn't it?" he said. "You do remember it."
He'd cried out for Sam so many times. (He was still crying out for Sam.)
Dean dropped his head into his hands, tears welling behind his eyes and pressing hot and wet into his palms. It reminded him of blood. Blood between his fingers. Blood on his hands.
Blood on his hands.
That must have been the moment he'd stopped screaming. Not because it ever stopped hurting. But because he knew. He was exactly where he belonged.
A/N: True story... the title and idea for this one-shot came from Laurie31 who actually saw in a dream that I had written it. I like to try and avoid paradoxes when I can, and so I followed through.
Incidentally, she also dreamed that you left a review, so... (I'm sorry. That part is a lie. I'm a writer, I lie.)