Act II

One of the advantages of never knowing what kind of fuglies you might run into was that you tended to keep a small arsenal within reaching distance at all times. The Impala's trunk was well stocked, but since it was on the way, they had been able to stop at the bunker just long enough to load up whatever extra weapons they thought they might need and catch a few hours of shut-eye. Throughout the years, they'd had to survive on little to no sleep when the situation called for it. Because of that, they'd learned to grab whatever rest they could whenever they could take a moment. The trials were important, but according to Tessa, they had 24 hours to make a 13 hour drive, and that left them a little wiggle room.

Dean knew his brother was still affected by whatever had zapped through him after the first trial. Despite Sam's attempt at bravado, a lifetime of reading his brother made him understand just how hard Sam was trying not to show how freaked out he really was.

But Sam had promised to survive these trials, and Dean had no intention of letting him renege on that promise. If Sam's 'light at the end of the tunnel' turned out to be a charging freight train, Dean would be right there to push him off the tracks.

Even if it killed him.

He still wasn't okay with how things had worked out. It was supposed to be him. Sam was the one who was supposed to survive. Sam was the one who could walk away from this life.

The thought of that filled him with relief and disappointment at the same time. Relieved that one of them might actually have a chance to grow old, have kids, bounce their grandkids on their knee. The year Sam spent with Amelia was proof that it was possible… for Sam at least. But the year Sam had spent with her was a year Dean had spent fighting for his life – fighting to find a way to return home to a brother who had already let him go.

If he was honest with himself, he had to admit it still rankled that Sam hadn't even tried to look for him. Sure, they'd promised each other they wouldn't, but that was a promise Dean didn't ever believe either of them would keep. Apparently Sam had thought different.

And it hurt.

It hurt to know his brother didn't value him as much as he valued Sam.

But there was little he could do about it now. Despite everything, he was determined to make sure his brother had a chance at whatever kind of life he wanted to live – whether it was the family business or not. That was the only reason he had finally agreed to let Sam do these trials. It may take a toll on the younger man, but Sam was strong. And if he was as determined to show Dean they could survive it, then Dean wasn't about to contradict him. Dean would do whatever it took to make sure his brother lived a long, healthy life. Because, after everything, one of them deserved the chance.

Dean was under no illusion about his own prospects for the future. He knew who and what he was. Even if they did manage to close the gates and trap all demons in Hell forever, it wasn't really going to change things. There would still be monsters to hunt, people to save, evil to kill.

Regardless of Sam's pretty speech back at Southfork, Dean knew there was no 'light at the end of the tunnel'. At least not for him.

He was a hunter.

Purgatory had helped him finally come to terms with that. He was good at it and it was all he knew. Surprisingly, he had realized he was okay with that. What he had said to Sam still held true; he would die with a gun in his hand. Sam believed he was suicidal, but the he knew he was only being realistic. One day his luck would run out and the fugly would win, but he'd take a shitload of them down before then.

He glanced across the seat. Sam was out cold, his head lolling against the Impala's window. Sam had nodded off not long after they'd hopped onto I-80 in Nebraska. Dean had been surprised he'd made it that long. The monotonous Midwest landscape, coupled with the lingering effects of the first trial had finally pulled him into a much needed sleep. Dean had kept the radio off, allowing the hum of the Impala's wheels to keep him company as the miles rolled by, hoping his brother could get the rest he needed in order to keep his strength up for the second trial.

A few miles before Rawlins, Dean turned onto the exit and guided the big Chevy onto a frontage road that eventually turned from asphalt to deeply rutted dirt as it headed away from the heavier traffic and out into the countryside. The change in terrain caused Sam to stir and, as Dean turned toward the familiar sight of the old cowboy cemetery, he sat up and stretched his arms in front of him.

"We here already?"

"Yep. No thanks to your scintillating conversation."

Sam threw his brother a sheepish look. "Sorry, man. Guess the power nap back at the bunker wasn't enough."

Dean simply nodded, letting Sam know it was no big deal. Most of the time, the open road and the familiar purr of his baby's engine was all the conversation he needed.

Dean pulled the Impala up to the edge of the dirt road, eyeing the bright yellow taxi cab parked along the other side. The cab looked completely out of place way out here in the middle of nowhere, as did the man standing beside it.

The driver – Dean assumed – was of obvious middle-eastern descent. He was short, wiry with dark hair and skin and deep-set eyes. He paid them no mind as the big black car pulled in across from him, continuing to munch on what looked to the hunters like a hard shell taco.

The Winchesters exchanged a quick look of amusement before simultaneously opening the doors and stepping out onto the packed earth. Dean waited for Sam to come around the front of the car before he mirrored the cab driver's stance and leaned back against the front fender of the Impala. Sam leaned a hip against the front grill and watched as the man slowly pulled a napkin from his pocket and dabbed at the corners of his mouth.

Dean turned his head, his eyes wide, and Sam shrugged. He nodded his head toward the cab driver, silently telling the older man to take the lead.

"Uh, you waiting on a fare, pal?" Dean called across the short distance. "I think you may have misread your GPS."

The diver smiled in return, acknowledging their presence for the first time. "Actually, I was on my lunch break." His voice was soft, with a hint of a European accent. "But since you inquired, I'm here as a favor to a friend."

"This friend," Dean held up a hand about shoulder height. "She wouldn't be about yay high, hot in a girl-next-door kind of way?"

The man's smile widened and he nodded slowly. "On occasion." He held out a hand and stepped out onto the packed dirt road. "I'm Ajay. And you are Dean and Sam Winchester." He tilted his head toward each of them in turn. Dean took his hand then silently watched as he turned to Sam and offered the same greeting.

"You're a reaper?" Sam inquired. "Why can we see you? I thought only the dead could see reapers unless summoned?"

"Usually," Ajay replied. "But sometimes we like to… get to know our clientele on their own turf, so to speak." He motioned behind him to the bright yellow taxi cab. "People tend to not notice a taxi driver. I can observe without interfering."

"Awesome," Dean cut in with impatience. "You know who we are?"

"Of course!" Ajay said enthusiastically. He leaned closer and lowered his voice as if telling a secret. "The name Winchester is whispered around the office water cooler quite often."

"That's so not comforting," Dean muttered under his breath. "So if you know who we are, you know why we're here?" He waved a hand off to the side, indicating the graveyard and the large mausoleum fronted by the ominous metal door that stood in the center.

It had been years since they'd been here, but the memory of seeing their father, free from the confines of Hell, standing before them for the final time, still brought up feelings of wonder and loss that threatened to choke him. It had been a long time ago, but some things you just can't put behind you. Dean cleared his throat and dipped his head, hoping Sam hadn't caught the fleeting look of anguish he knows fluttered across his face.

Ajay nodded again in answer. "Of course. You want to go to Hell."

When he said it out loud it sounded crazy. Nobody wanted to go to Hell. Yet here they were, asking a reaper to open a Devil's Gate to do just that.

He turned to his brother, who took a shaky breath but held his gaze. Dean could read the determination in Sam's eyes, just as Sam could see the resolve in his. As one, they turned back to the reaper and answered.

"Yes."

Ajay sighed as if he'd been hoping for a different outcome. He leaned back against the cab and scanned them both. "Smuggling a mortal across the border is risky enough, but gate-crashing a Winchester into Hell seriously blows."

Dean found himself wondering just what kind of reputation they'd managed to acquire in supernatural circles. "You know that about us from the water cooler gossip?"

Ajay chuckled and waved a hand. "No, no. I do have some first hand knowledge of the two of you. Of course you wouldn't recognize me, though."

Sam stepped around the car and leaned back next to his brother. "Have we met?"

"Not exactly." Ajay stood straight and gave the hunters a slight bow. "I'm the reaper who took Bobby Singer's soul to Hell."

Dean took a step toward the reaper, stopping when Sam's hand jetted out to grab his arm. "Hell?" The older man repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Bobby spent his life saving people. He didn't go to the basement. He took the express elevator to the penthouse."

There was no way the hunters could accept that their mentor had been sent to Hell. He'd gotten Crowley to release him from his deal and they'd burned his bones and the flask, knowing he was going to someplace better. Bobby was one of the good guys. If he hadn't gone up the escalator then…

"Sometimes things don't work out the way they're supposed to." Ajay spread his hands as if to say 'what can you do?' "Especially when the King of Hell decides to interfere."

"Crowley," Dean growled. He really hated that limey bastard. "Since when do reapers take orders from that sleazy leprechaun?"

"We don't," Ajay assured them. "But unfortunately, he is powerful. And, when he's in an exceedingly devilish mood, he makes it impossible to continue the journey. I'm afraid, he truly wanted your friend as a guest and he didn't take no for an answer."

"What about your boss's big speech about the natural order?" Death had delivered a warning to Dean before he had put Sam's soul back into his walking corpse. He didn't sound like he appreciated anyone screwing with his handiwork. He doubted he'd welcome Crowley's interference any more than theirs.

Ajay shrugged. "I'm sure Death will have a word with Mr. Crowley… whenever he finds the time."

And in the meantime, Bobby's soul is trapped in Hell. No. That wasn't going to work for Dean. He knew they had to right this wrong. Luckily, it made their current task a little easier. They now knew what innocent soul to save.

"Fine," Dean shook off his brother's hand and took another step toward the reaper. "We'll take two tickets down and three on the return trip."

"No."

Sam grabbed Dean's arm again and tugged, forcing him back around the car, away from the reaper.

"No?" Dean asked, obviously confused by Sam's interruption. "What the hell do you mean, no?"

Sam huffed in annoyance, his voice tight as he explained. "We can't take the chance, Dean. You heard Kevin. This is the second trial. I have to do this solo!"

Dean shook his head and pushed his brother's hand away. "Are you nuts?" He didn't even bother to temper his reaction. "Did you just hear what he said? This is Bobby we're talking about!"

Sam held up a hand and tried to get his brother to see reason. "I know that, but this is too important to let our emotions screw it up, Dean –"

"Our emotions?" Dean shook his head, his voice rising with agitation. "Are you listening to yourself? I am not letting you walk into Hell alone, Sam. That's just stupid." He screwed up his face as he continued. "And you think I'm the suicidal one?"

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Dean cut him off with a fierce shake of his head. "Uh uh. Forget it. It's Bobby. There is no way you can expect me to sit this one out, Sam. Besides, it's Hell, man. It's not like a B&E at Walmart. You can't do this alone. And even if you could, I'm not going to let you."

Sam was staring hard at his brother, but he was obviously considering his words.

"Look," Dean continued, his voice back to its normal pitch. "Crowley still has the other half of the tablet, right? Odds are he has it stashed somewhere downstairs. When are we gonna get another chance to search Hell? Huh?" He could see his brother was starting to come around, so he pressed the advantage. "You find Bobby, I'll look for the tablet and run interference with Crowley and his goons to give you a better chance."

Sam took a slow breath but finally nodded. "Fine. But you don't take any unnecessary chances." He pointed a finger at Dean like a scolding parent. "Do not get in a pissing match with Crowley. Agreed?"

Dean quickly nodded, his face breaking into a grin. "I'll be the perfect uninvited houseguest." He slapped his brother on the shoulder and turned his attention back to the reaper who was studying his fingernails, trying hard to appear as if he hadn't heard a thing.

"You catch all that, Ahab?"

If the reaper was offended by the nickname, he didn't show it. "Two tickets to Hell it is."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

It was like dropping into a fun house. They found themselves in a long, dark hallway, tall metal doors lining each side. The floor seemed to undulate, causing both brothers to reach for the nearest wall for balance. Looking down, Dean realized it wasn't the floor moving at all. They stood on pitch black carpet, decorated with overlapping orange flames that seemed to rise into the distance. The carpet seemed to dance as it narrowed in perspective, like a blistering heat shimmering above a distant asphalt road. It was an effective illusion, but an illusion nonetheless.

"Well that's nauseating."

Dean turned to his brother, grinning as he noticed the slight green tinge to Sam's face.

"It's no worse than the Tilt-A-Whirl we went on when you were ten."

"I threw up all over Dad the minute I got off that ride."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I remember. We had to ride home with all the windows down just to keep the stink out. That was awesome." He swallowed hard, trying to keep his own stomach from flip-flopping due to the false impression of movement his eyes were sending it. "Just breathe deep, Sammy, and keep your eyes on the walls. You'll be fine."

Sam shot his brother a look of doubt, but did as he was told. Dean was pleased to see his unattractive greenish complexion begin to turn back to whiter shade of pale.

After taking a moment to catch his breath and adjust to the underlying stench of sulfur that drifted in the air, Sam wearily nodded his readiness and they slowly began to move down the pulsating hallway, one on each side. They each kept one hand on the smooth, paneled wall, their senses focused on each door as they passed. The doors were riveted metal with no handles or knobs, marred only by a small sliding window at the top. They could hear the muffled sounds of distress coming from the opposite sides; screams, moans, sobs… making them unwilling to open one of the windows to witness the horrific suffering they knew was taking place.

Dean remembered those sounds all too well. It wasn't like he was ever going to forget his own screams combining with the anguished cries of other tortured souls as he lay trapped on Alistair's rack. He sometimes envied his brother the fact his recollections of Hell weren't as vivid thanks to Castiel's intervention. Not that he wished for Sam to remember any of the pain he went through while his soul was locked inside Lucifer's cage, but Dean himself would give anything to be able to forget.

They came to an intersection and, as their eyes adjusted to the dim light, they noticed the hallways branched out repeatedly, creating an endless, sinister labyrinth.

"It's like a freaking maze of hallways," Sam observed, his voice a hushed whisper. "This is so not good."

Dean dug into his pocket and pulled out the piece of chalk they'd used to draw Tessa's trap and tossed it to his brother. "Here, mark the walls so we can find our way back."

Sam quickly drew a small arrow, pointing in the direction they had come.

"Which way?" he asked. His eyes roamed the multitude of hallways, at a loss as to a course of action. Every direction looked the same, and the never-ending stream of monotony made his stomach turn. "How are we going to find Bobby down here?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Dean shrugged. "You think Crowley has some kind of map for this freakin' web? How the hell does he keep track of who's where?"

It was Sam's turn to shrug. "I don't know. But it's probably pretty likely. He's always seemed like the neat and orderly type to me."

"Okay," Dean took a deep breath and stepped out into the center of the intersecting hallways. "We look for the map room. Don't suppose he was nice enough to label it for us, do you?"

Sam snorted a laugh. "When do we ever get that lucky?"

The older hunter's brows twitched in agreement. He turned to Sam, a childlike grin playing on his lips. "You know, I kind of feel like Indiana Jones."

Before Sam could remind his him of the seriousness of their situation, Dean caught sight of movement further down the intersecting hallway. Despite the low light, he was pretty sure the three burly figures now barreling in his direction were part of Hell's standard welcoming committee.

"Uh oh."

"What?" Sam was still standing in the original hallway, out of sight of the new arrivals. As he started to crane his neck to peek around the corner, Dean held up a hand and shook his head, indicating his brother should stay back. The demons had already seen him, but Sam was still undetected.

He held up a hand as if greeting an old friend. "Hey guys!" He shouted, smiling and waving his extended hand. The other hand moved slowly toward the knife in his belt. "Think maybe I could bother you for some directions?"

Sam could tell the demons were approaching quickly, the sounds of their footsteps echoing off the narrow walls. He started to move to flank his brother, but Dean pushed him back before taking off in the opposite direction.

"Find Bobby!" he shouted as he turned down another hallway.

Sam tucked himself into the slight alcove of the nearest doorway, watching as the three demons dashed past in pursuit of his brother. Quickly stepping out into the intersection, he watched as they turned and hurried down the hallway Dean had disappeared into only moments before. Soon the sounds of the chase diminished and he was left standing alone.

"Idiot," Sam whispered, with more affection than venom in his voice. Turning he began to jog down the hallway in the opposite direction, following his brother's order.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNS

Sam couldn't help but chuckle as he tucked himself into another small alcove, letting the two demons dash past him. He'd come across a few of Crowley's guards as he dashed in and out of hallways, each one seeming more agitated than the last. It was obvious Dean was creating quite a stir and he hoped his brother's luck didn't run out before he found something that could help them navigate this maze.

He shook his head at his brother's not unexpected recklessness, but couldn't help the grin that lifted the corners of his mouth when he remembered the sheer glee on Dean's face as he started his game of evasion. When he put his mind to it, Dean Winchester could be a colossal pain in the ass. Sam had heard Dean's taunts echoing through the halls as he progressed into the maze, his favorite so far being a reference to the three stooges. Dean was putting his natural talent for pissing off the monsters they hunted to good use. He just hoped his brother's tactics held up long enough for Sam to complete the second trial.

As he started down another hallway, he noticed a door at the far end that seemed to be different from all the rest. This door was made of a rich, dark wood that reminded Sam of an antique mahogany dresser Jessica had had when they'd moved in together. What looked like a human jawbone served as a knocker and was attached to the top portion of the door. Sam grimaced as he approached, unconsciously ducking his head and shoulders away from the gruesome ornamentation.

He gave the door a tentative push, surprised when the heavy wood moved under his efforts. He pushed a bit more, silently slipping into the room beyond, just as another group of demons ran through the hallway directly across. As the staccato sounds of pursuit faded, Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and turned to survey the room.

It was an office.

Correction; it was the most elaborately, gloomy and tastelessly decorated office Sam had ever seen.

The room was dark, wood paneling making it seem closed in even though it was quite large. There were shelves on every wall, filled with jars and figures that gave him the creeps just looking at them. An oversized, wooden desk made from the same richly-hued wood as the door dominated the area. It stood on carved legs that resembled human skeletons, twisted into painful positions Sam wasn't even sure were possible. The gleaming surface of the desk was bare except for an old-fashioned brass lamp and one small cube of post-it notes. A chair was pushed up to the desk, its frame covered in a faded leather that reminded Sam of human skin. He suppressed a shudder at the thought that it actually was.

The darkness of the walls gave the room an ominous, claustrophobic feel that made it hard to breathe. A lit fireplace filled the far wall casting flickering shadows that seemed to lurch and reach for him from around the room. The wooden mantle featured another elaborate carving of unnaturally twisted human bones that raised the hairs on the back of the hunter's neck. Elaborately framed scenes of torture and abuse adorned the walls and, above the fireplace, hung a painting of the ugliest dog Sam had ever seen. The Hellhound was at least twice as large as the one they'd encountered, and Sam found himself thankful they hadn't had to tangle with the monster depicted in the painting.

In the corner of the room, almost invisible in murky darkness, was another door. This one was much smaller and less elaborate than the one Sam had entered through. He silently tip-toed across the blood red carpet and pushed against the second door, allowing it to open just enough for him to stick his head through.

"You've gotta be kidding me."

Pushing the door open further, Sam slid his body through and gaped at the cavernous room before him. It looked like a warehouse, stark and bare, except for the hundreds upon hundreds of metal filing cabinets set in rows that disappeared into the room's distant shadows.

"Hell has a filing system," he chuckled, his eyes taking in the expanse of the room. Carefully, he stepped across the open floor to the first row of cabinets and bent down to read the engraved label attached to the first one.

Aa-Ab

He straightened, placing one hand on top of the cold metal and looked out into the distance, wondering just how many millions of names were filed away in this room.

"Keep them busy, Dean," he muttered to his absent brother as he started down the main aisle. "This may take a while."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Keeping ahead of the demons wasn't really hard, but running for such a prolonged period of time, keeping them moving further and further away from where he'd left his brother was beginning to take a toll on Dean's stamina. He was in good shape – for a guy whose only exercise was running for his life and fighting monsters on a daily basis, but with his stomach flip flopping from the nauseating carpet coupled with the smell of rotten eggs that seemed to come from everywhere, Dean wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going.

He ducked into another identical hallway, knowing he was hopelessly lost. He'd only managed to mark the first few walls on his mad dash, but had quickly realized the futility of the act. There was no way he was going to be able to figure out which direction the demon dash had taken him. He could only hope his normally reliable innate sense of direction worked in this realm as well as it did upstairs.

The metal doors were staggered in the hallways, each facing an alcove, some empty, some housing old, decaying bones, remnants of prisoners who had ceased to care about their predicament long ago. Dean tucked into an alcove, breathing hard and tried to focus on the staccato beat of his pursuers echoing in the corridor. He pressed himself back into the shadows, holding his breath as the running footsteps approached, releasing it with a slow hiss as they passed right by his hiding place without a pause. He slumped against the wall and swallowed hard, thankful that Crowley obviously recruited his goons on the basis of brawn and not brains. He had no idea how many demons were chasing him, but as long as he could keep them focused on him, Sam had a chance to find out where they had stashed Bobby's soul. Dean had no idea if his brother was still roaming free or if he'd already been snagged by Crowley's thugs, but he had to believe that despite whatever the first trial had taken from him, Sam was up to the task. He surmised if anyone could figure out how to find one soul in this mess of a network, it was his geek brother.

Of course, even if Sam did find Bobby and was able to get back the Devil's Gate, there was no way Dean would know unless he could find his own way back. He kept telling himself he would be able to figure it out, but he wasn't really buying it. He'd been well aware, as had Sam, that this could be a one-way trip. Neither of them had said anything out loud, Sam because he didn't want Dean to think he was weak and Dean…well… he hadn't wanted to hear his brother's 'suicide speech' again. It was a tough gig. Sometimes you won and sometimes… well, sometimes you ended up in Hell, running from demons with no fucking idea which way to go.

Dean didn't relish the thought of spending the rest of his probably very short life in this sulfur infused cesspool, but if that was the price for giving Sam the chance to succeed, it was a fair trade. If saving Bobby's soul and closing the gates of Hell meant his life was forfeit, well, that was the job. And Dean would consider it a worthwhile trade. His brother didn't have the market cornered on this hero stuff, after all. Besides, he'd already used up way more get-out-of-death-free cards than any human being had the right to expect. So if his life was the price to save millions, he could live with that.

Sam would probably argue and tell him he was an idiot. That they deserved to survive and live long, happy lives. But that was the difference between them. Dean lived day by day, not asking for or expecting any promise of tomorrow. Sam wanted assurances that tomorrow would be there. It was a lesson Dean had learned well in Purgatory. Nobody owed him anything – not even a fighting chance.

The sounds of returning footsteps brought his thoughts back to the situation at hand. He knew if the demons turned down the hallway his alcove was in he would be discovered, but breaking his meager cover now would expose him and he was nearing the end of his endurance.

Eyeing the grey metal door directly across from his hiding place, he quickly made a decision. Better to deal with whatever was behind that door, than keep wandering aimlessly through this maze. If he could lay low long enough, maybe they would think he'd escaped and move on. He wanted to give Sam more time, but he couldn't run forever. Sooner or later he'd take a wrong turn or find himself trapped between oncoming pursuits, and then he'd really be screwed. As lost as he was, he couldn't take the chance of ending up too far from where he'd started, or that permanent vacation in Hell would become a serious possibility. Winchester luck withstanding, he didn't want to press it.

Dean stuck his head out of the alcove, quickly checking the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. In two giant steps he was standing in front of the door, both hands on the unexpectedly warm metal. There was no sound emanating from the room beyond, and with a deep breath, he steeled himself for whatever was on the other side and pushed his way through.

Once the door snicked closed, Dean found himself in utter darkness save for a small, flickering torch to the right of the doorway. The meager light from the torch didn't penetrate the oppressive darkness, illuminating only the doorway and a few feet beyond. Dean kept his ear close to the metal, surprised at the unexpected heat radiating from it. He could make out the muffled sounds of the demons as they searched the hallway he had ducked down. They paused for a moment and exchanged a few words before splitting and heading off in different directions. Once silence pervaded, Dean turned and put his back to the door and allowed his fatigue to finally surface. He sank to the ground, his jacket catching on the rough metal, and landed on his butt, both knees bent. He rested his forearms across his knees and let his head fall back against the door.

Demon dashing was hard work. He was content to simply sit in the dark and let his body recover from the workout he'd just inflicted on it. He concentrated on his breathing. Normally he'd breathe in through his nose, but the stench of sulfur was still lurking in the air and he didn't think his stomach would appreciate the extra helping. As his heartbeat began to slow, he contemplated his next move.

"Help me."

Dean's breath caught in his throat and his head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he attempted to see through the inky blackness.

"Please."

Dean's head swiveled, his gaze locked on a spot in the far left corner of the room. His ears had pinpointed the location of the soft plea, but his other senses were hampered by the conditions surrounding him.

"Hello?" he called, his voice low. He could make out a shape, darker than the surrounding shadows, huddled on the floor about twenty feet from where he sat. He squinted through the shadows, watching as the shape moved slightly, beseeching him again.

"Help me." It sounded like a woman, but Dean couldn't be sure. The voice was broken, scratchy. It was barely audible, so filled with pain and misery that it set his teeth on edge.

Slowly he forced himself up, his eyes never straying from the figure. He pulled the torch from the wall and held it high, directing the dim, flickering light toward the far corner. He took a few steps forward, the light breaking the gloom in a circle around him.

"Hello?"

"Leave me." This time the voice was crying.

As Dean carefully approached, he ducked down, finally falling to one knee when he was within sight of the figure.

She was old. How old, Dean couldn't even guess. She was emaciated, painfully thin arms and legs tucked close to her sides. She wore nothing more than a brown cloth tunic that looked as if it hadn't been washed in years. Her skin was almost chalk white, and her hair, gray streaked with white, was matted and hung in clumps from her skull.

The old woman flinched as Dean brought the torch near. She kept her head tucked down, holding up a feeble arm to ward off the light. A rusty cuff encircled her wrist, and Dean could see the chain that attached it to the wall behind her. The woman's arms were so frail, she could have easily slid her entire hand from the cuff.

"I won't hurt you," Dean said in a soft voice. He held the flame higher, and hunkered down directly in front of the woman. She had obviously been here, alone in this isolated cell a very long time. Dean had been tortured on his tour of Hell, never left alone for a moment, always being taunted by Alistair in an attempt to break him. He wasn't sure which fate was worse.

"I'm Dean," he offered, ducking his head in an attempt to make eye contact.

"Dean," the woman repeated.

The hunter nodded. "Right," he tapped his hand to his chest. "That's me. Dean." He pointed at her. "What's your name?"

She lifted her head slightly, light from the flame flickering over her skeletal features. "Leave."

"Well, um, that's kind of a problem right now."

"Leave!"

Dean held his hand in front of him, "Okay, okay! Just take it easy."

"Leave!" she screamed, stretching toward him, causing him to fall back in surprise. Her eyes opened and Dean could see a black mist swirling in them. The ebony swirls ebbed and flowed, mesmerizing the hunter until his brain finally realized what he was seeing.

This woman was becoming a demon.

The transformation wasn't complete. At least not yet. Dean could still see the whites of her human eyes shining through as the inky blackness swirled. The effect was like looking through an old fashioned kaleidoscope, but with all the colors changed to jet black.

He'd seen souls like this before. When he had become Alistair's apprentice. Souls who had been in Hell so long, they had given up any pretense of humanity and started to become demonic. He had no idea how long it took – whether it took thousands of years or was different for every soul. He'd never seen his own eyes and it frightened him to think that eventually, if it wasn't for Cas, they could've looked just like hers.

Or worse.

"Leave! Leave! Leave!" She was screaming now, spittle flying from her mouth and she bared yellowed teeth at him. She lurched forward, forcing Dean to scuttle backwards toward the door. He didn't want to stay in the room with the crazy old bitch any more than she wanted him there.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, although he was certain his words went unheard. It pained him, but he knew there was nothing he could do for this woman. She was too far gone. If he still had Ruby's knife, he could put her out of her misery, but he'd given it to Sam. Besides the thought of killing her while she sat there so broken, unaware of what was happening to her, made his stomach turn. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to do it. Not here. Not like this.

The woman continued to scream and growl at him as he pushed himself up and jammed the torch back into the hole in the wall. The noise she was making could wake the damned.

He opened the door and took one last look at the wretched soul in the shadows.

He felt more than saw the fist coming straight toward his head.

Then the blackness was complete.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Crowley looked down at the crumpled form of Dean Winchester and sighed. "I hate it when people come to visit without calling first. It's bad manners." He flicked a hand to the large, muscular demon that had sucker punched the hunter the moment he'd opened the cell door. "Take him to the VIP accommodations," he instructed. "And do keep your eyes open. Where there's a squirrel, there's usually a moose."

TBC