You squeeze your eyes shut as Dean cuts away your jeans, expertly working his blade around the restraints.

"This isn't Hell, Dean. I swear it. Please, babe. Please listen to me. You have to stop. I'm going to die if you don't stop," you sob.

He chuckles as if you're being dramatic or something. As if that bell has long-since been rung.

But this isn't Hell. You're not already dead. You're not some disembodied soul sentenced to torture as punishment for crimes you committed during your life. You're not going to regenerate so that he can keep subjecting you to these things. You're real, live flesh and blood. One life, one death, that's it. But he doesn't seem to realize it.

As he peels away the sliced up sections of your jeans, you're tempted to point out the ever-present hickey on your inner thigh, in hopes that he'll recognize his own handiwork... But after what happened with the scar, you decide against it.

Dean turns back to his tools, and you're grasping at straws, desperately trying to find something to say to make this stop. You really don't want to see what's up next, or find out why it required the removal of the rest of your clothing.

"Castiel pulled you out of Hell years ago," you insist weakly. "You made it back to Sam. Remember?"

Dean's hands pause in their work.

For the first time, he seems to have really heard you.

You curse your stupidity. Of course, he doesn't recognize you. Back when he was still knee-deep in Hell, the two of you had never met. He didn't flinch when you said Castiel, either, for the same reason. But Sam? How did you not pick up on this immediately?

"That's right, Sam. You got back to him," you insist. "He's right outside, Dean. You have to trust me. He's going to be here any minute."

"Stop talking." He orders calmly, but forcefully.

His hands remain still for another few seconds, his body rigid, until he apparently manages to shake it off. He resumes his work, preparing God-only-knows-what, but you can tell that you stirred up some kind of emotion.

Good. Maybe if he feels something, it'll get through to him. Maybe this is one time when poking the bear is a good idea.

You run through everything you know about Dean and Sam's lives leading up to the almost-apocalypse. You recall rumors you heard back then in the hunting community, back when 'the Winchesters' were just names to you. You replay every brief, telling conversation you've had with the brothers about their pasts. You try to find triggers... Things that will hurt... Things that will cut so deep, they'll make Dean angry or upset enough to fight the spell.

"No. I'm not gonna stop because you need to hear the truth. You got out of here. You made it back. And when you finally reached Sam, you found out that he'd been drinking demon blood, using his telepathy, and sleeping with some demon bitch named Ruby."

In response to that revelation, Dean grips a wicked-looking hooked instrument. You struggle to keep your voice steady despite your terror.

"She lied to him, Dean. She used him. She'd been conning him since the day they met. Once you were out of the way and Sam was at his weakest, she preyed on it. She told him that drinking her blood would make him strong. That she could help him save you, or at least get even for what was happening to you in Hell. But it was all lies. She manipulated him. She used his need to do right by you. She tricked him into letting Lucifer out of the pit, just like Azazel always planned. They played your entire family, Dean, remember? Even your Mom and Dad. They spent the entirety of Sam's life leading him to that moment."

"Shut up," Dean grinds out through clenched teeth.

You can see in the tense lines of his shoulders and back that he's barely holding his boiling temper in check. You press on. It's your last chance. Your Hail Mary.

"Sam jumped into the pit after Lucifer took him as his vessel. He sacrificed himself to save the world. You remember this, Dean. You were right there. You watched him fall. Tell me you remember watching Sam fall!"

Dean lets out a choked sob. He turns around quickly and, for just a fraction of a second, you can see the soul-deep, agonized regret in his eyes. Regret at the fleetingly surfacing memory of watching his baby brother fall when there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Just as quickly, the emotion is smothered out by the power of the spell...

And it slowly dawns on you that there's a very large, very sharp blade in Dean's hand.

"No more talking." He declares in a quiet, deadly voice that chills you to the bone.

It's not until he's got a firm grip on your chin that you realize how he intends to guarantee your silence.

He's going to cut out your tongue.

You don't know how you find the courage to open your mouth and shriek when every instinct is telling you to keep your mouth shut and tongue out of reach. But if Sam and Cas are close, they might need help finding you. And you're officially out of time.

Somehow, you manage to wrench your jaw from Dean's grasp long enough to scream in terror, "Saaaaaammmmm!"

And then the cold blade slides into your mouth, and all you can do is cry out and frantically try to pull away from Dean's grasp. You writhe and shriek, fighting desperately against the restraints and Dean's hands as the sharp edge of his knife bites into the soft muscle of your tongue.

"DEAN!"

Sam's booming shout jars you both.

You feel Dean release your jaw. The blade slides out past your lips as the Hell around you instantly fades away, revealing the building that you'd almost forgotten you were really in. Your mouth is full of the metallic tang of blood, but aside from a gash, your tongue is thankfully still in one piece.

"Sammy?" Dean whispers in confusion and disbelief as he turns toward his brother, as if afraid to get his hopes up.

Having apparently entered the far end of the building at a dead run in order to reach you in time, Sam is breathing heavily as he cautiously steps closer.

"Dean... Oh my God... What the hell are you doing?" Sam demands in abject horror as he takes in the sight of his blood-soaked, blade-wielding brother.

Sam's wide, fearful eyes pass over the bloodied mess of your body quickly, assessing the severity of the situation. When he sees your stomach, the devastation and grief that flicker over his features before being carefully hidden away confirm that you're in serious trouble.

You suck in a resigned, heartbroken breath, realizing it's probably too late for you. If Castiel used up all his juice in the fight, you won't be leaving this building alive. Part of you feels like you should already be dead by now.

Sam shifts the gun in his hands, renewing his grip and steeling himself as he aims at his brother. By the determined set of his jaw, you know that if Dean doesn't back off, he's going to get a bullet from Sam to some non-fatal location of his body.

Struggling to escape the fog of the spell, to understand what's happening and why Sam is staring at him so fearfully, Dean's eyes flit to you for a fraction of a second.

The knife instantly falls from his hand, clattering on the floor.

Before he can even begin to process what he is seeing... what he has done... Castiel appears in front of him, directly between the two of you. The angel places his hand on Dean's brow, and Dean immediately crumples to the floor, unconscious.

You're not proud of it, but you feel yourself starting to go into shock. Not really much you can do about it, though. Sam and Cas are here. You know whatever happens, they've got you covered. All of the tears that you've held back during this ordeal decide that, with the guys now handling the situation, it's a very good time for you to have a complete nervous breakdown.

Please, God. You don't want to die!

It's strange how split down the middle you feel emotionally (and ironic, considering that you're probably split down the middle physically, too). One half of you is numb and shutting down. The other half is sobbing like a baby and reaching frantically for Sam as soon as he frees your arms from the restraints. He leans down over you, and you latch onto his shoulders, burying your face against the side of his neck and crying like you've never cried before.

The edges of your vision are tunneling fast, blackness sweeping in, trying to lull you into death as if it is no more consequential than falling asleep. You can feel your hold on Sam slipping, your arms sliding from his shoulders as your head becomes too heavy to hold up.

You're just so tired...

You're vaguely aware of Sam and Cas talking. Sam is panicking as you grow limp and quiet in his arms. He sounds like he might be crying, but you're too far gone to be certain.

Your eyes roll beneath their lids. For a fraction of a second, you think you see an elderly gentleman in a suit standing behind Sam. He inclines his head to you, the time-weary wrinkles of his face conveying what looks like... reassurance?

Just as quickly, he fades from view. Your heavy eyes close.

You hear Sam shouting at Castiel to hurry up and heal you, but Cas warns that he will only be healing your body. Apparently, the angel isn't as inept at reading a situation as he thinks himself to be. He realizes how truly screwed your mind and heart are at the moment.

Sam tells him to do what he can and assures that, once the angel is done, he will handle the rest.

You feel Castiel's hand on your forehead just before your pain intensifies, but at least the agony jars you back into your body fully, and away from a well-deserved death. It's so difficult to describe the sensation. You feel like you're being filled up with heat and light, like it should be beaming out of every pore, like it's burning you alive.

But amidst the excruciating pain, there is miraculous healing. At Castiel's direction, you can feel muscle and sinew mend and refashion itself to the form it was intended to take. You can feel flesh, that had been so viciously sliced and torn, rapidly regenerate. The pain intensifies exponentially until, finally, it is ripped away.

At the sudden loss of Castiel's light, the world feels terribly dark by comparison. Your body sags in Sam's grasp as you realize that your soul is grieved by the loss. Physical pain aside, the sensation was literally divine rapture.

You barely open your eyes and nod when Sam grips your face and urges you to tell him you're okay. You note the tears in his eyes and the heavy sigh of relief he gives in response. You hear him mutter a heartfelt, 'Thank God,' that your life has been spared - that Dean has been spared the guilt and horror of having taken your life.

You hear him say something about Cas taking Dean to the bunker and chaining him up in the dungeon, just until they're sure he's really free of the spell. You see Cas lifting the still-unconscious Dean to his feet.

Despite your best efforts, you reflexively flinch at the sight of him upright again (and in the presence of so many sharp instruments still soaked in your blood.) You press closer to Sam.

Castiel meets your gaze remorsefully and inclines his head to you, conveying far more with that look than he'd believe himself capable of, before they both disappear.

You try not to feel bad about how relieved you are to be away from Dean...


A/N: Thoughts? Comments? Hate it? Love it? Can you see it clearly as you read? Is everyone in character? Let me know!