Melanie tentatively blinked open her eyes, and she let out a relieved sigh when she caught sight of the stained celling overhead. She'd half-expected to wake up to the tortured screams and wails that had been ever-present in hell. Her dreams had been filled with visions of the pit, and the entire time she'd slept she'd told herself that it would all be over when she opened her eyes. If she'd woken up back in hell after only a few hours back in the land of the living, it would have been worse than any torture she'd been through so far.

Melanie glanced to her right, expecting to see Sam and Dean fast asleep in the bed beside her, but the sheets were vacant and unused. She propped herself up on her elbows and glanced around the room for any sign of the Winchester boys. Surely they hadn't been stupid enough to leave her here—she deeply resented the idea of having to search them out again, and she could guarantee that she wouldn't be so friendly the next time they met.

But it turned out that her unspoken threats were completely uncalled for, as Dean sat across the room at the table where she'd eaten earlier. The light of the lamp beside him shone on an assortment of handguns and rifles, and she wondered how often he spent the darkest hours of the night cleaning his weapons.

It was a soothing ritual, she knew: taking the guns apart, rubbing them clean, and then reassembling them. The repetitiveness was incredibly peaceful, and she got the feeling Dean wouldn't appreciate being disturbed. Melanie collapsed back down onto the pillows and willed herself to fall back asleep. If Dean was upset, then it was only fair that she leave him to his healing process.

But Melanie knew that Dean was dealing with a much bigger problem than any cleaning spree could solve. She was sure Sam had already done his best to heal his brother, but she also knew that his good natured condolences couldn't have done anything to improve Dean's state of mind.

No matter how much she wanted to return to sleep, even if it meant returning to nightmares of hell, Melanie knew it was in her power to heal Dean. It probably wasn't why the angel had told her to find him, but Melanie had seen enough pain and suffering in the past twenty years—she didn't care if the calendars said it had only been two months, the calendars were obviously wrong—that she wasn't going to sit by and let someone needlessly suffer. Even if that someone was Dean Winchester.

Melanie took a deep breath, then tossed back the sheets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The shirt she wore fell to her mid-thighs, so she didn't bother pulling on Sam's uncomfortable shorts before she padded over to stand beside Dean. When it became clear that he would not be the one to start up a conversation, Melanie settled for watching him work. He expertly pulled apart a rifle and reassembled it again after fastidiously cleaning it, and his movements were quick but diligent as he rubbed a brush in and out of the barrel of a handgun. She noted that his fingers were rather skilled, and she took a deep breath as she tried to steer her mind back towards the topic at hand—she was supposed to be helping Dean, not fantasizing about all the delicious things he could do to her with those nimble fingers.

"So, where's Sam?" Melanie asked after clearing her throat and getting her mind back on track. She sat down in the chair beside him.

"I don't know. He tends to disappear at night," Dean said simply, and he didn't bother to elaborate. When it became clear that she was going to have to work to get anything out of him, Melanie decided to go for the more direct approach.

"I don't hate you, you know," she told him after a pause, and she closely watched his face for a response. His hands ceased their movement but his eyes remained fixed on the gun he held tightly in his grip. "Dean, I don't hate you," she repeated, and the gun fell to the table with a clang. Dean turned to face her, and the unfamiliar sensation of pity surged within her as she took in his anguished expression and teary eyes. She'd been able to tell that he was very far from alright, but she'd never thought she would see the day when Dean Winchester shed a tear.

"How could you not hate me? How could you not?" he demanded, and his voice was rough with self-loathing. Dean leaned forward earnestly, and Melanie's eyes widened in surprise at his sudden proximity. "I tortured you. I ripped you apart with my bare hands, day after day, year after year, and I enjoyed it," he growled, and his lip curled in disgust even as tears ran down his cheeks. "You have to hate me."

"Dean, don't you understand? That wasn't you who did all those things, not really," she told him, and she placed a gentle hand on his arm when he tried to turn away from her. That was the voice she saved for her brother and her mother whenever they were distressed—why was she using it with Dean? But even though it was strange that she should talk to him like this, it didn't feel wrong. It was the most effective way she knew to explain things to people when they were afraid or upset, and Dean definitely fell into both categories.

"That's how they do it—that's how they turn people into demons, Dean," she continued. "They break you down and tear you apart until there's nothing left, until you're barely even human any more. Then they fill you up with hatred and bloodlust until your eyes go black as night and you can't even remember what it's like to feel anything other than rage. They were changing you, Dean. That wasn't you down there, not anymore."

Dean stared at her for a long moment, and when he finally spoke again his voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"I remember that day I first saw you. You were clean, fresh—no scars yet, no knowledge of just how bad things could be down there on the rack. You were terrified, and that excited me beyond belief. I could tell that the moment you saw me, the moment you saw the way I looked at you, you knew there was no hope for you. I was your own personal monster and you knew it. After they tied you down, I thought 'now the real fun can begin'. I cut off your fingers. One by one. Then your toes. Then your wrists and ankles, then elbows and knees, and I just kept going until there was nothing left of you. It's unforgivable, what I did to you. I cut you, I stabbed you, I killed you in the worst imaginable was. Every day. You begged me to stop, you screamed until you couldn't even breathe anymore. But I never did. Not once did I stop hurting you."

"Because you couldn't," Melanie reminded him, and her fingers dug into his arm as she willed him to understand. She needed to get through to him. Melanie knew who was really to blame for the things that had been done to her, and it wasn't Dean. If he didn't accept it too, then he would never be able to move on. This hatred would eat him up inside until there was nothing left, and Melanie didn't even bother to deny that she wanted to prevent that more than anything.

"Because I didn't want to," he corrected in a loud, pained voice. A stunned silence followed, and Melanie relaxed her grip on his arm but still didn't pull away. Dean let out a strangled sob.

"Dean, you have to stop this," Melanie pleaded, but he shook his head like a stubborn child in response. "Dean. Look at me, Dean," she demanded, and the sudden sternness of her voice brought his gaze back to hers like that of a guilty puppy. "This ends tonight. This self-loathing of yours, this intense hatred you have for yourself—it's all got to stop. We're out of the pit, Dean. And we didn't get pulled out just so we could sit around crying about how terrible it was down there. It doesn't get any worse than what we went through, I agree. But it's over now and we have to move on."

Dean continued to stare at her once she'd finished her speech, but something had changed in his gaze. It was as if a fire that had been extinguished long ago was finally burning once again deep inside of him, and Melanie was momentarily captivated by the heat of it. She felt as if after all this time he was finally letting himself off the hook, and as the guilt melted away the real Dean was coming back to life.

Dean's fingers reached for her face, and she leaned towards him without hesitation when he touched her. Melanie didn't quite understand what was going on, but she didn't want to understand. She just wanted to feel.

Surprisingly soft pads brushed her cheek as his fingers traveled the same path he'd slashed a sharp blade down during their time in the pit. He touched her neck, tickling the spot where he'd plunged a knife to rip out her jugular. Melanie's breath hitched and her eyes fluttered shut as memories of the pain Dean had caused her were quickly replaced by the feelings of desire his touch now stirred within her. It had been twenty years since she'd been touched so tenderly, and the need for more of these sensations was almost overpowering. Dean's face was just inches away from hers, and she desperately wanted to feel those lips dance across her skin the way his fingers did.

Jesus.

She wanted to fuck Dean Winchester—and she wanted it bad.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered earnestly, and Melanie breathed a heavy "I forgive you" before she caught his lips in a desperate kiss. Her hard exterior seemed to fall away like a heavy shell, and Melanie felt as if she were melting deep in her core as Dean slid his tongue into her mouth and buried a hand in her hair. She felt like a little girl again: small, vulnerable, and fragile. She loved it. Melanie didn't care about being fearless anymore, about making sure she was too intimidating to ever be taken advantage of. No, all she wanted was Dean: warm, delicious, beautiful Dean, with his hungry lips and roaming hands.

And Dean Winchester

Is exactly what she got.

But a smart girl like Melanie

Should have known by now

That one should always beware

The dangers of frenzied desire.

A/N: I bet you guys will never guess what happens next (I'm being sarcastic, not mysterious- or maybe that's just what I want you to think...)

Ok I'm not really making sense anymore, am I? Leave a review and maybe I'll regain my sanity in time to post the next chapter :P