Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine! Sob

A/N: Wherein Dean begins to wonder about some things. Or, as Dean would say, "Whatever." Thank you again both for sticking with the story and for taking the time to let me know how it's going.

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Chapter 4: The Devil's In the Details

Are you crazy? Of course you should be afraid of the dark. You know what's out there!

But not here. Sam thought, sitting on the hood of Bobby's truck, one hand robotically stroking Cheney.Here, there be wards and sigils and salt and iron, all strengthened since Meg made her way in. I'm as safe as I could ever be.

Sam was sitting quietly now, having stopped even sniffling because it upset the Rottweiler, who would then saturate Sam's face with a vigorous application of an enthusiastic tongue. Earlier that day, though, Sam had nearly put a fist through one of Bobby's windows in frustration after another of Bobby's contacts had nothing to offer.

"Sam," Bobby had said softly, "Dean wouldn't want you to do this to yourself. It isn't your fault."

"The hell it isn't!" Sam had bellowed, surging to his feet. "It was my damn destiny--God, I hate that word--that sent us along this path, but did I do anything about it? Hell, no. It was all: 'Dean, you have to take care of it; you have to kill me if I go bad.' I never once said: 'To hell with the damn Demon and its fucking plans; I'm not going evil, period.' I put the same stupid responsibility on Dean that Dad did. Two fucking peas in a pod, John Winchester and his Sammy!

"And if I'd had the backbone, the strength, to do what I should have done back in that town, taken Jake down--or at least, been smart enough not to leave the damn knife there--Dean would never have had to make the fucking deal! It damn well is my fault, and I should have found a way to do something, and I didn't." His voice had suddenly dropped to an anguished whisper. "And now Dean's in Hell. Because of me."

Bobby had not had anything to say.

Cheney woofed softly and nudged at Sam's hand, pulling Sam back to the present. Mechanically, he began to pat the dog again. Here he was, guarded by a highly trained Rottweiler, secure behind sigils and wards and spells and traps, protected by a tough-as-nails, smart-as-a-whip demon hunter--maybe the best damn hunter in the business--and Sam knew that without Dean, he would never feel safe again.

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Dean thought he had been at the settlement a few days, though keeping track was iffy, when the demon came. His wound had gradually healed over two days, with Tillih's Magic Sticky Stuff--"Guaranteed To Make Any Hell-Caused Wound Feel Better and Heal Faster, Or…Well, Or Nothing, Since We Ain't Giving You Your Soul Back"--having an amazing effect on the pain. Continued applications had eased the agony to a level where he was no longer thinking of chewing his leg off.

Nothing eased the rest of it, though. The heat was unrelenting, the fire in the sky causing skin to blister and crack, draining strength and making sleep a thing of the past. The twin beasts of hunger and thirst were ever-present, the cupful of water and few mouthfuls of some unpleasant slime that was their thrice-daily ration kept them alive—barely--but did nothing to alleviate the agony of burning stomachs and thirst-thickened tongues.

Flying predators were always a threat and the sand lizards would repeatedly test the wall. Flies and other biting and stinging insects were a constant torment, attacking any exposed part of the body, so even in the heat, he wore all the clothing he had. Fortunately, the Magic Sticky Stuff eased the itching and burning of bites and stings as well. Dean knew what it would mean to the pitiful group of humans in the enclosure--himself included--if the demons ever found out about the magic elixir.

Inactivity was also a problem. For him anyway. It always had been. On a hunt, he could hold a position and wait patiently if he had to, but short of that, he had to be in motion. Even if it were "verbal" motion. Here, he had not yet reached the point where merely surviving from one minute to the next was enough to hold his attention, though he was sure somewhere on the long march to eternity he would cross that mark. If it weren't for Tillih's company--everyone else seemed too beaten down to say much of anything but Tillih stated firmly, chin raised, that she would not become some mindless animal at Hell's whim--he would have seriously considered going out of the enclosure and taking on a sand lizard just to have something to do.

Then the demon came, in a tornado of sand, roaring and laughing as it swept past the pathetic barrier into the settlement. People ran for any shelter, no matter how pitiful. Some, caught away from any possible cover, fell to their knees, crying and begging, then screaming as--the only word Dean could think of was whips--of fire slashed them savagely.

A lone child stumbled and fell, calling for her parents. In an instant, the hellspawn loomed over her, in very corporeal form. One hand reached out and slashed the girl's side with two-inch talons and she screamed and tried to run away but she was pushed back by the smiling demon. Dean's face darkened and he came to his feet inside the hut. Before he could take a step, Tillih had caught his sleeve and tried to pull him back down.

"Dean, you cannot help her! There may only one, but he is vastly more powerful than a human. You will bring harm upon yourself and accomplish nothing."

The child screamed again and Dean shook off Tillih's hand. "It doesn't matter, don't you see? I have to try. I can't leave that child alone out there!"

He whirled and raced out the doorway, hesitating only long enough to grab the spiky thorn he had placed beside the entranceway. The demon caught the movement and turned to meet the onrushing human. Dean observed the flick of the demon's wrist; his mind processed the information instantly and well-honed reflexes had him moving swiftly sideways as the fire-whip sizzled harmlessly past his shoulder. Hurling himself forward, Dean slammed into the demon and managed to stagger the fiend, learning an important fact in the process.

Corporeal demons were very, very solid.

The demon came roaring back, backhanding Dean with enough force to send him flying ten feet, landing onto his back hard. Shaking his head to clear it, he managed to raise both legs in time to catch the charging demon and flip it over his head. Dean reached for the spike, which had fallen from his hand when he'd landed.

As his fingers closed on it, the demon grabbed him and raised him up over its head. Its fangs closed on one dangling leg.

"Fuck!" Dean snarled, gritting his teeth against the pain. He managed to swing the spike up and get both hands around its base. Slamming it down into the back of the demon's neck, he slashed it sideways. The spike was not only incredibly sharp for human skin; apparently, it also considered scaly demon skin to be the equivalent of butter. The thorn sliced skin, bone, tendon and Dean found himself being held momentarily by a headless demon, before the taloned grip loosened and he was dropped, even as the demon crumpled to the ground.

Dean lay there gasping for a minute, pain searing through the savage wound opened by the demon's teeth, then he pulled himself upright through sheer force of will, standing with his right leg off the ground since he was pretty sure that, as much as it hurt in a vacuum, it would hurt a hell (so to speak) of a lot more if he actually tried to put weight on it. What was it between the denizens of Hell and his legs, anyway? Had his calves issued some challenge to Hell he was not aware of?

Tillih was suddenly there, placing his arm around her shoulders to give him some support. He nodded his thanks, too busy trying not to scream to be able to talk. The girl's parents came running over, her mother picking her up and hugging her. She looked at Dean through tears, smiled and mouthed "Thank you."

"Bring her to my hut," Tillih said over her shoulder as she helped him toward the rough shelter. She maneuvered him onto one of the stone seats and tapped the table. "Put your leg up here. A demon bite is vicious."

He complied with a smile and a salute. "Yes, ma'am. She laughed and slapped at his shoulder.

While Tillih went to her version of a medical kit to get the salve, Dean placed his right leg across the corner of the table, pulling his pants leg up--he wasn't sure why he was being so careful with them right now, since the damage to the clothing was considerable and they were probably only good for the garbage now; still, it was the only pair he had here and as there didn't seem to be any Salvation Army shops around, he'd have to find a way to make them do.

Pushing the sock down and partly off his foot, his fingers brushed the band and the anti-possession charm and he smiled fondly, thinking of Bobby. He hoped the old reprobate was okay.

And taking care of Sammy. It hurt to think of Sam out there, alone and grieving. But Sam was alive and, in the end, the grief would pass and Sam would go on with his life. Sam had to, if for not other reason than Dean wasn't sure he could handle it if he thought Sam would torment himself forever.

The wound itself was pretty vicious looking, the bite going straight down to the bone, ripping tendon and muscle and nerves along the way. It was bleeding heavily, and the pain was like lightning bolts going off in his leg. He heard the sound of Tillih's stone pestle mixing the paste in the bowl then she walked toward him, still stirring.

She scooped a portion of the salve out of the bowl and reached for his leg, then unexpectedly, she recoiled, snatching her hand back. He eyed her sharply.

Taking a deep breath, she met his stare and gestured helplessly. "I'm sorry. It's so…so horrible. I…you must be in such pain." Her voice broke slightly then she collected herself and said briskly, "This foolishness accomplishes nothing. Forgive me my weakness."

His eyes still hooded and shadowed, he nodded then he glanced down at his leg as she spread the salve across the wound, wincing at the sight of the exposed bone and muscle, and being acutely aware of the torn nerves, each one of which was on fire. Just below the wound, the silver anklet with Bobby's charm looked dull in the dim light in the hut's interior.

The effects of the salve began to kick in and he sighed and closed his eyes as the fire eased. "There," Tillih said. "And in a few days, it will be gone."

"Yeah, just in time for the next demon to show up and do it again." He fought to keep his tone neutral.

"Yes. This is Hell, and we are their amusement. They always wait until we feel hope again, hope that we may escape their notice for a while, and then they return. Yet, we are the lucky ones."

"Lucky? I'm not sure the others would agree with you."

"Sometimes the beasts laugh and delight in telling us what the souls of the dead, the souls sent here, are suffering. The others would agree."

For a moment, Dean was back at the first crossroads, where he saved Evan from other man's deal. He could see her, eyes glowing red, and hear her telling him how his father would be screaming, if he still had a voice with which to scream., and he knew she was right. Theywere lucky. And it needled him.

"Why?Why are we lucky?" He swept his arm around, including all of their surroundings in the gesture. "Do I want to stay here for all eternity? Hell, no. It sucks. But you're right. It could be a lot worse. Why isn't it?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I do not know. Perhaps because none of us truly belong here, taken unjustly, and this is as much as they are permitted to do."

He wanted to challenge that, demand to know if she believed that some higher power, one she seemed to believe in, would agree to let Hell do even this much to innocent people--not that he included himself under the heading "innocent"--but then his anger faded: if it gave the people in the settlement some comfort to be able to cling to some belief that there was a justice out there that might one day save them, there was no way he would trample on that. All he finally said was, "Then why am I here? I made the deal; I belong here."

"You do not!" Tillih said sharply. "Yes, even with your deal; you did it for no personal gain, only to save your brother. You think yourself not worthy. I do not understand how you can believe such a thing. No one else has ever sought to help another under attack. Even I have confined my aid to what I can do after to ease the suffering."

Dean shrugged. "It's just my…job. What I've always done. There are lots of people who would have done the same thing."

"Not here," Tillih replied. She was silent for a few minutes, as she continued to apply the paste to the wound, then she said, "You should not be here. You should try to find a way to leave."

"Leave the settlement? What would that accomplish?"

"No, Dean, I meant leave Hell. You do not belong here, deal or not, and you at least still have the courage to try."

He stared at her. "There are ways out of Hell?" Then he quickly shook his head. "Even if there are, I can't do it. It would break the deal and Sammy would die."

Tillih frowned. "I do not understand, Dean. What do you mean?"

"When I made the deal with the crossroads demon, it was she would bring Sam back to life and she would get me after a year. If I try to welsh on the deal, then Sam would die again. I can't do that; I won't."

"But you have honored your part of the deal. You agreed to give yourself to Hell in one year. Well," she looked around the hut, "are you not in Hell? Did you not present yourself when the year was up? You have done everything the deal demanded of you." She studied him. "Was there anything said in the making of the deal that you had to stay in Hell after you went there?'

Dean cast his mind back to that day, that moment. It stood out in stark relief, every second, every word, every look, forever imprinted in his memory. He watched it unspool behind his eyes, then he shook his head.

"No. Nothing."

"Demons are bound by the words of the deal, Dean, as are humans. Humans never understand that; they only know what they really want to get and they always believe that's what they've agreed to. They never really think about the words; that's why humans always lose. But demons are stuck with the words also. If she never spelled out, in words, that you could never leave Hell, then you have no obligation to stay.

"You said your father made a deal with a powerful demon for your life. And that he escaped a year ago. Yet, you did not die, did you?" Her voice demanded an answer.

"No," Dean whispered. "I didn't." He was silent for a few minutes. "But what difference does that make? Short of another Hellmouth opening, there's no way out. And no matter what Sam might want to do, Bobby will at least keep his head enough not to let my little brother open another damn Hellmouth!"

She looked troubled and about to speak but, at that instant, the little girl was carried into the hut by her parents, her wound still bleeding. Tillih directed them to lay the child on a stone bench and she began to apply the salve at once. The child's cries began to diminish to sniffles.

Dean watched it all but did not see it. His mind was busy tumbling over and over what Tillih had said.

Was there any chance she was right? And if she was, was there anything he could do about it?

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A/N: Typing and editing as fast as I can. I hope to have the next section posted sometime next week. Thanks again for reading the story!