When he felt that he could get up, he did, wasting no time waiting there for the hysteria to choke him. He didn't feel like his body was his, he needed to move, to do something that made it possible for him not the think about it all.
He was standing directly in front of a stout, black woman, and there was a vaguely familiar tugging at the edge of his brain that he had no chance of focusing on – his mind already full to the brim of memories, thoughts, and emotions. On top of all that, there was the logical part; crowding in on the negative space, pushing everything at bay so he wouldn't crumble to the ground in a heap of flesh and overheated brain matter. His brain's ability to function at all considering everything it was processing was a mystery in itself, not that he had any room up there to really think about that.
There were more faces in front of him, then, but he didn't focus on them, letting them rush by with a blur as he moved. He devoted every thought to stepping forward, staying upright, breathing – the things that couldn't hurt him.
There was something blocking his way; a door, he realized belatedly, which he wrenched to the side. He welcomed the cold air that enveloped him, another cherished distraction.
He tripped going down the stairs, an invisible chain from a different time the cause. He landed hard on his chin, snapping his teeth together hard. The pain was good, even more appreciated than the wind skirting around the edges of his jacket. Upon getting up, he fisted his hands – letting his fingernails bite deeply into the tender flesh that he'd scraped trying to break his fall.
When he got to the back of the car, he heaved the trunk open, haphazardly filling his duffel with odds and ends. He was sure to pack some paint and the demon blade.
He slammed the trunk and turned, jogging down the sidewalk. There was a harsh noise assaulting his ears that seemed out of place for the setting but he refused to be idle and figure out what it was. He focused on the sound of his hurried footsteps, the jingle of the zipper of his bag, the heaviness of his clothes, the tug of the wind at the hems of his apparel and his hair…
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It was almost worse, watching him move around instead of cradling himself on the ground; with those crazy eyes, never stopping to settle on one thing for more than a second, always flitting about to check his back to watch for threats. They'd all followed him out onto the porch, unsure of how to proceed, afraid to approach him and put him into more of a frenzy.
When he quickly packed up some weapons and began running away, Sam started shouting after him, receiving no reply.
"We should follow him, correct?" came Cas' question. Missouri reached into her house to grab her jacket and then she locked the door, she and Cas following Sam to the Impala.
They caught up to him pretty quickly, but Sam kept about thirty yards behind him, just to be careful. There wasn't a doubt in Sam's mind that Dean knew they were following him, he looked back over his shoulder about every ten seconds. With where Dean decided to stop, they probably could have managed on foot – Missouri's house less than a mile down the road and around the block.
Dean had chosen a area that seemed to be in the middle of construction, though it was deserted presently. The houses weren't finished but they had walls and roofs, apparently that was enough.
They parked and watched as Dean broke a window in the house nearest him, not his normal, inconspicuous way of entering, but Sam was relieved to see him wrap his hand in his jacket before punching through, proving some semblance of mind still remained in his brother's head.
Dean disappeared inside without sending a look their way, obviously intending to squat in the empty house for the time being.
Cas leaned forward in the back seat, "I'll go in after him." Before he dematerialized, Missouri placed her hand on his arm, giving him pause.
"I'm not sure that's the best idea at this precise moment." Cas seemed to accept her opinion as valid as he leaned back with a nod.
"Have you ever seen anything remotely like this?" Sam asked her, praying she had some, any experience in this area.
She cocked her head before answering. "Not to this extent. Which isn't surprising, considering the messes you Winchesters get yourselves into." Sam was wary, he was sure it was obvious in his slumped shoulders and the frown that had begun to feel almost permanent lately.
"I'd give him tonight by himself, at least. His mind's gonna try to heal itself the only way it can, and that might not be in the way you two are comfortable with. You may even have to consider, at some point, that Dean won't heal, at least not completely. He may not turn out to be the same Dean you know, so lose all your expectations." Sam nodded, eager to do as she said to make this easy as possible, though his chest felt like her words were adding pounds and pounds to his ribs, making it difficult to breathe.
She reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze before she opened the passenger door and climbed out. Sam flinched at her hast departure, clueless as to what to do without her guidance. He slid across the bench sea to speak out the window, "Do you know what's causing it? Did you pick up on anything?" His voice cracked on the last word.
"I wish I did," her smile was sympathetic. "I think Dean's the only one who really knows." She waved at them both, "You know where I'll be, even if you just need someone to talk to." She turned and began walking back to her house but paused to ask something, "Whatever it is, Sam, I have a feeling it's of the soul-scarring variety." She squinted at him, giving her words a warning edge, "Don't be expecting a supernatural solution." She threw a pointed look at Castiel before she resumed her walk home.
Sam turned back to face Cas, glad to find that the angel looked just as scared shitless as he felt. "Are you gonna… stay?" he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat. If Cas left him he had no idea what he was going to do.
Cas' deep voice was comforting when it filled the car, "Of course, Sam." He relaxed at that, looking towards the house, searching for any movement.
"Good."
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Dean figured he was in what might turn out to be a bedroom, hunched down in the back corner, facing the open door with a salt-round filled shotgun in his lap.
It was torture, sitting still, but he knew that it was where he was safest. He'd been able to think a little more clearly once he was alone, out of sight, with the only sounds distracting him coming from himself.
The first thing he'd done was check the structure, every crevice, every corner, for another living soul. Then he'd painted devil's traps – heavy duty stuff – at each door and window, salting as he went. He'd even put one in front of the chimney for good measure. He left the doors and windows locked, finding a board to nail up over the window he'd broken.
Next he'd poured every last bit of holy water he had on himself, both cleansing and… checking. He cringed a little at the coldness but held onto the feeling, touching his wet hair with his hand whenever he took a breath in.
He stayed, facing the door, all night, never so much as drooping an eyelid from lethargy, blinking as little and as quickly as he could, wanting, needing to be able to see if someone found him.
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Sam had kept his eyes open for as long as he could, which would have been impressively long under normal circumstances, but he hadn't been sleeping well lately and he dropped off somewhere in the early hours of the morning. Luckily, Cas had no trouble staying awake to watch the place throughout the night.
Sam woke up with a start, his knees stiff from sleeping with them up against the dashboard. He must've fell asleep pretty unexpectedly because he hadn't thought to stretch out across the bench seat, sleeping sitting upright, giving him a crick in his neck as well. He felt an upsetting pang when he thought Dean would've woken me up and told me to lay the hell down... He expelled the thought, sitting up straight and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
He jumped when he noticed that Cas was in the seat next to him, facing forward and sitting ramrod straight.
"God, Cas, you scared me," he muttered before sobering. "Any movement?" he asked with a yawn, squinting to try and spot anything inside the windows.
"No, he's in the same place he was last night. He didn't sleep," Cas answered without looking away from the house.
"What place?"
Cas faced him now, "In one of the back rooms." He peered out the window in the direction of Missouri's house. "Do you think we can go in, now?" he asked, his bright eyes wide and alive.
Sam took a somewhat unconscious glance back at Missouri's house, following Cas' example, half expecting her to appear out of thin air and scold them for something they hadn't done yet. "I don't think there's any other way to find out," he answered hesitantly, pushing his door open with a creak.
Cas followed him out of the car and they both walked to the unfinished house, no doubt slower than Cas would have preferred, but he didn't complain.
Sam took a somewhat more conventional way breaking in, using a lock pick. Before opening the door, he turned to Cas, "He's not, like, on the other side of the door about to shoot me, is he?" The angel shook his head and Sam took a deep breath, pushing the door gently. As an afterthought, he pushed it against the wall, trying to be as noisy as possible so they wouldn't surprise him, as if anything could really sneak up on Dean Winchester.
Sam let Cas lead after that; the angel knew where Dean was and if he decided to attack or something, Cas had the best chance of survival.
Up some stairs and down a hallway, they found themselves outside a small bedroom, looking through the open door as an unblinking Dean stared back. He had a shotgun pointed at them, his face unreadable.
When Cas took a hesitant step forward, Dean's eyes narrowed and he flicked the safety off, lining his sights up to stare down the barrel at the angel. Castiel picked up on the soundless warning and took a step back, his palms outstretched in front of him in a show of surrender.
"Dean?" Sam finally asked, some of the anxiety coloring his words. "Are you alright?"
His brother's eyes were burning and they shifted to him, his steady gaze faltering when he met his. "You should leave," he grunted through his teeth, his voice raspy.
"We just want to help you," Sam pleaded.
"Then leave." His posture was unyielding.
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The only way to describe the feeling as he stared out at the two of them was to say he was unbelievably torn. Here stood his brother, the person he trusted most in the world coupled with the angel, the one who'd given up just about everything he held dear to help the Winchesters save the world. There was nothing about either of them to promote the sickly feeling in the bottom of his gut, yet the thought of them taking one step into the room put his teeth on edge and made his mouth taste sour.
He'd put on his most dangerous face; he could feel the wildness in his eyes and the silent snarl on his lips, yet Sam stood his ground, having moved forward to almost fill the door frame and block Castiel out behind his giant figure. Sam's eyes were kind and his smile pitying, but his size was enough to make Dean cringe with horrible recollection. He couldn't even blink as he watched his little brother, his stature too comparable of the now ever-present monster that fought to be in his every thought.
His eyes began to water and his terror began to mount – he balanced his weapon on his knees to push his fists to his ears, trying to silence the sound of chains, the wet noise of the give of flesh, and the shrill keen of sharpening blades.
He was vaguely aware of a body rushing towards him, arms outstretched. They wrapped around him tightly and the noise in his ears grew deafening. His skin burned hot, he was sure it would boil off at any moment, his stomach heaved and he vomited down the back of whoever was holding him – forcing his blurry eyes shut.
When he opened them, the thin thread he'd been able to grasp of the present was gone, the cold air of the October morning had disappeared without a trace and the flames of hell were back, licking at his every pore and cell. This place had no escape, not even for a moment in closed eyes – the eyelids were always the first thing they took from you – no hiding from the horror repeatedly unfolding in front of your eyes, having to watch almost as bad as the pain and fear itself.
The monster was there, he couldn't see him but he could feel him breathing heavily against the side of his neck, the rack making it impossible to turn and look at the charred flesh and soulless features of the thing that fed off of his every hope, pushed and pushed until emptiness was all that remained. The worst thing being that by then you welcomed the emptiness, longed to know nothing of happiness or trust so the pain was all you knew, made into the only life you knew how to live.
Dean longed for that now, knowing it would come eventually, but not before every nerve ending was exposed, not until begging shrieks filled every breath through ragged, shredded lips, the sound a continuous chorus that quickly became all he thought capable of sound.
He was eager to get on with it, he heaved out an already broken sob, "Please, Please just stop."
The heat that enclosed him responded, to his utter surprise, it was replaced with cold air, putting the hell fire surrounding him completely at odds.
The monster called to him through the smoke and the flames, "Dean. DEAN!" The rack shuddered underneath him, shaking his limbs like a lifeless rag doll, which he probably was.
There was green at the edge of his vision, and the monster's voice grew more and more clear, giving way to a familiarity that didn't come from listening to decades of orders and cackling taunts from the other end of an impossibly sharp blade.
Suddenly the familiar scene all but disappeared, the only reminder in the form of orange flickering, clearly overlaid on his now hell-less eyesight.
A blank face stood inches from his own – nothing about it reminding him of the scarred one deep below. He refused to move his eyes from the calm blue ones staring back, taking in the green grass and open lawn with purely peripheral vision.
The savior's lips moved, and Dean was amazed by the deep, almost melodic cadence of the word that tumbled out. "Dean?" It took him a moment to realize it was a question and even longer for him to remember how to answer without screaming or gasping.
The feeling of this place was completely foreign, yet a vague deja-vu feeling overcame him – especially looking back at his savior. There was protective control in his straight stance, kindness in his full mouth. Even the slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes managed to convey peace and the promise of a smile.
The features calmed him, and when the breaths chafing his throat slowed enough, he remembered his savior was his angel. That's twice now, he thought ambiguously.
"Castiel," came his rushed response finally. Those blank eyes filled with raw emotion, though which one Dean wasn't sure.
"Where are we?" He was still unable to shift his gaze to really look.
"One of my favorite factions of heaven, or a version of it, at least." Cas let his head droop to the side, "Are you ready to go back, now?" Dean's eyes widened in fear, the flames and the reflection of light off of a knife already threatening to return. Castiel's eyes tightening at the response, at Dean's fingers digging into the flesh of his upper arms.
"Don't make me go back, Cas. Please," he gasped intensely, his grip on the angel tightening even more. He fell to his knees, transferring his grip to the hem of the long coat, burying his face in the cloth. "Why do I have to go back?" he questioned, not feeling a hint of embarrassment at the whine in his voice.
Cas' fingers found his hair, pulling it lightly to tug Dean's gaze upward. "You belong in the mortal realm, Dean. Did Sam really upset you that much?" His shining eyes almost looked like they had tears in them, looking down at what Dean assumed was a broken, pathetic man.
Dean worked to concentrate on his words and the image they evoked – something different than the torture he's expected and come to known as normal, though it wasn't as calm as the environment here.
"Mortal realm…" he echoed, sure the phrase symbolized a place different than which he'd just come.
"With Sam," Cas prompted, reassured by Dean's slow recognition.
"Not h-hell?" Dean couldn't help asking, needing to hear the angel's denial out loud, in plain words.
Cas looked confused at that, but his features smoothed and he responded, "Not hell." His fingers gripped Dean's scalp, making his words clear and forceful.
Dean clung to the words, the tenseness leaving his shoulders.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Thanks so much for reading, guys! And I really appreciate your awesome reviews. I tend to procrastinate a lot unless people are telling me they're excited for the next chapter, but I'll try to keep them coming as fast as I can, although I'm not sure there's a whole lot left to write (although Dean still hasn't divulged what exactly has set him off). Anyways, let me know what you think, always love to hear from you guys!