Thank you all so much for your patience. This site is apparently trying to mess with my head – first not letting me (and others) post new chaps at all, now messing with the alert-link. I'm so sorry for the confusion and the mutliple alerts for this chapter.
Other than that, there's opnly two things to say - first, i still don't own them.
Two - this chapter can be considered very...graphic. You've been warned.
If you think i'm insane - you're probably right. Sorry, if I somehow managed to deceive you so far.
Torn & Frayed
Chapter 4
He's back on the rack.
The last thing he remembers, they'd cut him into so many tiny little pieces that there was nothing left of him. Nothing left to hang there except for the slabs of meat still dangling from the hooks, his dismembered hands and feet that were stuck in the rusty shackles. The rest of him was gone.
And still he's back. Again.
A sob presses up from deep inside his guts, pushing out from between parched lips. Dean doesn't even care to keep up the pretense anymore, doesn't care if he's humiliating himself with this sign of weakness. Besides, there are screams all around him, bouncing off invisible walls, pressing against the edges of Dean's sanity - drowning out everything else.
Nobody will hear him scream.
Nobody ever does.
He can't see a thing past the extended tips of his fingers and toes, but there are voices all around him, begging, moaning, screaming, pleading. And there are other voices, talking to him. Some taunt him, tease him, some assault and berate him.
Some tell him their life's stories.
Those are the worst - the lost souls, the demons he can't yet see but knows are drawing closer and closer until they get a chance to tear into him, still obscured by darkness, rip him apart until there's nothing left of him.
Sometimes Alistair comes by before they're done, sends them away.
But it's not to give Dean a break – reprieve. It's only to start torturing him in earnest – with sickening, blood-boiling method.
Dean can't tell which method of torture he prefers, which one's easier to endure. Because no matter how it turns out in the end, Dean's never the same after.
When the inevitable question comes – like clockwork at the end of every single day Dean's not much more than a quivering pile of flesh and bone – if that.
It's like there's a piece of him missing, every single time he's miraculously, cruelly resurrected again. And still he keeps waking up to yet another day of unimaginable pain and terror.
Every day Dean can't help but wonder how long there'll even be anything left of him – inside – to bring back.
And still he manages to say no.
Only to come and regret his decision again and again. And again.
He wants to be done with this - end it all, once and for all. But he knows he can't, because what Alastair is offering sounds too horrible to make him give in. Yet.
How much longer he'll be able to keep up the bravado, Dean doesn't know.
He's given up praying – he's never been the praying type to begin with. He's stopped calling out for Sam.
He's simply lost hope.
As the moans and screams around him intensify, Dean hangs his head and waits. Trying to tell himself that, as long as it's just the voices, the sounds…the smells, he can deal with it, Dean tries to see the upside of being left hanging here like some piece of leftover meat on a butcher's hook.
It's as good as it will get for him these days.
And the reprieve is way too short lived.
Hands reach for him out of nowhere, emerging from a billowing cloud of black smoke to materializing out of nowhere right in front of him. Dean has no means to escape, but he can't keep himself from jerking back as he sees long, disembodied fingers creep closer and closer toward his body, never swaying from their trail as they seemingly go straight for his vulnerable belly.
He can't help but buck in his bonds and drag in breath after sharp breath when fingernails as sharp as knifes star cutting through his skin and muscle to slowly, agonizingly sink deeper and ever deeper into his flesh.
At first, Dean can't even scream.
He sucks in breath after scorching breath, his muscles going taut as he bucks helplessly in his restraints like a sick, horrendous Halloween puppet strung up between the trees in the front yard of a haunted mansion.
The fingers dig deeper, cut, slice, probe, tear.
The way he's strung up he can't do anything in terms of protecting himself, can't bend forward, can't draw back and away. All he can do is endure it, trying to ignore their snickers and laughs and the sickening feeling of his own blood running down his body until it drips off his bare toes to disappear into the endless pit of nothingness below him. There has to be an ocean of blood – his blood – already down there.
And there's a lot more still to come.
Somehow Dean's head has come to hang back between his outstretched arms, muscles of his neck pulling taut as the pressure on them becomes too much. He can barely garner the strength to lift his head up, then drop it forward till his chin rests on his heaving, sweat-slicked chest. His eyes remain closed as he listens to his own sounds of unimaginable pain, hoarse groans bubbling up from his innermost core to tumble out from between cracked lips.
He can't scream anymore, probably never will, ever again. It's like there's too much pain for him to contemplate and his body can't come up with an appropriate way to express those feeling.
Somehow, he thinks, being able to scream would help. As if he could let it out, somehow, even though, of course it wouldn't do any good at all. But part of Dean's refusing to accept the truth, and he struggles, gurgles – moans, just to show them he's still there, still fighting.
A whole lifetime of suffering already behind him.
Another lifetime and then another and another still ahead.
The thought is almost enough to make Dean consider saying yes when Alistair comes to ask tonight.
But then he remembers - remembers why he's doing this, who he's doing this for.
Dean remembers that there's a reason, the best damn reason there ever was to go through all this. He saved his brother. Sam got to live, which is all that ever mattered. Sam has a right to live – is goddamn meant to live. He's a better person than Dean could ever be, and the world, most definitely, is a better place with him in it.
The thought, as usual, gives him a moment of resolve – of almost peace. The thought of his brother, alive and kicking, lets Dean deal with his destiny and helps him get through another hour or two of unimaginable pain and torture, lets him hold on just that little bit longer. As long as he concentrates on that – on why he is here…he thinks he might be able to make it.
But then he remembers that there's no way to make it. There's no reprieve, no mercy here. There will be no break for him, no chance of improvement. He'll be stuck here forever, caught in a timeless, unalterable loop of terror, of pain beyond anything he's ever experienced. He'll never get out, never feel whole again. He'll never see his brother again – the only person who made everything bearable.
No way out.
The demonic finger keeps digging, another set of hungry hands joining in, a sharp claw slicing into his navel, drawing a lazy path of destruction down, curving toward his right side.
There are no tears, not anymore.
His voice is lost within burst of agonizing breathing, of desperate attempts to pull air into damaged lungs, the heat searing down his airways and burning everything in its wake.
Dean closes his eyes and tries to remember – to come up with a picture of his safe place – his brother. Anything to help him endure. But the pain wipes away every image he manages to conjure within the beat of a second. Too little time to hold on to it and tuck it away deep in his heart, the last vestige of his sanity, where no one – not even Alistair can find it and take it away from him again.
There's no concept of time, no way to determine how long it's going on. All Dean know is, it gets harder and harder each time, each and every day.
Today, he's close, so goddamn close to the edge, balancing on the tips of his toes already, a second away from to tumbling over.
And then it stops.
But there's no instant relief, he's too far gone for that. Even the brief absence of immediate pain tastes like ash – a false promise of peace.
Dean knows that it's not over. It'll never be over – and the hardest part of even this horrendous day is still before him.
When Alistair asks him The question Dean can't even nod or shake his head, let alone speak one single word.
He's done, torn to shreds and he has no idea how he's going to prevail yet another second, let alone another day. Or endless more to follow.
But Alistair is patient, waiting, admiring his handiwork and the handiwork of his obedient little demonic followers.
Dean tries to outwait his tormentor, but the pain in his abdomen is proving to be too much. He's by no means brave, has long ago given up on trying to keep up the appearance and play strong when it's more than obvious that he's the weakest individual ever to walk the earth – and Hell. He's not strong, nowhere near brave. Hell has taught him that, unmistakably, within the first day or two of his stay. And still there's a part of him, tiny and deeply hidden still, which refuses to show the whole range of terror and pain he's feeling in front of his tormentor.
Shivering from pain, bones rattling from shock and terror, Dean opens his eyes. His chin is still down so the first thing his eyes fall on are hands, countless hands – disembodied and emerging from coiling clouds of black some. The hands are buried inside Dean's belly, pulling and cutting and pushing and slicing, blood everywhere.
"What will it be, Dean?" Alistair taunts, a vicious smile coloring his voice, the sound alone making Dean straighten his spine unconsciously, his jaw jutting forward in fruitless defiance.
The word is perched on the tip of his tongue, balancing there like reluctant sky-diver who's about to be pushed out of a plane.
'Say yes' his mind taunts him, begs him, at the same time as something inside him screams nononoNO.
He can't break. Not yet. He can't because he promised…he promised Sam he'd be alright, he'd be brave. He'd promised himself he wasn't going to turn into one of them.
Slowly, with great effort Dean lifts his head, his neck feeling as weak as cooked spaghetti, barely able to hold the weight of his skull. He looks up at Alistair through hooded eyes and heavy lids – the smug grin in the man's face just enough to give Dean that last tiny push – miniscule at best, but today it's enough to keep him from saying yes. Just enough to postpone it for another day. Only one more. He's held on for thirty years, he can handle another day. Even though the thought of having to endure it for even another minute is enough to make Dean moan in desperation.
The effort to keep his head up, his chin from dipping down again is overwhelming, but Dean wants to look Alistair in the eye when he tells him to go fuck himself. He needs to see that tiny, tiny glimmer of disbelief in the demon's eyes, right before the disbelief turns into grim resolution.
Because, clearly, Alistair knows it's just a matter of time.
Dean holds the demon's eyes, tries to summon up the strength and the courage to speak, when suddenly Alistair's eyes cut away to Dean's belly. At first Dean thinks he's just reveling in the destruction he sees there, the blood and gore, admiring his work. But then the bastard smiles – and it's a different kind of smile; one glowing with a kind of gloating satisfaction that would make Dean's guts clench if it still could.
Lowering his own gaze, Dean's terrified of what he'll see.
The sight that meets his eyes is gruesome – nauseating and terrifying and downright too terrible to be true. And still it takes Dean a few seconds until he realizes what has Alistair so blissed, so unnaturally emotional to see Dean suffer.
In place of the hands that have been clawing at him there is now only one. One single hand, blood-smeared and hungrily digging deeper and deeper.
It's like any other hand, and still Dean knows who this particular one belongs to without having to think about it. He'll recognize that hand anywhere, even in the deepest, darkest depths of hell.
When he looks up, eyes wide frantic, Alistair is gone. In his stead there's Sam.
Sam – distinguishable, visible – face and body. His face is blank, emotionless. And his eyes are pitch black.
This time, Dean screams.
He throws his whole weight against the chains that hold him, not caring that it's to no avail, that even if he does manage to free himself, he has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There's nothing but bottomless nothingness beneath his feet and all around him – even inside him. There's nothing but blackness in his heart.
If Sam is here…if he's really here, then it's all over. No use to keep on fighting. And still he can't keep his body from ripping at his bonds, screaming like he's never screamed in his whole life.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he hears Alistair laugh just as Sam's face twists into a terrible sneer – as if the sounds come out of his mouth – right before a thousand faceless voices join in to form a sick chorus.
But the only thing he really hears, running like a never-ending loop inside his head is: Sam's here. Samsheresamsheresamshere. In hell.
However they did it – however Alistair did it – but they got their hands on Sam.
He's become one of them.
One of them.
Dean screams and rages until he's hoarse and spent, unable to utter more than rasping breaths or move one single muscle anymore. He finally manages to close his eyes, unable to bear the look of his little brother – down here – covered in blood. For minutes or hours Dean just hangs there, too afraid to open them again, shivering with terror and pain. He's waiting for Alistair to finally, finally have pity on him and come back, to send Sam away and ask Dean again.
Alistair, of course, is enjoying this way too much, probably gloats in the new torture he's subjecting his favorite toy to.
When hours pass and nothing happens, Dean finds his voice again, screams himself hoarse yelling for Alistair to come and ask him. Right. The .
Because Dean has an answer for him now.
When Dean finally doesn't feel his brother's presence anymore looks up.
Right there, where his brother had stood, is Alistair, as if he's always been there to begin with. There's a new gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, a smugness that beats every other expression before.
For the briefest beat of a second Dean has time to wonder if it's been the demon all along, if he's just made Dean see his little brother's image to further worsen the torture, but his thoughts are too mangled, his will too close to being broken to further explore his suspicion.
Dean's voice is all but gone, but there's something he's got to say still. He has one condition, one term to voice and then he'll agree to anything. Anything Alistair asks of him.
"You let Sam go," is all he can bring himself to say, and he mutters it over and over, in a voice so broken, it's painful to listen to. But it's important, so much more important than anything else he's ever said or done.
"I say yes…if you let my brother go,"
Alistair considers this, head cocked, lips curled. For endless minutes he just stares at Dean.
"Please…just…let Sam go," it's a sob, no more and no less, and Dean feels his insides churn as he opens himself up in front of his worst adversary.
But Alistair nods and Dean feels himself sag with true, heartfelt relief. Just like back then – when the crossroad's demon agreed to his terms, pressed her ice-cold lips against his.
"You one kind of a single-minded, self-sacrificing bastard," Alistair states quietly, his smile wavering for just a moment, the briefest, tiniest flicker of something that could pass as…recognition flittering across his features before he's back to being his old, disgusting self once more.
Dean knows it's all the reverence he'll ever get out of him.
Then the demon asks again – the same damn question he's asked Dean every godforsaken night for the past 30 years.
Only that this time, Dean says yes.
He says yes and while he's asked for it, has made the goddamn deal himself, after all, he feels the last bit of hope shatter into a million little pieces.
OoOoOoO
He wakes with a start.
His eyes snap open, his whole body strung tight and he sucks in a breath that never reaches his starving lungs but instead bounces uselessly around his windpipe until he thinks he can't take it anymore. For endless seconds Dean just lies there, eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling, his hands flat against the mattress as if to tether him to the bed, to keep himself from falling back.
Back into Hell.
A scream is tightening his chest, pressing against his lips, begging to be released. But Dean won't let it – can't let it - holds it inside with all the willpower he can muster.
The room is scorching hot, the temperature pressing against his body like a leaden weight, pinning him to the mattress and slipping into his pores, anchoring him to the spot.
Dean's eyes are open, but no matter how many times he blinks, no matter how much he tries to focus, the stained ceiling above his head won't settle its sickening motion, spinning around and around until he can feel bile rise in his throat and terror settle in his very being. There are images, swimming at the edge of his vision; hands reaching for him, beckoning him, black smoke billowing and coiling like a living thing.
But when he closes his eyes to fend them off, to wish them away, the images assaulting him are still there, same as before, never leaving him be. They are inside of him and all around him, a part of him. It feels so goddamn real, so real.
As if he never made it out…
"No," Dean gasps, the word below a whisper, only real inside his head. He can't imagine he'd be able to speak even if he tried to, his throat feels so raw, as if spiked with rusty nails, as if the unrelenting heat has sucked all the moisture from his body.
With great effort, Dean reaches up one of his hands, dragging it over the length of his body until he finds what he's searching for. He grabs for the cord around his neck, trembling fingers desperately trying to disentangle the twisted cord of rawhide, almost ripping it in his fevered desperation to tug it free. The material chafes the sweat-slicked skin of his neck, leaves behind angry red burns across his throat, but none of that matters right now. He keeps pulling with all his might until he finally finds it.
The horns of the amulet dig into the palm of his hands painfully, but Dean clamps his fist even more tightly until he can feel every groove, every line of the brass head against his skin, can conjure up the image of the amulet in his mind as clearly as if he was looking at it.
This is real.
He repeats it over and over in his head, still breathless from the terror haunting him in his dreams.
This is real.
He is real.
Feeling the familiar form of the amulet cradled in his hand is proof of that, I a soothing presence which settles his fraying nerves little by little.
The sound of his own heartbeat reverberating through his head, his own blood rushing through his ears is still deafening, but with every passing second, every blink of his eyes the darkness pulls back little by little until it is still there – always there - but kept at a safe distance at least.
Those hands - they are still waiting for him, lurking in the shadows to jump him the minute he's unaware, but for the moment Dean's back in control, can keep the darkness at bay.
Blinking his eyes furiously to rid them off the sleep and terror induced film of wetness Dean forces his breathing to calm down, willing himself to get a grip, goddamnit. He has to push past this, get ready to face reality again. The new reality that is, because save for a few frightening details his dreams are reality as well.
But he can't let that get the better of him now.
Slowly Dean opens the hand curled around the amulet, presses the flat of his palm against his sternum instead, trapping the cherished trinket underneath. He can feel his own heart beating rapidly against his ribcage, uses the reassuring staccato beat to ground him.
The t-shirt he's wearing is sticking to his hand, the sweat soaked fabric clinging to his chest as the oppressing heat filling the room sucks all the moisture out of Dean's body.
God, it's scorching hot in here.
Swallowing heavily, Dean tries to wet parched lips with a tongue that feels at least two sizes too big for his mouth. His lashes are tangled and bunched together, making it hard to blink and there's the uncomfortable feeling of sweat running in lazy trails down his face, soaking the sheets underneath his head and pooling in the hollow at the base of his throat.
Why the hell did Sam turn up the heat like this?
Sam…
The thought of his brother settles in Dean's brain like a rock.
Shit.
Again swallowing heavily, Dean keeps his eyes focused on the water stained ceiling, unwilling to face his brother. Yet. Because, sooner or later he has to, Dean knows that, knows it with painful clarity.
Struggling to school his features into stoic indifference, Dean hopes against hope that Sam hasn't heard, that he didn't wake from Dean's nightmare and remains oblivious to his big brother's breakdown.
If his nightmares have woken Sam, then there's no escaping the pregnant looks, the pinched lips and furrowed brows, the disappointment Dean keeps seeing in those way too familiar and still somehow…different hazel eyes. Even if Sam keeps silent about it, Dean can feel his frustration, his disappointment at Dean's weakness.
It scares him, not knowing how much his little brother is aware of, how much of Dean's dreams is laid bare to Sam's ever watchful eyes. He can't be sure if Sam really grasps the true meaning of his nightly terror or if he just makes up his own story from the tiny bits and pieces Dean gave up in rare moments of unimaginable weakness, but both options are scary enough.
This loss of control…it frightens Dean more than he's willing to admit. His whole life has been about always being in control, always being on top of his game.
But not anymore.
It all turned around on him, backfired royally. His whole wonderfully thought-out plan – Dean coming back and returning to his brother's side, reclaiming his place as the big brother, as protector. Going back to normal – if only their kind of normal – but it was all the normal Dean had ever aimed for, had ever wanted.
Him and his brother. Fighting the good fight, side by side.
But, yeah – backfired. Painfully so. And to make matters worse Dean has broken his promise to himself and told Sam about his time in hell. Not only didn't it help their faltering relationship, but it actually managed to make everything so much worse even. Sam has taken Dean's revelations and throws them back in his face - Siren's spell or not - used Dean's heartfelt roadside confessions and turned them into something terrible and wrong.
They've agreed on forgetting the things said under the Siren's spell.
But, to be honest, Dean actually meant some of the things he's said back then, even though he only ever realized it the moment the words left his mouth.
So it's a pretty safe bet that Sam meant what he's told Dean, too.
And now there is no turning back. No going back to the way things were before.
They both know it, that much has become painfully obvious over the course of the past weeks. The way they keep looking at each other, start saying something only to bite it off at the last second…they both know they meant what they said. And it's pretty obvious that by reassuring each other otherwise they don't make that fact any less true.
They've both drawn their conclusions from the debacle.
Dean, for his part, keeps things to himself once more, shutting his brother out where he clearly would need all the help he could get to keep his head above water. But he doesn't want to give Sam any more ammunition – any more reason to doubt Dean's strength. Dean doesn't think he can take any more hits to his self-confidence. Not right now. Not with this new kind of darkness he's fighting on a daily – and nightly basis now.
And Sam…well, Sam has changed so much, Dean doesn't even know what he's dealing with anymore.
Closing his eyes, Dean tries to dig into the last resources of calm he's got stashed away somewhere deep inside, any little piece to help him get up and get through this new day as unscathed as he can.
But it's hard, so hard.
The images of hands reaching for him, of black smoke and piercing eyes keep haunting him even outside his dreams, flitting across the inside of his lids when he merely blinks.
They are so goddamn real.
Dean shudders, his muscles flexing involuntarily, his whole body going taut.
It feels weird - a myriad of goosebumps covering his skin, but the room is so goddamn hot, his skin stretched over his bones and muscles like a too small suit. With the simple act of breathing the air is scorching his throat on its way down his windpipe, coiling like flames inside his aching lungs.
God, why is it so hot?
Grasping a clear though is almost impossible - his head feels thick, stuffed to the brim, his joints aching as if he'd been actually hanging on those hooks, suspended above the deepest, darkest pit of doom.
But it's been a dream – only a dream.
Turning to is side, Dean finally gives up on trying to collect his bearings. He needs to get up, get out of his scorching hot hellhole of a room that reminds him so much of the real Hell – the heat, the burning, the screaming. He needs to get out of here for a minute, breathe fresh air again – away from the prying eyes of his brother. He needs some time alone – just a minute.
Some too short weeks ago Dean would have given anything to not be alone any longer than necessary, to have someone there – to have Sam there to help him tune out the screams inside his head and keep his own private little army of demons at bay. But things have changed.
Turning his back toward his brother's bed Dean pushes himself up on one elbow, swinging his legs out of bed to make his way to the bathroom. He's not even semi-upright though, when suddenly a flash of pain slices through his abdomen, crashing him back down again.
A wet gasp of terror escapes his parched throat as he once again finds himself surrounded by agony, greedy fingers of unimaginable pain clawing at him, slipping into him, taking a hold of his very being.
The pain – the pain and horror of his nightmares – is like a living thing, alive and intelligent, thrumming through his body with a vicious beat.
"God…" he gasps, coughs as he twists his body sideways until he's half sitting, half lying on the bed again, his face smashes into the pillow, the scratchy, stale smelling fabric doing little to muffle his sobs of agony.
His whole body seizes, the heat turning up another notch, wrapping around his sanity like a smothering blanket.
The agony is blinding, suffocating, slithering inside him and burning him from the inside out.
The hands…those hands – disembodied and nameless – groping at his abs, tearing into him.
"It's over. Over…I'm out. I'm out. I'm out," Dean whispers desperately, trying to persuade himself that he's not stuck in Hell anymore, that the pain he's feeling is not real.
"I'm out," he practically sobs. "This is not real."
But it feels real, his abdomen rigid and locked tight with cramping spasms.
Dean's body is wound so tight, he can feel every breath vibrate through every single sinew, every muscle. And the pain won't recede, no matter how often Dean repeats the chant of itsnotreal inside his head. The scenes of hell keep swirling in a sickening merry-go-round inside his head, and slowly, Dean starts to panic.
As much as he doesn't want Sam to witness his breakdown, the need to have his brother there with him, helping him – pulling him out – suddenly is overwhelming.
In the throes of his pain Dean can't think past the need to not be alone, to be back with his brother…to have Sam there with him when he's hurting. Because, not matter how old and how independent and strong, he's only ever been real when Sam was there with him. As if his brother is a part of him without which he can't exist, can't be.
"Sam," he rasps, his voice rough and barely audible, so he tries again, putting everything he has into this one word.
"SAM."
There's no answer.
Opening bleary eyes Dean rolls onto his back, sucking in a breath when his abdomen seizes once more. His legs tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets Dean rolls onto his other side, both arms clasped around his abdomen as if he's able to hold himself together.
Through the haze that is his vision, Dean can make out the other bed in the room, practically within reaching-distance.
It takes longer than it should, takes breathless seconds filled with pain and disbelief until he finally deciphers what his eyes see yet his brain is unwilling to accept.
The other bed is empty.
Sam is not here.
The realization hits him, full force, feels like an actual punch in the guts.
Sam is gone.
He's gone and he's left Dean behind.
Blinking heavy droplets of sweat off his lashes Dean tries to make sense of it all, but his brain feels as if it's overheated and he can't come up with one clear thought for what feels like an eternity.
Sam's gone.
Gone where?
'Ruby', is the first, distorted thought that flits through his brain, leaving a nasty taste of never quite disappearing suspicion behind on his palate. Because no matter how many times Sam promised he's stopped seeing her, doing…what he'd been doing…no matter how many times he swore he was done using his powers, there's always been an insistently nagging piece of doubt coiling inside Dean, telling him that his brother isn't being honest with him.
But Sam promised…he promised. He promised Dean and, god help him, but Dean wants to believe, with all his heart…
There's, of course, also another possibility - another explanation for Sam's absence, and Dean's not entirely sure which option would be the better one.
Because there's always the possibility that, finally, Sam has accepted that Dean is too weak, is a burden. He'll only slow him down. So he really just left.
"No," the force of Dean's denial is as weak as his body as he tries to pull himself up.
But even the smallest movement ignites another burning flash of pain in his stomach and Dean sucks in a sharp breath, pulls his leg closer to his body only to find that it doesn't help against the pressure building there, only makes things worse – so much worse. All too clearly he can feel the hands – fingers like talons …
Desperately, Dean searches the room around him, hoping to find something, anything, that proves him wrong. That Sam's still there – is in the bathroom – will come out any second and lay a hand on Dean's arm and pull him out of this sickening nightmare.
"Sam," he yells, really yells this time.
The sound of his voice booms through the room as it bounces off the cream colored walls to rush back at Dean with almost palpable force.
But Sam doesn't come – Dean remains lost in a vortex of dream and reality he can't fight his way out of.
And the pain persists, molten waves of white hot lava lapping over and through him, the demons' hands still roaming around in his belly, slicing and pulling and tearing him apart. Curling up into a ball on his side Dean tries to remain as motionless as possible. He coughs –a choked, gurgling sound that turns straight into a heaving gasp and a second later he throws up all over the dingy bed and rumpled sheets he's lying on. He doesn't even have the strength left to try and aim for the trashcan but simply heaves out whatever he's still got left in his stomach right where he's laying.
The smell immediately hitting his nostrils is bad – terrifying.
It smells like…Hell. One of the clearest memories of Hell Dean comes up with – every single night ever since he returned – is the smell. Next to the sounds and the goddamn pain it's what's ineradicably branded into his mind. Hell smelled like all the bodies Dean had ever dug up, all the blood he ever spilled. It smelled like every bone and every piece of rotten meat he'd ever burned.
And suddenly, irrevocably, Dean is back.
Back in Hell.
He realizes with a sudden, painful flash of clarity that he's never made his way out. It's all been a great, big lie. He never got touched by an angel, never dug his way out of his own grave through the wooden lid of a coffin and feet of dirt. He never walked miles to the next payphone to call Bobby, never hotwired a car to drive to his old friend's junkyard. He never found Sam, never hugged him, never talked to him, never saw his brother alive and well.
The past months of deemed safety, months of his life supposedly lived were in reality nothing but an illusion. He should have known - everything that happened – everything from Sam and Ruby to all those fucked up cases – god and angels and the goddamn Siren…
However Alistair managed it Dean doesn't know, can't even come close to imagine, the cruelty of it is too much to contemplate. But this…this kind of torture is the most effective one the master of torture as ever come up with. More effective than any physical torture, more effective than every verbal threat or promise he ever made.
Alistair made Dean think that he escaped, made him think he was saved – when in reality it was all a bad joke – his perceived reality a dream and the dreams he's been having gruesome reality instead – glimpses of happiness – or something very close to it – which his tired, overwhelmed brain came up with while all the while still being fried in the pit.
A beautiful, terrible lie.
And, just like that, everything suddenly makes sense.
The past months of…detachment, of feeling wrong. Everything has been wrong from the start, the estrangement and the distrust, the pain and fear and secrets.
Maybe Dean had known all along, only he'd been too blind to see it – hadn't wanted to see. He'd clung to this false reality with a fervor that bordered on desperation.
He'd needed this to be true…
But now hope is gone so quickly it leaves him dizzy and nauseous as Dean realizes that he's indeed alone.
Dean's thoughts are tumbling over each other like panicked visitors of a football game when the fire alarm starts blaring.
When he looks around, he's still in the Motel room, not back in the pit, but there's really not much of a difference. Alone in this room or strung up on hooks over a bottomless pit of agony, crying for his brother to find him, save him – the outcome is the same, in the end.
He's alone, Sam not here. And before long, the setting will once again change back to the fiery pits of Hell.
The heat is back already, a harbinger of doom soon to come – the fires of Hell reaching out toward him even when his mind still has him locked in this earthly motel room.
Back in Hell.
Has he ever said yes, then? Dean remembers Alistair asking him – again and again and again. And he remembers Sam…down there, tearing into Dean's belly – one of the hands torturing him. The memory triggers another bout of pain so intense, Dean is left breathless for a second, right before his stomach rebels once more and he dry-heaves for minutes without being able to stop.
Sam – in hell.
One of them. Once of the things Dean was supposed to save him from turning into.
The sight of his brother's eyes, as black and bottomless as Alistair's and Ruby's…
Everything Dean has been fighting for, everything is gone. Their Dad's warning reverberates through Dean's head like a never-ending echo.
"You have to save your brother!"
But he couldn't – he didn't.
And not only that, but Dean gave in – broke – said yes to Alistair's proposition.
Demons lie…Dean knows that. How could he ever believe that Alistair would be different, would offer Dean a way out? The bastard offered him salvation – offered to let Sam go, too - while in reality he'd only ever played another one of his sick mind-games with his favorite pet-project.
The sob that tears from Dean's throat cuts through the silence of the room like a knife, igniting a raging fire in his belly that flickers up and takes hold, starts eating him alive.
Before Dean knows what he's doing, he gets up.
He knows he stands no chance, that there's no way to run from this, but he's everything if not stubborn – and he won't give in to Alistair quite so easily anymore.
"Alistair," he yells – croaks, hungry tendrils of fire licking up his throat as he presses the word out of from between parched lips. "Alistair…goddamn show yourself,"
Once standing, he's still unable to straighten, folding in half as his right side explodes as if someone has stuck a grenade down his throat to ignite it in his belly.
Closing his eyes, Dean wills himself to remain standing for just another minute. Just another minute – and when he opens his eyes again, he'll be back. Back on the rack.
But when he finally does bring up the courage to pry open his heavy lids, he's still in the nameless room. Alone.
The heat, if at all possible, gets worse, cloaking him, attempting to bring him to his knees. But at the same time Dean feels his body shivering with inexplicable chills, coldness creeping through his veins to make their way into his heart, turning the muscle to ice.
He knows not that the past days of feeling unwell have simply a preparation of his slow but irrevocable descent back to Hell.
"Alistair," Dean cries again, the force of the yell bringing him to his knees.
He hits the ground hard, his knees cracking against the wooden frame of what is supposed to be his little brother's bed.
Catching himself with one hand, fingers digging into the soiled carpet, Dean digs into the last reserves he's got left. His voice is all but gone, consumed by the heat raging through his body. Dean knows that Alistair will come. He will come and take Dean – it's only a matter of time.
But Dean won't just let go of this life he's fought so hard for, even if it didn't turn out to be perfect in the end.
Fighting the unimaginable pain boiling through his insides, Dean waits, holding on to consciousness as his body tries with all its might to fail him, to pull him into the deepest, darkest pits of blackness, beckoning him with greedy fingers. But he can't give in now.
Now that he knows Alistair's game, he can't risk loosing consciousness, because he just knows that, once he wakes up again, he'll still be stuck in this Hell on Earth where he thinks he's save but in reality is caught even more tightly in Alistair's net of lies and deceit.
But he won't make it this easy on the bastard. If Alistair wants Dean back, he can damn well come and get him.
Shivering, the arm holding him up trembling from holding his own weight Dean waits for Alistair to come and end this, once and for all.
Maybe it's only minutes, maybe hours, but as Dean kneels there, sweat dripping off his chin and lashes to soak into the dirty blue carpet, he feels his resolve wavering, his walls cracking.
Maybe putting up a fight is not what will get him anywhere. It won't get him fucking anywhere.
Dean's sick of this – sick and so, so tired.
If Sam is not here – with him, right this moment, not even in his made up reality…what the hell is he even fighting for? Why pretend?
Why pretend he even cares anymore?
"Alistair," he first whispers to himself, then screams the word into the room at the top of his fluttering lungs.
The effort it takes to simply talk, let alone scream is enough to make his arms give way and he crashes shoulder-first against the bed – Sam's bed. Grabbing a fistful of the bed's comforter Dean tries to pull himself up onto the mattress but finds his arms shaking too badly to haul his battered body up even an inch.
He blinks – merely blinks, but the next second he finds himself on the floor, face pressed into the carpet right next to a puddle of what probably is his own puke, his body a thrumming, aching heap of useless bone and muscle.
His stomach is on fire.
"Dean,"
The voice penetrates the fog clouding his brain like a bullet and he snaps his eyes open, almost crashing down when a surge of vertigo rushes him with full force. Desperately scanning the room for the owner of the voice it takes Dean a second or two before he realizes that he's indeed not alone anymore.
But it's not Alistair who answered Dean's calls.
Right there in front of him is Sam.
Or…demon-Sam, even though Dean can't really bring himself to think of his brother in those terms.
For endless seconds Dean just stares at the form of his brother – the shell – because clearly it's nothing else. Down here, they all are. Even Dean himself – which is why he'd felt so goddamn empty during his last months in deemed safety.
Sam stares back at him and Dean can't really see his brother's eyes in the darkness but surely they are black, deep and bottomless – emotionless. And his hand is hovering just inches away from Dean's face.
Terrified, Dean flinches back.
Too clear is the memory of the blood he's seen on his brother's hands.
He tries to shuffle away, get his feet under him and run, but he doesn't get far. His back collides with something hard – one of the beds – effectively stopping his escape.
"No," he gasps, truly terrified now. At the moment his hands and feet are still free, he's not been strung back up on the rack – or the horrific meat-hooks. He's still in the room, some kind of way station between this dream-world and Hell. But somehow he knows that, with one touch, he'll be back there.
Almost immediately, Sam jerks back too and Dean sees something shift in his brother's eyes.
"You…not you…" Dean shakes his head as if his denial can dispel the image in front of him.
But Sam – the demon – stays right where he is.
"Hey…hey, Dean. It's me. Sam, just… You gotta snap out of it,"
Once again Sam starts reaching out, once again Dean snaps back. He can feel the breaths rattling inside his chest as the panic increases, paralyzes him. He can't let Sam touch him. He can't…Sam shouldn't be here. Not in the first place, certainly not anymore.
Dean made another fucking deal…
Squeezing his eyes shut Dean keeps up the repetitive shaking of his head, unable to stop his body from trembling.
"No…you can't…you can't be here. Not here. I saved you…"
Sam holds his hands up, palms forward and once again Dean can feel dread turn into blood-curdling panic as he recognizes the gesture from what he's seen his brother do…back then in that restaurant – exorcising a demon with is mind.
"Dean, no...It's me. I'm here, right here," demon-Sam coos, but the words sound wrong, so wrong.
Sure, the voice sounds just like Sam – Sammy - the real one, but Dean knows it can't be…
Dean wants to fight; he wants to rant and scream and beg – wants to run. He wants to find Alistair and demand that the bastard keep his side of the bargain and let Sam go again.
"You promised," he whispers, addressing the dark corners of his vision, the corners of the room where black clouds seem to hover and wait for their time to attack.
His body is wound so tightly, Dean can feel the tension humming through him like a living thing, practically paralyzing him. Then, suddenly, all his muscles seem to turn to jelly within the beat of a second. As he slumps, unable to break his fall Dean is dimply aware of Sam reaching out, but he's not quick enough to catch him. But he somehow manages to at least soften the impact as he somehow, awkwardly grabs hold of Dean's head, preventing it from colliding with the floor full force.
Sam's hands feel so…cool against his burning skin, the touch almost soothing, if it didn't feel so wrong at the same time.
But as Sam's other hand reaches for Dean's chest the contact ignites a firework of blinding pain in Dean's belly once more and before he can do anything, say anything he is heaving again, his body convulsing. He retches and retches until tears of pain and exhaustion flow almost freely down his face and still Sam won't let go, keeps holding him in his vice-like grip.
As if he wants to end Dean – once and for all.
"No...let go of me…let go. Already said…yes…" Dean pants, unable to offer much more in terms of resistance.
And it's useless, he realizes. No matter how much he'd like to believe otherwise, apparently the terms of deal-making don't apply here in the pit. Demons lie – and in Hell they are not bound to their word, can do whatever the fuck they want.
Alistair won't let Sam go – same as he'll never let Dean off that rack. It doesn't matter how many times Dean will say yes…he's doomed to suffer – by the hands of Alistair or his little brother – forever.
When the darkness finally comes to claim him, there's no relief in the however small reprieve he's been granted in the seconds before he opens his eyes again.
All Dean can think about is the fact that it'll all start over again. And now that Sam is down here, too he doesn't have anything left to hold on to. His safe place – the knowledge of having saved his little brother - has been destroyed.
Now how in god's name is he supposed to prevail?
OoOoOoO
TBC
AN:
I honestly don't know where this came from. I'm not actually nervous about posting this chapter, I am downright TERRIFIED.
I not going to ask you to be nice. Gotta go and find a place to hide and hope you'll forgive me...
OOO