TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY: PROSTITUTION, SUICIDE ATTEMPTS, TORTURE, RAPE/NON-CON, CHILD ABUSE, AND FLASHBACKS TO ALL OF THEE ABOVE. PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS STORY I FAY OF THESE THINGS TRIGGER OR UPSET YOU. I WILL POST SPECIFICS ABOUT EACH CHAPTER IN MY AUTHOR'S NOTE.

Chapter 10

When Dean opens his eyes to bright blue, he thinks he's still dreaming, so he promptly shuts them again. He doesn't need the reminder of Cas, not here. Any second now, Alastair's goons are going to wake him up with fists and drag him back to the rack, and Benny and Cas and the hospital will all have been an agonizingly realistic dream that will haunt him for as long as Alastair lets him live. However, closing his eyes doesn't block out dream-Cas's words.

"He opened his eyes. Is he awake?" No, because all of this is a dream and his subconscious is apparently a masochistic asshole.

"Dean?" A different voice, young and unfamiliar and female and sweet and no please don't make me hurt her I don't want to. "Dean, are you awake?"

"Dean, please open your eyes." And so, because Dean never could say no to Cas, even if this one is just a figment of his imagination, he opens his eyes. And is confronted with that blue again, and a furrowed brow and chapped lips and a 5' o clock shadow.

"Cas." Dean doesn't even realize that he's spoken until he feels the raw scrape of his throat, and of course he still has to be in pain in his dreams. And then he feels the bandages and stitches that seem to cover every inch of his body, because even before Alastair he was no stranger to stitches and gauze and hydrogen peroxide, and he knows them when he feels them, even if these feel professional and not done by his own hand. Huh. Maybe this dream isn't so bad, if it would just last a while longer.

"How are you feeling?" Dream-Cas asks, his voice quivering just enough for Dean to notice. He still hasn't looked away from that unwavering blue, and is just starting to notice that they're shining with unshed tears. That's what makes him sure this is a dream; he's never seen Cas cry.

"Like shit," he replies, because even if it hurts like hell to speak, he's going to talk to dream-Cas because Dean will likely be dead before he ever gets the chance to see the real him again.

"I'll be back shortly with the doctor, Mr. Novak," the woman's voice says from somewhere across the room, but Dean doesn't look away from dream-Cas's eyes, because he'd almost forgotten how blue they were and never wants to forget again. "Press the red button if you need assistance."

"Thank you," Cas says, finally looking away from Dean, and he wants to grab Cas's face and never let his eyes stray again, because looking at Cas right now makes him feel safe and warm, like he's not dreaming about being in a hospital from his bloody mattress in the cells.

"Cas," he says a bit desperately, because he doesn't know what else to say and he needs Cas to look at him again. His hand twitches, reaching out blindly for where he thinks Cas's may be resting, until he brushes Cas's side and his friend's hands dart out and grab it, squeezing tightly. And then the tears gathering in Castiel's eyes aren't unshed anymore, and he's crying silently. And all of a sudden, Dean doesn't care that it's all a dream. He would sit up and pull this Cas as close as he possibly could, if only his entire body wasn't laced with aching pain.

"You're okay, Dean. You're okay," Cas reassures him shakily, gripping his hand even tighter. "I'm right here."

"I don't want to wake up," Dean rasps, because it's true, and he might not remember this when he does wake up, and this Cas isn't real anyways. And it doesn't matter, because Dean would say it even if he was.

"What?" Cas looks confused, and when he blinks a few more tears run down the side of his face. Dean would give his life to be able to reach up and brush them away.

"I'm dreaming. I don't want to go back, Cas. Don't make me go back." It feels like his throat is bleeding, but he forces the words out anyway. The look on Cas's face hurts to watch, but Dean can't close his eyes.

"This isn't a dream, Dean," Cas chokes out. "You're in Flagstaff General Hospital, where you've been for the last two days. After I found you behind the Roadhouse."

"But…" That can't be right. That would mean that he's out. It would mean he's free from Alastair's hell, that he didn't dream up Benny and the cop earlier and now Cas, a very real, alive Cas, who's sitting next to his completely real hospital bed and clutching one of Dean's hands in both of his. "I'm out?"

"Yeah, you're out." Cas has stopped crying by now, but he still doesn't let Dean's hand go to wipe his face.

"How?" He asks through the sandpaper lining his throat. He remembers Benny, a truck, and gasping out the Roadhouse's address through the agony that rippled on and under his skin. What he doesn't remember is how Benny got him out of the compound, how they avoided Alastair's guards, and how he ended up in the hospital in the first place.

"Dean, no one even knows where you were, much less how you got out," Cas says, sounding a little more confident.

"Hell," Dean mumbles. He's starting to float, being pushed up higher by what is no doubt morphine or something of the like; there's no way the noticeable lack of pain comes from anything other than a powerful pain drug. "I was in hell."

Cas opens his mouth, pain etched on all his features, but before he can speak, his eyes flick across the room. Dean finally tears his eyes away from Castiel to see two women standing in the doorway, both wearing pale blue scrubs.

"Mr. Novak, I'm going to have to ask you to leave while we prepare Dean for the surgery," the slightly taller one says as they both walk into the room. Dean flinches at the way the woman says the word prepare. His recent history with preparation brings memories of knives and paddles and that one awful machine the client had paid to use on him. Cas's grip grows, if possible, even tighter around Dean's hand.

"Will that really be necessary?" Cas asks, sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he did just a few moments ago.

"I'm afraid so, sir. We need Dean to be completely relaxed while we put him under." Dean freezes. They're going to put him to sleep. They're going to stick a needle in his neck and drag him away and lock him in a van and then they're going to take turns fucking him dry until he's raw and bleeding and hoarse from all the screaming he's done and then the drug will finally kick in and he'll wake up strapped to the cold metal rack alone with Alastair and-

"Dean!" Monitors he hasn't even realized that he's hooked up to are beeping loud and fast, and he can't breathe, can't get enough air so he sucks it in in short pants. Panic is clawing in his brain and he's twisting up to try and get out of the bed despite the pain that's ricocheting through his entire body because they're going to hurt him again. "Dean, calm down!"

"Mr. Novak, please-" Two strong hands are holding Dean's arms down, but when his vision clears enough for him to see who's going to be holding him down this time, he relaxes slightly, his breathing still coming in rushed gasps.

"Cas," he rasps. It's quickly becoming this word of the day.

"I'm right here, Dean. You're safe." Dean's drowning in blue, but he slowly lets himself sink back into the too-comfortable mattress of the hospital bed.

"Don't let them drug me," he pleads. Cas's eyes soften, a little bit of worry easing out of the taut lines of his face. "I don't wanna go under."

"Mr. Winchester-Dean," the doctor says from the other side of the bed. Cas tears his gaze away from Dean to glare at her. "You're going into surgery in a little under half an hour, and it will take ten minutes for the drug to go into affect. We need to inject it now. Your father has signed the permission forms, given that you won't be eighteen for another week."

Dean is torn between panic and horror and anger, because when the fuck did his dad get pulled into this has been added to the litany of thoughts running around in circles in his head and nothing's making sense at all. Nothing except Cas reaching out again and twining the fingers of his hand with Dean's own, and the hope that maybe if Cas is here they won't hurt him.

"Do I have to?" The doctor's face softens slightly and she reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, pulling back when Dean automatically flinches away.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Winchester, but this surgery is necessary." Something clenches in the pit of Dean's stomach. They're going to cut him open, but this time they're trying to help. It's not like Alastair. Alastair can't find him now.

"Get it over with," he rasps.

"Dean-" Cas starts from his other side.

"Just," he forces out, letting his eyes slip shut again. "Just do it, already."

"All right. I'm going to inject this," the Doctor says, and Dean opens his eyes again to see her holding a small syringe with a long, sharp needle attached. He tries to reign in his panic, but judging by the way Cas's hand tightens around his, he doesn't succeed. "Into your arm. I need you to stay as still as possible for me, okay?"

"Okay," Dean whispers. He can't take his eyes off the needle.

"Dean, look at me," Cas says from his left. And because, again, Dean could never refuse Cas, he does. And promptly loses himself all over again in the overwhelming concern that's etched into his friend's face. "Don't take your eyes off me."

It's funny how, up until now, Dean hasn't thought about the last time he saw Cas. How, after that brief touch of lips, Cas had turned away from him. How Cas must have known, somehow, about what Dean was capable of, he must have somehow seen that darkness in him and decided that no, he wasn't worth it. But now it's the only thing he can think about while he waits for the sting of the needle: how he was never going to do anything but hurt Cas.

"I'm sorry," he says, and immediately wishes he could take the words back, because it looks like Cas just got punched, like he's going to throw up or cry again or do that thing where he bites his lip and looks at the ceiling and desperately tries not to tear up, the thing that Dean only saw twice after a john had come and gone after having his way with Cas.

"What do you possibly have to be sorry for?" Cas asks, his voice wrecked. Guilt wraps around Dean's core, but he still answers the question.

"For never being good enough for you." And then Cas does do the thing, his teeth nearly splitting the skin of his lip, and Dean can still see the way his eyes are shining when he looks back down. And of course, that's when the nurse decides to stick the needle into his arm and Dean hisses at the sting and tries not to remember the day Alastair took the sewing needles and the matches and…

"Focus on me, Dean. I'm right here," Cas says, and Dean remembers that Cas is here, and he's safe, and he'll never have to go back. (Unless they figure out that it's all you're good for, really. Once you tell them what you did they're never going to forgive you. Cas won't even want to look at you, and Sam will be too ashamed to call you his brother. You should just run back to Alastair now with your tail in between your legs like a good bitch, like they always told you. Alastair loves you. He'll take care of you. He'll give you what you need…)

The sting is over before it even manages to bloom into pain, and the next thing Dean knows, the nurse is sliding the needle out of his arm and the doctor is standing to the side, clipboard in hand.

"The drug should go into effect in about ten minutes, so I'm going to allow your brother in now, Mr. Winchester." Wait, what? When did Sam get here? Dean looks around, and suddenly Sam's standing in the doorway. Tall, gangly Sammy who's grown at least three inches in the last months, who has dark circles under his eyes and trembling hands.

"Dean." He says just the one word, then strides over to his bedside.

"Heya, Sammy." He blinks, and the world blurs in front of him. He's not tearing up, he's not. "It's been a while."

"Yeah," Sam croaks, his voice cracking. "Yeah, it has."

Dean dreamed about Sam in the Pit. He dreamed that Sam woke up next to him, chained to the wall and lying on a blood stained mattress, stripped not only of clothes but of dignity. He dreamed that Alastair set Sam up on a rack, pressed a razor into Dean's hand, and told him to slice into Sam's skin. He dreamed that he did, and he dreamed that he liked it.

"I missed you." It's the truth, a raw, honest truth that Dean had tried to deny for the first few weeks he was staying with Cas.

"Yeah, I missed you too, Dean." The blur still hasn't gone away, and it's stopping Dean from making out Sam's face clearly. "I missed you too."

"Did you meet Cas?" He asks, even though he really shouldn't be talking right now and introductions are possibly the most mundane things in the world.

"Yeah, I met Cas. How did you guys meet?" Dean opens his mouth to reply, but Cas beats him to it.

"Dean interrupted my nap. Rather rudely, now that I think about it." He can hear the smile in Cas's voice, and it makes him want to smile too.

"I don't…" Sam says, confusion evident in his tone. "What?"

"It's a long story," Cas murmurs. Or maybe he doesn't; maybe Dean's just drifting farther and farther away from the conversation, floating on a pain drug that isn't quite working.

"Go 'head an' tell him," he slurs, not entirely sure that what he's saying comes across at all. "Tell 'm all 'f it."

There's the rumble of Cas's voice, the telltale gravelly baritone that had lulled him to sleep on so many occasions, and then Dean welcomes the darkness and lets it lead him away.

• • • •

It's the collar that breaks him. Dean likes to think that he could have gone on denying Alastair for a long time, if it weren't for that damn collar. He wakes up one morning (or night-there's no windows in the Pit and he's lost all ability to keep track of time) strapped to the familiar metal rack. Alastair is sitting in front of him, hands clasped and a serene smile on his face.

"Good morning, Dean." It's the most civil he's sounded since Dean got here, which immediately puts him on edge. He strains automatically against the cuffs, even though he knows they won't give. "I've got something special for you today."

"Go to hell," Dean growls, his throat raw from all the screaming he had done yesterday. It's become his trademark, down here, whenever Alastair chains him up and starts talking.

"Been there," Alastair drawls, seemingly bored as he leans back in his chair and digs dried blood out from under his nails with Ruby. "Done that."

Dean is tense, waiting for his captor to stand up and start digging Ruby into his skin, but Alastair just continues picking under his nails, not even looking up at Dean. Slowly, he starts to panic. What does Alastair want? Is he going to just let him hang here, wasting away? He hasn't eaten in god knows how long, because for some reason after they threw him in the cell, they didn't shove the usual plate of moldy and stale food at him, or the tin cup of drugged water. He slept fitfully, plagued by the distant screams of other captives, and woke with a start whenever the heavy metal doors clanged open or shut.

"What do you want?" Dean finally rasps, when he can't take the oppressive silence anymore, shame twisting in his gut. Alastair looks up and grins wolfishly, sliding Ruby back into her sheath on his belt. He stares at Dean like he's going to pounce and rip him to shreds at any second, but Dean holds his gaze because he's stupid and not quite willing to let all of his dignity go just yet.

"Oh, Dean," Alastair says, mock sympathy twisting his words. "I don't want anything, today. That's your job."

"What?" Alastair grins before standing and moving around to the back of the rack, to where Dean can't see him. There's a clink of metal before Alastair returns to his line of sight, an object in his hands that makes Dean's blood run cold.

"Today, you have two choices, Dean. You can either wear this," he says, dangling the leather collar from one finger in front of Dean's face. "Or I can leave you alone with the guards who are on break. Your choice."

Not for the first time, Dean thinks he's going to be sick all over himself on the rack. The collar hangs off of Alastair's finger, and the very thought of letting it be put on him repulses Dean. But he once spent a day with Alastair's guard, and he bled from his hole for days afterward. It's a Hobson's choice, the one that Alastair has laid out for him. Both options are bad, and neither will end well. Dean lets himself sink back against the unyielding metal and closes his eyes.

"Fine."

"Ah, ah, ah, Dean-o. Tell me what you want," Alastair croons, amusement tinting his voice. Dean forces back tears and humiliation behind closed eyes, because he doesn't think he can take another day with the guards.

"I want you," he chokes out, voice raw and burning as it escapes his throat. "To collar me."

"Good boy," Alastair says softly, and Dean hears the soft click of a lock opening before warm, supple leather being fastened around his neck and snapped into place. "Look at me, pet."

As Dean opens his eyes, he feels like something has changed beyond the fact that there's a strip of leather around his neck. He feels really and truly owned, for the first time since he arrived in the pit.

"Good bitch." The biting words are at odds with the way Alastair says them, as if Dean's a precious thing to be cherished and kept. But that can't be right, because Dean's a whore, because he's poison and everybody leaves him eventually. Except Alastair wants him, Alastair calls him good, so maybe this really is where he belongs. Somewhere that he's wanted, that he's cherished and praised for being good. And maybe it hurts, but it's worth it because Alastair loves him for taking it. "If I let you down, are you going to be good, Dean?"

"Yes," he replies, and he means it. So Alastair unlocks the cuffs and guides Dean down onto his knees and threads a hand through his hair.

"You and I are going to take a walk, Dean." Alastair sounds gentler than Dean's ever heard him as he clips a leash onto the collar and pets his hair softly. With a few tugs, he has Dean on all fours, walking around the rack towards a door he's never seen before. Alastair unlocks it and pulls it open carefully before leading Dean through into a dark hallway. As he shuffles on his hands and knees, eyes down, he sometimes catches glimpses of feet and legs, which he assumes must belong to either security or clients.

It's beyond strange, being led through dark corridors like a dog, and the connotations of the collar around his neck makes Dean want to throw up. But he's spent so long fighting Alastair, and he's just so overwhelmingly tired.

Finally, Alastair pauses in front of a door and Dean hears the jingle of keys before it's unlocked and he's lead through into the largest room he's ever seen. His head lifts as he tries to take in the tall, arching ceiling that's mostly shrouded in darkness, but is distracted by the racks that line the room that is more like a giant hallway. Dozens of them, and on most there's a body. Clients use whips and knives and matches and their own bodies to torture them, and Dean has to look down because the sight brings bile to the back of his throat.

"Today, Dean, you're just going to watch," Alastair says from above him, forcing Dean's head up to meet his gaze. "You're going to watch, and you're going to learn."

Dean picks up a blade at the end of the day, and he knows that there's no going back.