A/N: Hey! I'm back! I'm so sorry for the long hiatus. I hate it when people stop stories in the middle and never finish them so I am really sorry that happened here. But it will be finished! This chapter and possibly the next one are my peace offerings. If you're still reading this after the several month long break, then thank you so much for putting up with me.

Warning: I should probably warn everyone that there are descriptions of Hell in this chapter, complete with semi-graphic imagery. We'll call it that. Whether it actually is semi-graphic or not depends completely on what you consider graphic. :-)

Disclaimer: If this were mine, the show would consist of nothing but chick-flick moments and brotherly schmoop. It doesn't. So Supernatural clearly does not belong to me.

AU after episode 7x04

So breakfast was awkward. Or rather, it would have been had Dean taken any notice of what was going on. But he hadn't because he was more than content staying locked in his head. He felt useless and horrible and half-sick and the thought of coming out of that dark place was too daunting a task to even think about.

Sam had barely slept last night and as a result, Dean had barely slept last night. And that was despite the fact that Sam had tried very hard to not wake Dean up as he cried himself to sleep. And Dean, who of course, was already awake, had just laid there and listened. Because yes, he was a horrible person. Thank you for asking. But regardless, he hadn't meant to. He had meant to get up. He had meant to listen to the increasingly vocal big brother inside him and go make Sam feel better. Somehow.

But apparently, Dean was a sadist. And a masochist. Because every repressed, choking sob felt like a self-inflicted knife to the chest that just kept twisting. So Dean was a horrible, terrible, atrocious person that had been frozen to his bed. His every attempt at getting up was quickly aborted by some greater force. Because Dean Winchester didn't have mental blocks. He didn't pussy out of things because there was a failed connection between his brain and his body... Usually... But whatever greater force - that was not a mental block - had held him down knew that if he got up and went to his brother, if he tried to make things better and got sent away... Well... It knew that he wouldn't have been able to come back from that, knew he wouldn't have been able to handle it.

So he had listened, watched as his brother stared at the light from the bathroom, stared at it like it would keep away his nightmares, his demons.

That used to be Dean's job.

He had been usurped by a light.

And the food in front of him right now looked like snot. Which, okay, normally, he would have been able to overlook. Normally, he would have downed it all and then demanded seconds. And possibly doughnuts. But he wasn't hungry. At all. Which was a real shame because eating was one of the few things in life that he actually enjoyed. The fact that he was being deprived of it was simply another thing to add to his list, "Reasons Why Dean Wishes Hell's Demons Would Stage a Revolution and String Lucifer Up on the Rack." And shockingly enough, that list was getting pretty damn long.

"Ready to try again, Sam?" Kathleen's voice cut across his mind, forcibly dragging him into the present which he was actually quite unhappy about. Because the real world sucked. "You've gotta get it cut. Just keep trying, yes?" And Dean tried to keep himself from scoffing because he doubted it would have been appreciated. The half-gargled sound he made instead though wasn't really much better, Sam's eyes flickering up to his from across the table before quickly darting away again.

And that was it, wasn't it? Sam shouldn't have felt safer lying in the dark with a nightlight than telling him he needed him. That's not how it was supposed to be. And a part of him wondered just how long that had been going on, just when Sam had decided that being alone and scared was better for his mental health than being with Dean. The rest of him though, didn't really want to know.

God, he wished there was alcohol somewhere in the house. There probably was... He'd have to go look for it later...

"Y'okay, Dean?" Sam asked and Dean just nodded, trying to ignore the concern he heard in his brother's voice. Because Sam shouldn't have been worried about him. Not when Lucifer was having unapproved parties in his head. "You look a little... green." Dean was sure he did. He felt like he'd be green.

He didn't say that though. Instead, he cleared his throat, carefully scooping up the gunk on his plate with his fork. "I'm good." His smile felt a little forced. Okay, it was definitely forced and probably strangely lop-sided if the look Sam shot him meant anything. But hey, it wasn't like Sam was exactly jumping up and down to pull out the violins and play "Oh, poor pitiful me" tapes. So yeah, Dean was allowed a bit of denial.

Hypocrisy, you're wanted on Line 1.

"You just have to visualize it, Sam," Kathleen continued as if no one else had spoken. "It's like a tether. See it in your head and cut it." Dean shoved the eggs in his mouth and nearly spat them back out again. Not because they tasted particularly bad. He had definitely eaten worse. It was more that his gag reflex wasn't agreeing with him and it didn't want boogers. It didn't actually want anything.

That was until Kathleen got up and returned seconds later with bacon. Because... well... bacon. Juicy, sizzling, bacon-y bacon that looked absolutely nothing like the goo that came out of an infected wound. He already had two pieces stuffed in his mouth and was reaching for more when he realized that he was apparently not allowed to have anything. Not even the most simple, the most pure and right and greasily perfect of all anythings. Because as he stared at his brother stare at the bacon, the food practically turned to ash on his tongue, leaving it crumbly, dry, and tasteless.

Though then again, he had no proof that ash was tasteless. It could actually have quite a bit of taste. Like chicken. Or barbecue.

"Sam? You want some?" Kathleen asked and Dean wanted to tell her that she shouldn't have been waving that in front of Sam's face. But he was too focused on Sam's face himself to even think of it.

"Um…" Sam swallowed thickly, eyes wide, breath quickening. And if Dean didn't know better, he'd say that the bacon was about to send his brother into a full blown panic attack. And he didn't know any better so it was quite possible that the bacon was about to send his brother into a full blown panic attack.

"Sam?" Dean asked, his mouth still stuffed full of food because he couldn't swallow it and there was no viable place to spit it out.

Sam glanced across at him and just like that, the panic was gone, hidden behind a wall far more effective than the one meant to hold back Hell. And Dean wanted to call him on it because Dean had invented the immovable wall of emotions, had built it up brick by brick and had never given Sam permission to borrow it. Which meant he was stealing and Dean wanted his goddamn wall back! And honestly, Sam had never learned how to use it right, at least not around Dean.

"Um, no. You know what? Um… I think I'm done eating. Thanks though." And he all but fled from the room, sending the chair skidding back across the floor several inches. So that left Dean, chewing on his lip, forcing dirt down his throat, staring at the empty space his brother had vacated. And that left him to realize that none of the eggs on Sam's plate had actually made it into Sam's mouth. No, like a five year old who wanted to make it look like they had eaten when they really didn't, it was all pushed to the side, condensed into a tight pile. Just to confuse everyone.

Groaning, Dean sank back in his chair. He remembered what it was like when you came back from Hell. And yes, he had been the first to admit that the eggs looked like the insides of a person's nose and the bacon... though he hadn't drawn the connection at first, he knew the connection that Sam would have instantly drawn between its appearance and Hell and certain human body parts. And more than anything, he wished that wasn't the case.

And Kathleen... Kathleen just looked confused. Not that Dean could blame her.

Michael burned cold; Lucifer burned hot. That was the only way you could tell them apart when they really got going. And Sam wasn't sure which one was better to have in the position of his torturer, which one was worse at their job. Michael was more creative, but Lucifer had the advantage of experience and… well, Lucifer knew him. He'd been inside his head.

Dean surged upwards in his bed, gasping, pounding at his forehead with his hand, demanding it stop right the hell now. Because having dreams while he was awake was one of those things that was simply not supposed to happen. Ever. Well... that was unless you were Sam.

But still, having dreams through your brother's eyes of your brother's Hell while you're awake fell into an entirely different category, one that Dean Winchester was never supposed to go anywhere near. And strangely enough, that thought didn't make him feel better.

Nor did it stop it from happening.

Things were different this time. It was both cold and hot, like the ice was burning… or the fire was freezing. Sam didn't care either way. It all amounted to pretty much the same thing.

He was strung up, meat hooks in his arms and legs, pulling him apart, keeping him from moving even a little bit. Because doing so would hurt. Badly. Would tear and pull at his muscles and tendons until they ripped in two. And he could feel blood already dripping down his arms, could feel it running towards his elbow.

And it wasn't like he wasn't used to it, wasn't like he probably didn't deserve it. But still.

Later, when he'd look back on it, he'd realize that he should have noticed his first clue. The fact that everything was quiet, that there wasn't any sound anywhere should have told him that something was wrong. Because things were never quiet. Never. There was always fighting and yelling and screaming and laughing and cheering. Never silence. Because Lucifer liked the noise. Michael didn't care either way but Lucifer... he hated silence, reveled in screams, reveled in the attention the demons gave him when he sliced into Sam's body.

But Sam didn't notice any of that. Instead, all he could focus on was a soft, comforting, safe voice. The only thing that had ever meant home. And any questions he had had, any doubt, simply vaporized.

The pain when he bounced off the doorjamb barely registered in Dean's overwrought mind. He barely even felt it, barely even knew it had happen. Because he was too busy shouting, "Sam!"

He needed help. It was like he had double vision, like he was seeing through Hell to reality. Or through reality to Hell. Or both were reality and his mind was going to explode as a result of being torn in half. Stumbling out into the main hallway, everything was swimming around him. And there were so many doors. Which one was it again? And which of the doors were actually doors and which were just... not...?

There was no way to tell so he picked one at random, hoping it would lead him somewhere useful. Somewhere preferably not Wonderland. But it didn't matter because that turned out to be a not-door and he ended up crashing into a wall. He ignored the pain spiking in his skull and groped sideways, hoping that he'd end up falling through a doorway at some point.

"Dean?" Sam asked. It was Dean. Dean had come to save him. Dean would always save him. Always. Had promised he'd save him. "No matter what," he had always said. And here he was. He was going to save him.

Even though, deep down, he knew he didn't deserve it.

"Sammy!?" Dean called again because the world was tilting now and he was pretty sure he was walking on a wall. "Kathleen!? Someone!?" But no one answered. Though he wasn't sure he'd know if they did because his hearing kept cutting in and out, flipping between the spinning fun-house from Hell and the silence of actual Hell. But then the smell of sulfur assaulted him and whatever tenuous grip he held on the reality he wanted to exist in slipped away.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean whispered, carefully taking the first meat hook out of his brother's arm. The pull caused Sam to winced and Dean muttered an apology, quickly moving to the other side. "You're gonna be okay now… Promised you I'd save you, didn't I? If it was the last thing I did, 'member?" Sam tensed as Dean pulled the hooks out of his thighs, had to fight down the bile rising in his throat. But it actually wasn't too bad because his brother's constant stream of babbling was calming in a way nothing else could possibly be. And Sam let out a choked sob, nodding to let Dean know he remembered because he did. One of the few things he could remember.

He ran into something. Dean wasn't sure what he ran into because everything was swirling together, forming a blob of mixed, twisted, sickening colors. And he kind of felt like he was in one of those weird watercolor paintings that Sam was always going on about. A really bad one.

He fell to his knees. At least he was pretty sure they were his knees, he couldn't really tell anymore.

"Whadaya say we get you out of here, huh? I think two months in Hell is more than enough, don't you?" Sam choked on another sob as Dean carefully lowered him to the ground, supporting his back, hand already putting pressure on the tear in his arm where the hook had been.

And Sam just let his brother hold him, curling in tighter to the first not-painful touch he had felt in two decades. "You can put me down, Dean. I can walk." But Sam knew that the way he had his hands twisted in his brother's shirt said the exact opposite and Dean just laughed.

Dean felt something hot and acidic come up his throat.

And he wasn't quite sure where it ended up after that.

His vision was starting to gray-out and he supposed that was actually better than all the colors. There were too many. Too many that were too bright.

"Bitch," Dean sighed, helping him to his feet and Sam replied in the only way he ever would, "Jerk."

And then the steady arm around Sam's shoulders suddenly disappeared, was ripped away from him. Panic clawed at his chest as he flipped around, only to find Dean twenty feet away, a hellhound standing on his chest.

"No! Dean!" Sam screamed but it wasn't going to make the dog stop shredding his brother's chest, wasn't going to make Dean stop screaming in pain as he fought to get away.

Sam heard Lucifer's ecstatic laugh, saw Michael's cold clinical smile.

He saw his brother's body, completely shredded, eyes sightless as he stared up at the ceiling. Dead because he had tried to save Sam one last time.

And it was then that Sam knew with a bone-deep certainty that he wasn't supposed to be saved.

The colors had all disappeared, leaving nothing but gray, black, and red. Red – blood. Red, blood. Too much red, too much blood.

Hell caught in his throat, his chest. The smell of demons and broken souls clogged his nose and he couldn't breathe, not without also inhaling their agony, their pain, their desperation. And then there was Sam. And he was Sam. And he could feel Sam's agony, Sam's pain, Sam's desperation. And the coldness of it left him choking on the sulfuric stench of emptiness.

And the red hot burn of hopelessness.

It was all red. Too much red, too much blood.

Sam took the first thing he could find and rammed it through his chest. And it didn't take long until he was choking on his own blood, knelt by his brother's side, staring into empty eyes.

"You promised me, you asshole! You told me you were gonna get us out of here. Don't leave me here! Take me with you, please?" Sam begged, fighting against the blood clogging up his throat, but welcoming the darkness with open arms.

And then Sam was awake, strung up on the rack once again.

"Heya Sammy," Dean smiled gently. "Whadaya say we get you out of here?"

But he never did. Not for one hundred and eighty years. And finally, the red – too much blood – faded and Dean saw only black.

A/N 2: Again, thank you so much to anyone who read this.

There are approximately 12 chapters left. Some of them are pretty long though so I may break them up.