(Hi everyone! I hope you all had a great holiday period, I'm excited to be back! I'm going to try and update this story once a week. Some chapters will be short, some will be long, but there will hopefully always be an update - usually on a Monday. I hope you all enjoy this chapter - it's back to Dean's point of view for this one. As always I love to hear your thoughts, so let me know what you think in the comments or shoot me a PM!)

(Days before the call)

The Wyatt compound wasn't so bad. Not really. In the daylight, it almost seemed kinda nice. Like the parks he'd seen people go to when he was kid. The ones with the lil' log cabins by lakes. His mom had dreamed of one day going to one of those. She never mentioned taking him with her but he had always, somewhat, hoped that she would have chosen him to be her companion there. Except…well she'd never liked him. A mistake, she'd called him once, when she was pissed and so high on crack, he found her trying to pull off her own toes, thinking they were tumorous. He'd been…six, maybe seven. He didn't really hold on to old memories. They were dusty, dirty, clogged up his brain.

The house was old, falling apart in places, with plywood band aids and whispered prayers all that kept it standing. They'd not been rough with him, suspiciously kind in fact. He'd thought they'd drag him away, bound and gagged and stuffed in a sack. But no – he'd been given the best seat in the old truck. The one with the least number of holes. Wyatt had ridden in the back. Rowan drove, his tiny, beady black eyes fixed on the road, as if it might leap up and attack at any second. In the house, they'd given him a bed, one with a mattress and a bucket to catch the water droplets that dripped, dripped, dripped from the ceiling, even though there was no rain. They'd given him food, and tea that made his head feel fuzzy and made him fall asleep, but stealing away the night terrors that plagued him.

It was heady and thick here. The constant smell of woodsmoke and incense plugged his nose and played with his senses so that he wasn't sure if he was asleep or awake.

Wyatt had told him how pleased he was that Dean had decided to join their family. He was thrilled. He was over the moon – he was so excited that his eyes had bulged and his cat like smile had spread from ear to ear, showing off his teeth. He had too many teeth – teeth that were deteriorating like the sanity of everything surrounding the compound. The walls were warped, the floor was never still. Even the bed that he'd been given, sturdy and comfortable, felt like it was on wheels. There was no blood in this building. Nothing pumping through the walls, no life. Everything had been sucked out until it was hollow and dry and the only thing that was flush and plump was the face of Bray Wyatt.

The day after he'd arrived, Erik Rowan appeared and took him down the stairs to the den, where Wyatt sat in his beloved rocking chair. It squeaked and complained with each motion – rock, squeak, rock, squeak. A pitch that irritated Dean's ears and made his eyes squint in annoyance.

The fire was roaring despite the daylight outside and the whole room felt heavy, sweat beading on every brow. Rowan forced Dean to sit on the floor, on the skin of an animal that had once had antlers and roamed the woods as a king. And he watched Wyatt in that chair for what felt like an eternity, the silence broken only by the fracture of that fucking squeak. Eventually, Wyatt's eyes broke from those flickering flames with the kind of look in them that made Dean feel like a piece of meat, ready for tenderising. He had no doubt in his mind that by the coming night, he'd be outside, staked out, ready for bludgeoning. But he'd come here for his own accord, knowing the risks.

He'd done it to save them.

To protect baby girl from Wyatt's madness.

If he took it out on Dean, it kept his family safe.

Out of all of them…Dean knew, he would be able to take it. He'd suffered punishment his entire life. He'd been beaten black and blue and bloody and he knew what it was to pass out without submitting. He was the unwanted, the splinter in the skin, everything undesirable. His friends had taken him in. They loved him. He would die for them.

But all those years of bleeding out into the gutter couldn't prepare him for the sense of uneasiness he felt under Wyatt's eyes. There was death in glare but life in his smile. He conjured images of untrustworthy snake oil salesmen and the devil turning up to your door, promising riches, but giving damnation.

'I'm happy you decided to visit us Dean. Very happy. She told me that you would come…that you would be the first to drift into my arms.'

'Ah'm not the hugging type,'

Wyatt's mouth tugged at the edges – a threat. But Dean didn't care.

'If not mine, then you shall fall into hers.'

Dean didn't answer. The crackling of the fireplace was burning in his ears and in the intense heat was scolding his skin. The room felt too small, and at the same time too big, stretching from the corners of his vision outward. He turned his head. There was very little else in this place, the rug he'd been forced down on was smattered with hay. It felt like a stable where the animals were kept. Fitting then that the caged beasts of the WWE had been brought together and shut in together.

'You and I are similar Dean,'

'Oh?'

'We both want to feel safe.'

That surprised him. Dean raised his eyebrows. The cult man wanted to feel safe? Then move away from the fire. Stop antagonising the people he loved. His obedience in Wyatt's house would be pushed only so far. He'd bite if he needed to.

'We're always the last to know when our souls are at stake,' Wyatt turned his gaze back to that fireplace. 'When I was a child I was lost, so lost in the wilds of this dark world. And then she came and she took me into her arms, she whispered that everything would one day burn, but she'd make sure it was by my hand. That I would not be the one to carry the scars. That I would be the one to look down and scoop up the cinders to build a new life and a new world, one that came in her image. One…where the animals would feel safe enough to come out and play in the sun and under the moon. The beasts,' he paused and turned once again to face Dean, 'the beasts of this world may have tooth and claw but they wear skin suits like you and I. We are animals Dean…is it so wrong that we just want to play?'

'You tried to 'urt my friends Wyatt. Why in 'ell should ah listen to what you have ta say?'

In a swift movement, Wyatt turned that rocking chair so that he completely faced Dean. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on him like a snake might watch a rat sneaking through the grass.

'Hurt…or release? You've surely seen it…that terrible creature lurking inside of her? She's the reason we do what we do. She'll be our leader into that new world. She's made from ashes and dust; I feel it in her soul. She burns bolder than cinder and smoke. Restrained by foolish love that binds her to nothingness…Paige has so much potential. She could be a goddess amongst men if she just let me in. Just let her in.'

'Baby girl ain't yer concern Wyatt.' Dean growled, he moved to get to his feet, but the hefty hands of Rowan hammered him back down to the ground, holding him there, even as he kicked and snarled. 'Stay the fuck away from 'er. You 'ave me.'

Wyatt's eyes glinted, 'I do.' He stood up slowly from that chair, 'And I'm grateful for your sacrifice Dean. I really am. Because that's what you shall be. You'll be my sacrifice to Sister Abigail. You'll give me everything – your blood, your energy, eventually even your love. She'll feed off it. It'll keep her sated. But the moment it fails, the moment that you no longer pledge yourself, then I shall have to find other ways to satisfy her hunger.'

His shadow hung over Dean like a death sentence and he could feel a knot in his gut, tightening slowly, knowing what was coming. Knowing that pain would prickle his skin. But knowing that he had to get through it.

'So Dean,' Wyatt smiled wickedly, 'shall we begin?'

(Minutes before the call)

His blood seeped into the sheets.

His skull felt fractured as if hit by a hammer.

His bones were splintered.

His skin was shredded.

He could still breathe. He'd been through worse. That's what he kept telling himself, over and over and over and over. Been through worse. It was worth it. It would all be worth it. Keep them safe. Just keep them safe. The ceiling above him was blackness and spiderwebs. He could see the tiny critters rolling around on silk ropes like acrobats and wished that he were that small, that nimble, so he could hide away in a knot hole, so that they couldn't find him when it was time for them to begin again.

Wyatt always made sure that he was the smiling face at the end of each session, reaching out hands of comfort to carry him to the bed. He made sure to be the one to clean the wounds and to feed him. He'd whisper sermons to him in the night, telling him that the suffering was worth it. That he was giving such beautiful gifts in his screams.

They wanted him beaten. They wanted him broken. They liked to see the faces he made underneath the bruises. But with every blow, of fist and foot, every lash of a belt, all he could see were his friends. All he could see was Paige. Roman. Seth. He could see them in detail. He knew every line on their faces, he knew everything thread of hair. He knew how they tilted their heads. He'd memorised them in painstaking detail over the years for this moment. The moment when they were all he had to live for. It carried him through it – knowing that this would keep them out of sight and out of mind.

Eventually Wyatt would get bored of him. He knew that, but it would give his family extra time, extra days to move against the madman.

Somewhere in his pocket he could feel the strange bulge of something he couldn't remember being there before. He slowly moved an aching arm, pushed twisted fingers in to find something plastic, something hard. Something that had been snatched from him when he'd first arrived at the compound. His phone. No doubt smuggled to him by Harper. The giant refused to take part in the beatings, but would always help instead with the restraint when they took place.

Dean's breaths rattled in his lungs as he tried to see through blackened eyes. There, Seth's number.

He knew he shouldn't, but he had to hear his voice, to let him know, to make him understand.

He hit dial.