{Rhiannon}

The dreams had grown darker. If that was even possible. She wasn't sure how long had passed since her mind had become home to a Guillermo Del Toro Movie. It was worse as a child. Restful was certainly not the watchword in her life. Visions of horrid creatures dominated her mind night after night unrelentless in their pursuit to drive her to insanity. Rhiannon had never thought herself to be very imaginative, but her mind had somehow managed to conjure up the twisted and deranged tales of two brothers and an old car each time she closed her eyes.

Sighing, Rhiannon cracked an eye open to stare at the faded ceiling above her as she struggled to orient herself. Her head was throbbing with the force of a jackhammer, and her mouth was dryer than a cotton field in the heat of summer. She attempted and failed, to sit up straight on the floor. The heavily carpeted motel floor was a godsend on her back, but she wasn't keen on thinking about what diseases she might have caught while taking her alcohol-fueled nap.

The world around her was spinning a little too fast. A quick glance at the empty bottle of scotch on the floor next to her told Rhiannon everything she needed to know about last night. Who needed a therapist with a 24/7 liquor store on every corner?

Her coping skills were apparently lacking.

Not that she cared. There was no reason to have coping skills when there was nowhere to go and no one to see. The last of her kin was dead and buried and she was once again left on her own. Nothing new for the redhead, however, knowing now that there was truly nowhere for her to turn left her feeling somewhat empty.

Hence the drinking.

Alcohol never stopped the nightmares, if anything, it made it worse on occasion, but it helped create a numbness the next day. Recently, her nighttime dose of the two handsome men had turned darker and hotter. Not in a kinky sort of way, either. Rhiannon shivered, her hand instinctively rubbing her back where the latest pain was ebbing away. Each strap of the whip had her crying out in pain, over and over, until she was begging it to stop. Pleading. Crying.

Except it wasn't her.

It was one of the brothers. The oldest. Sent to hell. Rhiannon thought about his fate. It seemed cruel for the man to suffer such unending torments when all he had ever attempted to do in his life was save people. The young woman scoffed. She was beginning to see her nightmares as real.

Real people. Real problems. They weren't. It was merely her imagination.

The redhead had sought to banish her dreams. It had been years since she had thought of using her family's magic, but the situation was becoming drastic. Her dreams were beginning to invade her reality. Rhiannon had sought out Theresa, her last remaining relative, for advice, only to have been warned against banishing them. She was promptly given a lecture on the importance of dreams and their connection to the dreamer.

That was the biggest load of horseshit Rhiannon had ever heard.

Gypsies were widely known for their prophetic dreams and visions, but Rhiannon was sure that wasn't what this was. For starters, there was no such thing as vampires and demons in the world. Hell, there was hardly any magic in the world anymore. Maybe a hedge witch here and there but nothing along the lines of what she had been dreaming about.

No. These dreams were in no way prophetic. They were simply dreams and it was time for them to go.

Gypsies didn't have family grimoires, not like witches, which made it hard for Rhiannon to come up with something that would work for her. One wrong word or ingredient and she could find herself blind or worse…dead. She had learned first-hand what unrestrained magic could do.

With her heart set on it, Rhiannon went on a quest to rid herself of her nightmarish dreams, collecting everything she needed from the local grocer. Simple ingredients for simple magic. She hadn't used her magic since she was a little girl. Growing up as an orphan had been hard enough without adding her ancestry to the mix. Society saw Gypsies as rats and vagrants, not as people.

Magic didn't exist to those who couldn't see it. For most, the belief in magic died once puberty hit, a sign of maturity, but for Gypsies, it deepened their connection to the Earth and the magic that came from it. Rhiannon had never been one to commune with the Old gods and despite Theresa's warning, there was no going back for her.

The dreams had ruined what little life she once had.

Rhiannon emptied the contents needed for the spell in a small bowl the motel had lying around in the kitchenette. Rosemary for remembrance, lavender for peace, chamomile for sleep, and clover for success. Wincing, she cut open her palm, allowing the blood to flow freely into the bowl to deepen the magic. The young Gypsy took a deep breath as she looked down at the prayer to the Old God Dagda, master of Druidic magic.

She lit the contents of the bowl on fire.

"Dagda, dia na sean." Rhiannon closed her eyes and prayed. "Cuir deireadh leis an tromluí. Cuir deireadh leis an bpian. Múscail mé ón aisling seo."

Nothing.

Not even a whisper of wind.

Grumbling, the redhead blew out the contents of the bowl, angrily tossing it across the room uncaring of the mess it made. How naïve could she be thinking that her prayer to the Old gods would be successful? Rhiannon once again felt like a foolish young girl. True magic didn't exist. Not any longer.

Or maybe it just didn't work for her.

Either way, her attempt had failed and now all that was left to do was drown herself in her lack of coping skills and hope it was enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

=O==O=

She was back again. The heat of the room spreading across her skin like the hot breath of a foul-smelling date. The putrid scent of rotting flesh and iron hung heavy in the air, assaulting her senses, causing her to involuntarily gag. The room was familiar. One she had visited for what seemed like years in her nightmares.

In it stood a single solitary man whose shoulders were slumped in defeat as he held the knife in his hand, knuckles white against the wooden hilt as the demons dragged his current victim away.

"He deserved it, Dean," The voice was low and rough, penetrating the darkened room with authority even as it whispered. Rhiannon shivered in fear as she thought of what that voice had done to the man in front of her. "Think of how many women and children he raped and murdered. Don't be so defeated, pet."

"Bite me, Alistair." Dean growled. The man flinched as an invisible source lashed out at him, cutting open his cheek with almost surgical like precision.

"Remember your place, Winchester," The demon threatened. "I can always place you back on the rack. We can relive all the fun we had."

Time and time again the young Gypsy had watched as the demon had cut Dean open, only to heal him before doing it once again. If the physical torture wasn't enough, the psychological torture was sure to send the man over the edge. Visions of his brother dying over and over again before his very eyes or what Dean considered worse; his brother becoming the demon Azazel had wanted. The weapon he had created.

Rhiannon wanted to cry. Even though none of it was real, she felt for Dean. The man had given up his soul to save his brother. There was no greater sacrifice than that. His soul did not belong in hell. She wasn't sure how long the man lasted before he had given into the demon's torment, but she knew it was the hardest decision he had ever made. The young Gypsy had sat by his side night after night, talking to him in hushed tones, giving him encouragement. She begged him not to break. Not to give in.

Every man had their limit.

Now, her unease showed clearly on her face as she approached the blood-covered man with trembling footsteps. The need to give him reassurance was innately overwhelming.

She brought her hand up to his injured cheek, instinctually whispering a healing spell her mother had once taught her when she had skinned her knee climbing a tree. There were no lay lines to draw magic from, it was hell after all and a dream, but that didn't matter to Rhiannon. Real or not, she couldn't sit idly by as she had done so many times before, not this time.

Instead of lay lines, the young Gypsy used something much more potent, her own essence. It was forbidden to use one's own essence as a catalyst for a spell, but this was her dream. Therefore, it was her rules.

"What the…" Dean whispered, his hand coming up to feel the healed skin of his cheekbone. The sandy-haired man looked around the empty space in disbelief. He couldn't see her, but he always knew she was there. "It's you isn't it." It wasn't a question. Dean knew she was there even if he couldn't see her.

Rhiannon smiled sadly at him. If only she knew of a way to free him. To free them both from this prison in her mind. Then maybe they could both be at peace.

"It's going to be okay, Dean," She whispered into his ear, her warm breath tickling his skin. She felt his muscles loosen beneath her touch as he began to relax, taking comfort in the one presence in hell that didn't mean him harm. How long had it been since he had felt a gentle touch? Rhiannon's blood boiled at the thought. "It's going to be alright."

"Not really, no."

Rhiannon whipped around; the darkened voice of Alistair closer than she had ever heard it before. Had he responded to her? The demon growled; his face distorted in anger as his coal-black eyes watched her like a hawk.

"Alistair." She whispered the name, panic rising in her throat.

"So, you're the one who has been visiting my little protégé," The demon snarled. "How endearing, thinking you can save him from his fate. I almost hate to kill you." Rhiannon smirked despite her fear. He couldn't kill her, not here.

At least she didn't think he could.

"You can't touch me." She scoffed at him as she strengthened her stance. Rhiannon knew that even in her dream she was no match for the demon. Gypsies weren't bred to be warriors, her body was supple and lithe, not hardened or battle-ready. There was no need for such things in her world. She reminded herself that this was her dream and she was in control.

At least she thought she was.

"You truly believe that?" The demon smiled nastily as if he could read her thoughts. "That this is all a dream? Wake up little Gypsy. This is hell."

Rhiannon could feel the lump in her throat growing as she reached back to grab Dean's hand as Alistair's heavy booted footsteps pounded towards her, eyes alight with something akin to hunger. Without a second thought the Gypsy sent up one last prayer to the Old Gods, and it was only one word…

Please…

=O==O=

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! First SPN fic. Just a couple of warnings: this is rated M…remember that, although I'm not much of a graphic person, this is an adult fic.

Will be slightly AU, there is an O/C in this of course. Adding in my own subplots while keeping to some major ones! Not a full follow along…I like creating my own universe.

I love reviews! Reviews keep me going!

Translations to prayer:

Dagda, god of the ancients. Put an end to the nightmare. Eliminate the pain. I wake up from this dream.