He wakes up being accosted by sensations that he can't explain. Something similar to heat, something similar to pain, all manner of shades and degrees in between and around, but none of it quite feels real.
He groans, dragging his hands up from his sides to press down on the top of his head, which is, as far as he can describe, throbbing. The ground beneath him is either hot or cold, he can't tell and he's not sure he remembers the difference. He feels the dankness of the area in his bones, and he hears distant dripping and the faint crackle of torches, but he doesn't raise his head. He doesn't feel able.
It takes what has to be at least several minutes for him to gather the wherewithal and indeed the strength even to move. He pushes himself up, and upon seeing his arms he immediately notes the familiarity of them, of the clothes he wears—the same outfit he had on the last time he was in his body.
He looks how he did as a human.
He sits up suddenly, and it hurts, but he's not sure why, or why he's back in his body, or… much of anything. He's in a drafty cell made of stone, with bars all across the wall in front of him, through which there appears to be a hallway. But it doesn't matter. He stares down at his legs, taking in his jeans, his boots, the curve of his legs under the clothes. Wondering why he can't exactly feel them. Or his arms. Or his headache. Or anything at all. And yet at the same time… there is a deep pain that flares up in his core, aching and stabbing and burning and freezing all at once, and he clutches at his chest, breathing ragged.
"You new?" comes a voice from off to the side.
He whips his head in its direction but sees only a wall. The voice seems to have come from the next cell over. Grimacing, he hauls himself to his feet and stumbles towards the bars, reaching out to give them a good shake. They seem pretty sturdy.
The Mark is still with him, though. Surely he can bust them wide open.
He tries to ask, "How the hell would you know that?" but it comes out as a gasp, hoarse and guttural. It's strange to feel his own voice in his throat again.
He's been comfortably distancing himself from the time he spent in this body, and he's not sure he appreciates it being back.
"Way you're breathin'. Ya get used to this feeling, eventually."
"That so?" he breathes, grasping at his heart. The seconds tick by and no response comes from next door. He examines the bars, testing the strength of each, and tries asking, though his voice still prickles mightily in his throat, "You a veteran here?"
"I been 'round the block a few times."
Probably a demon, then. Rather than a still-human soul in the process of demonization. He grasps a pair of bars next to each other that seem frailer than the rest. "What part of hell is this, exactly? How does this whole thing work?"
A sardonic chuckle rises from behind the wall. "I ain't your damn tour guide, boy."
The fun way, then. With a sudden twist of his arms, he easily snaps the bars in his hands, one piece coming away entirely such that he immediately recognizes it as a potential weapon. He swings it downward through the rest of the bars, creating an opening large enough for him to step through and raining scraps of metal all over the stone floor.
A startled "What the hell?" comes from the side, and he immediately heads on over, still brandishing the jagged piece of his bar. The cell next to his contains a middle-aged Asian man with a thick head of greying hair and dressed in what Dean would guess to be somewhat dated clothing, though he's not so familiar with the history of oriental fashion. He scrambles to the back of his cell, watching Dean with wide black eyes. "How did you do that?" he asks, perplexed.
By way of answer, Dean easily pries apart the bars to the man's cell, the power now coursing through him. "I'll be the one to ask the questions," he says, approaching rapidly and holding the bar to the man's throat. "See, I may be new, but I too have been around the block once or twice."
"That doesn't make any sense," the man spits.
Dean shrugs. "You wanna bet? We can do this the easy way or the fun way. You'll talk either way."
The man seems to consider his options, and eventually asks, "What do you want to know?"
Hm. Good question. He starts with, "How do I have my old body back?"
He pulls a face, leading Dean to believe this is very basic information. "Does it feel like you have a body? You don't. You're a spirit. We all are, except some of the higher ups who are able to bring their hosts down here with them. After a while you learn how to manipulate how you appear as a spirit, but at first you just look the way you did when you died."
Dean turns this information over for a few moments before he suddenly grasps at his chest again with one hand, the pain climbing into sharper focus in the lull. "What is this that I'm feeling?" he demands.
Again the man shakes his head in disbelief at his ignorance, but he says after a moment of thought, "Whenever we're not being actively torn apart, we all feel the exact same thing. Because we have no bodies. We just feel… hell. It's all that holds us together."
That explains why it's new. The first time he was here, he was always being torn apart. There was never any respite. He recalls what that demon said about how things have crumbled under Crowley's rule. "All right. So you're a demon. How do things work for us?"
"Not much differently than how they work for the condemned souls that are still somewhat human. Sometimes torturers pull you out to have some fun, but for the most part you're left to rot. If you show promise or if there's a need, sometimes you get singled out and given an opportunity to have position. Tormenter, crossroads demon, underling of the king." He shakes his head. "Considering how many of us there are, the number is infinitesimally tiny."
All right, enough of this. He doesn't plan on letting it be relevant anyway. "How do you get out?"
"Some say there are secret ways. Strength of will works too. The longer you stay, the worse the pain is, the easier it is to get out. Don't ask me why, it's just how it works. Not something I can really explain or even demonstrate."
Dean narrows his eyes, evaluating the man, but he seems truthful and doesn't really have motive to lie. "Where's Crowley?"
"How should I know?" he scoffs. "I've just been in this cell for decades now, since I was last exorcised."
Decades… that's right. One month out there, ten years in here. "You know where we are?"
He shakes his head. "It's all a maze. Nobody knows all the paths through hell, probably not even the king."
Dean glances behind him, at the massive rift in the cell door. "There any kind of patrols through here?"
"Nothing regularly scheduled. Sometimes there are two in one day, sometimes weeks of silence pass."
The pain tearing at his core, while forming it at the same time, is something he wants to put behind him as quickly as possible. Of course it is. But at the same time… he may not have another opportunity to catch Crowley by surprise for a long, long time. That is, assuming he can. "How does exorcism work? Is there any record of the demons that arrive down here?"
"I don't think so," says the demon. "You get dropped into a random empty cell and nobody ever formally acknowledges your arrival."
So Crowley probably doesn't know that he's here.
Deciding he's gotten all the information he needs for now, Dean turns and leaves the cell without another word. He steps outside, looking to his left and right. On either side the stone hallway filled with prison cells on one side stretches endlessly, torches spaced far apart on the walls, with long dark patches in between. Nobody is in sight, but he hears distant moaning and babbling issuing from unseen cells.
Twirling the bar in his hand, whistling a sprightly tune, Dean starts walking.