Chapter 1

Pain. Pain that cut deep, that tore and burned like acid, ripping him apart and crushing him and shattering his bones. Pain that never stopped, not even for a millisecond. The pain was the one constant that he could count on, here in Hell. The torturers, the methods, the scenery, all of that changed frequently. But the pain was always there. He would almost be numb to it, if it weren't so exquisite. Each fresh wave of agony drew an agonized scream from him.

They tied him to the rack, and they would slice and cut and burn and break until there was nothing left they could do to him. Each scream earned a gleeful cackle, and he screamed until his voice was gone, until the only sound he could make was a hoarse whimper. Sometimes it was a faceless demon—Dean preferred those, because they were better than the others. His father, his mother, Sam…when they were the ones to use the torture on him, the pain was worse for the betrayal. Those were the times that he cried, hot salty tears stinging sharply in the fresh cuts on his face.

It went on for so long Dean would have lost track, if not for Alistair. Alistair, who came at the end of each day to fix him good as new, so he'd be all set for a fresh round of torture the next day, and who always informed him how long it had been. Who always had an offer for Dean, an offer he couldn't accept without losing some part of himself that he was desperately clinging to because it was all he had left.

"It's been ten years, Dean. You can end this—no one will hurt you, and all you have to do is get off the rack. Put other souls on."

"Go fuck yourself," Dean would spit each time, voice raspy and hoarse. He would shudder and take a few moments to look at his clean, unmarked flesh before he was slammed back on the rack and the pain came right back, his screams ringing fresh through Hell as they cut open his stomach and took their sweet time carving him out like a pumpkin on Halloween, pulling out intestines, spleens, livers. They seemed to enjoy informing him, over his tormented cries, that he wouldn't be needing those.

It went on, for thirty years. Thirty years, according to Alistair, of demons ripping him apart to nothing. Thirty years of being nothing, nothing but a screaming sobbing heap that was powerless to do anything against the creatures he'd once hunted. He was weak, powerless…he was nothing

Dean Winchester was broken.

That was the night he accepted Alistair's request. They pulled him off the rack, and all the pain was gone. He was brand new, skin unmarked, and while he could still remember the pain, it no longer affected him. Alistair handed him a knife, and suddenly there was another soul—a stranger to Dean, with panic and confusion in their eyes, babbling about how there had to be some mistake—on the rack he had so recently vacated. Dean looked uncertain—until he remembered that that soul could easily be him.

Maybe this soul didn't deserve it, but neither did Dean.

The ceaseless babbling irritated him, so he cut out the tongue first. The screaming bothered him, so he pretended it was some monster—like old times. And just like that, he could do his job. He cut, and sliced, and with Alistair watching and tutoring, he became more precise. He ripped and broke, and he learned where it hurt the most with practice. After five short years—time passed so much more quickly when you were the one inflicting pain rather than receiving it—Dean even learned to enjoy it. There was a certain artistry to carving up these souls, the way the blood would pool. Each scream was different, and it became like a symphony as he drew the sounds from his helpless victims. He even took pride in his work. He didn't even notice how dark everything around him had become, because he was engrossed in his task.

Then the light came, painfully bright. It brought back memories of fire and pain, and it had Dean screaming, fighting as it surrounded him, blinded him. It burned where it touched him, and he shuddered and cried out.

"Alistair! We had a deal!" he said desperately. "You—you said no more…I don't deserve this!" he screamed.

But Alistair was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Dean couldn't see anything but the light. It didn't hurt as much, now, but it was still uncomfortably bright. The light then moved inside him, coalescing, surrounding what was broken and mending it, reminding Dean of the man he used to be, and he began to sob as he looked at what he had become. What fresh torture was this? What had he done to deserve this? He just wanted it all to stop. He moaned in despair as the light caressed him, carrying him away to God only knew what fresh torment awaited him—

Dean awoke with a gasp, shuddering and coated in cold sweat. He sat up, raking his shaking hands through his hair, trying to banish the memories.

He hadn't thought about Hell in a long time. He'd gotten good at banishing the memories. But sometimes, in his dreams, he found himself back, and the pain and terror—the despair—would fill him, and it's like only days had passed, rather than a year and a half.

Dean didn't know how much more he could take. He closed his eyes, but that brought back gruesome images so he wrenched them open again, feeling sick, and he lurched to his feet, stumbling to the bathroom. He heaved over the toilet, the painful fluorescent light of the motel's bathroom reminding him of the end of the dream. He had long ago figured out that that had been Castiel, saving him. The light…must have been his grace, and while painfully bright, it had been beautiful. After several minutes, he was able to calm down, and he went to the sink, splashing cold water on his face as he exhaled shakily.

He glared at his reflection, green eyes tired but closed off.

"Get it together," he snapped at himself, flipping the lights off, not wanting to look at his reflection another second.

"Dean?" came the soft, sleepy voice from the other bed. Dean froze halfway back to his own bed.

"Sammy? You awake?" Please god let him not have been awake for that…

A yawn set him at ease. "What's going on? You okay?"

"I'm fine, Sam," he said gruffly. "Just had to take a leak—go back to sleep." He flopped on his bed, not intending to sleep any time soon, but Sam didn't need to know that. He waited for the soft snores to start up again, but they didn't.

"Did you have a nightmare?" Sam asked him tentatively, and Dean could hear him starting to sit up. "You know you can talk to me, if you need to…"

No. No, he couldn't. He couldn't tell Sam about Hell, what he'd done…what he'd become. He couldn't bear how Sam would look at him if he knew. Sam wouldn't be disgusted, he knew that. But he would look at Dean with pity, and Dean couldn't accept that. He was the older brother—he took care of Sam, he was the strong one, he didn't need or accept pity. He'd handle it on his own.

"I said I'm fine, Sam," he said, and if his voice was a bit snippier than necessary Sam could attribute that to the late hour—the glowing green numbers of the clock on the nightstand informed him it was 2:17 a.m.—"Go back to sleep." He punched his pillow and rolled on his side, hoping Sam would take the hint.

A weary sigh followed by the creak of the bed put him at ease. Soon, Sam was snoring, and Dean relaxed again, settling in for the long night ahead.

When the sun rose, filling their room with pale light that filtered through the thin curtains on the windows, so did he. Sam was still out like a light—poor kid rarely slept so Dean didn't have the heart to wake him. Instead, he scribbled a note saying he was going out to get breakfast, shrugging on his jacket and getting in his baby. It was a short drive to the nearest diner, and before long Dean was sipping coffee, a steaming plate of pancakes and bacon set before him. He stifled a yawn, waiting for the caffeine to kick in, and searched for a topic to distract himself from the terror demanding his attention.

He could think about the Lucifer Problem, as Gabriel liked to call it, but that wasn't much better. Dean didn't like to dwell on his brother being the devil's vessel any more than he liked to think about Michael, so he shoved all those thoughts roughly aside. Maybe it would be better just not to think…yeah, not thinking sounded pretty good. So the hunter closed his eyes and focused on nothing in particular, just clearing his mind. His tense shoulders loosened just a little, and the only thing that disturbed his peace was a familiar rustle of feathers.

He opened his eyes to find himself staring into blue.

"Hey, Cas. Gabriel drop you off?" he inquired casually, voice a bit hoarse. He took another sip of coffee as the former-angel studied him, head tilted to one side. Dean felt his lips curling up at the familiar gesture—Cas had changed a lot the last couple of months, but some things never changed.

"Yes," he finally responded, seeming to remember Dean had asked him a question. He didn't elaborate, though, just kept staring at Dean.

"Well. How was, um…what were you doing again?"

"We were testing my diminished abilities, trying to figure out what I am still capable of and what is no longer possible for me to do."

"Okay, so, what'd you learn?" Dean asked, curious, trying not to get distracted by those intense blue eyes locked on his.

"Well, I can no longer fly, nor can I heal others," the ex-angel reported, face twisting with frustration. "However I can still hear my brothers—" He tapped his forehead and Dean nodded in understanding, thinking that might come in handy. "—and I can still heal at a rapid race."

"Okay, how about needs like food and sleep and stuff? Is that an issue?" Dean wondered.

Cas looked uncomfortable, and Dean felt a bit like an ass for reminding him of how human he was now, but they needed to know to take care of the guy. After a moment, he nodded. "Yes, unfortunately. Gabriel believes my need will not be as great as yours, but I will still have to sleep and eat more frequently than before." He grimaced, and Dean recalled the last time Cas had needed food before quickly shoving it aside—that wasn't something he liked to dwell on.

"Well, are you hungry right now?" Dean asked instead, only just remembering he had his own food in front of him. It was almost cold, and Dean found he'd lost his appetite, so when Cas reluctantly nodded, Dean pushed his plate over to him. "Well here, eat up."

"Dean I can't take your food—" he protested, but the hunter waved his arguments aside with a roll of his eyes.

"I'm not that hungry anyways, Cas. I'll be fine."

"If you are not hungry then why did you order food?" he asked, head tilting, dark blue eyes studying him with concern. Dean had no doubt that they saw the shadows under his eyes, but Cas hopefully knew by now that it was better not to ask. He'd been around once or twice when Dean had had similar episodes, and Dean always refused to talk about it after.

"I just wanted to get out of the motel, stretch my legs a little, I guess." Dean shrugged and hoped Cas would drop it. Thankfully, he did, opting instead to pick up a fork and knife and attack the pancakes. Dean smiled and offered him maple syrup, hiding a laugh at his perplexed look as he explained, "You pour it over the pancakes—it makes them taste sweeter."

Nodding in comprehension, the ex-angel proceeded to drench his pancakes in syrup, not seeming to mind when it got all over his bacon, too. Dean watched him in amusement, sipping his coffee, feeling more alert as the caffeine finally reached his system and worked its magic. Syrup dribbled down Castiel's chin, but he didn't seem to notice. Snickering, Dean grabbed a napkin and reached across to wipe it away before it could drip onto his shirt. Cas paused, looking at him in confusion, and Dean shrugged.

"You had syrup on your face," was all he said, unsure why he suddenly felt uncomfortable. He dropped his arm, looking away as Cas' face flushed in embarrassment. He always got so flustered when he couldn't quite manage simple tasks like eating or tying his tie, and it never failed to amuse Dean. He liked watching the pale skin flush red, chin ducking as he would smile sheepishly. It was oddly…endearing, Dean found.

Wait, what? No, that wasn't right. He just thought it was funny that a once-all-powerful being now struggled with something he'd been doing all his life. Yeah, that was all.

Shaking his head to clear it of his thoughts, Dean glanced back to see the ex-angel finishing his bacon. "You finished?" he asked, standing when the Cas nodded and tossing some money on the counter. "Come on, let's get back to the motel—Gabriel's probably tormenting Sam into the world of the waking and he won't be happy."

The archangel took a special kind of joy in waking up his younger brother in all kinds of fun ways—Sam was still grumpy about the confetti bomb—but Dean only found it funny when he was already awake and got to watch. It was just annoying when Gabriel's antics woke him, too.

Walking out to the Impala with Cas, Dean wondered what kind of mess he'd find back at the motel.

Well, he wasn't disappointed. Although Dean was slightly surprised to find his brother bare-chested, chasing a giggling archangel around the room with seemingly murderous intent. Dean paused in the doorway, arching an eyebrow at Cas, wondering if they should interrupt. At his helpless shrug, Dean shook his head and stepped inside with him, closing the door behind them. When Sam and Gabriel didn't even acknowledge his presence, Dean wondered what the archangel had done this time.

Clearing his throat, Dean said loudly, "Are we interrupting?"

Sam froze, then turned slowly to glare at Dean and Cas. "I'm going out," he announced with a growl, grabbing a black t-shirt and yanking it on before stalking out the door, slamming it behind him. Dean turned to Gabriel, arching his eyebrows. Gabe raised his hands and was already talking a mile a minute, defending himself before they could even ask.

"It honestly wasn't that bad, I swear! He's over-reacting. How was I supposed to know that waking up to a clown face would freak him out so badly? Honestly though, you should have seen his face, I've never seen eyes widen so fast. He sure woke up quickly!"

"Gabriel," Dean sighed, pinching his nose. He refused to laugh. Yes, Sam's fear of clowns was kind of funny, especially considering all the awful things they'd fought that were way worse than people wearing makeup, big shoes, and fake noses. "Did you know Sam is terrified of clowns before waking him up like that?"

Gabriel shook his head, crossing his heart. "I didn't, I swear!" There was laughter in his honey-gold eyes, but there was also something more serious—concern? He didn't like when Sam was mad at him, so it was feasible.

Dean sighed. "Just…don't do it again. I'll go talk to him."

"Maybe I should—?" Gabriel began, looking almost hopeful, but it quickly turned to annoyance when Dean cut him off.

"No, trust me. It'll go better if I do it. Cas, stay with your brother and…try to keep him from doing too much damage, okay?" Dean said, already heading for the door. He barely caught Cas' not and "Of course" before he was out the door. He barely had to look five seconds before he spotted Sam's lanky figure perched on the hood of the Impala, staring into the distance with a scowl on his face. Dean sighed and sat by him, prepared for the usual "I know he annoys you but he's useful to have around" speech, but Sam lifted one hand in a mute request for him to lay off, so instead Dean grabbed a couple of beers from the seat, offering one to Sam.

He arched an eyebrow, to which Dean shrugged and said "It's 2 a.m. somewhere." Sam sighed and nodded taking the beer and twisting the lid off and taking a swig. Dean followed suit, waiting until Sam was ready to talk.

After several moments, he sighed. "I know what you're going to say, Dean. I've heard it before and I know you're right."

Dean arched an eyebrow again. "Okay, so what am I going to say, Sammy?"

Sam sent him bitchface #17, the one reserved for when he was being especially irritating but Sam wasn't really in the mood to tell him so, and Dean smirked. Sam's voice dropped in what was supposedly an imitation of his older brother's as he said gruffly, "I know he irritates you, Sammy. Hell he gets on my nerves, too. But he's helping us keep under angel radar, not to mention Cas, so he's worth having around."

"I don't sound like that!" Dean objected, shoving his brother, but he was laughing as Sam rolled his eyes.

"That's how I hear you! Anyways, I know Gabriel is useful to have around. I just…wish he wasn't so antagonistic, is all. Really, a clown? That's just too much at eight in the morning." He scowled again, and Dean stifled a snicker as he thought of his brother's phobia being brought to life by Gabriel. Sam would definitely not appreciate being laughed at right now. Well, he never seemed to appreciate Dean's teasing, but he usually tolerated because he knows that it's how Dean shows affection. But right now it was probably better to wait until Sam had calmed down before he started poking fun at him.

"Yeah, his antics can be a bit much," Dean agreed, drinking his beer. Sam snorted, rolling his eyes, and threw the bottle once it was empty. They both watched it shatter on the concrete, the sun catching the glass, making it shine glaringly. Dean looked away as unpleasant memories tried to resurface. "You gonna be okay?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," Sam muttered, sighing. Dean glanced back at his younger brother, noticing for the first time the shadows under his eyes. He realized he might not be the only one who was having nightmares.

"You been sleeping okay? Other than the obnoxious wake-up calls from the archangel?" Dean added at Sam's derisive snort. Sam avoiding his eyes as he shrugged was answer enough. "What's eatin' atcha, kid?"

"It's nothing, Dean," he mumbled, glaring at the shining shards of glass. "Don't worry about it."

"The fact that you say that is proof that there's something that needs worrying about," Dean replied lightly, but his stomach was churning. God, what now? Was he dreaming about Lucifer again? Or was there some new crap to be added on to their already-way-too-full plates? Sam didn't want to talk about it, but Dean needed to know what was happening so he could do whatever needed to be done to take care of the issue. "Come on, Sam, just tell me."

"Just forget about it, Dean. Let's just go find the next case or whatever," Sam muttered, pushing off the hood and heading back to the motel room, probably to grab his bags. He was halfway there before Gabriel busted out with their stuff, practically skipping to the Impala, a bemused Castiel in his wake.

"Hiya, Samsquatch, Dean-o," he called brightly as he shoved their bags in the trunk, pushing aside all the weapons. Sam watched in irritation, because he'd spent an entire weekend developing an organizational system so everything would fit neatly in the trunk of the car and now everything was just getting shoved inside by that infuriating archangel—

"Sorry about the clown thing, Sam," Gabriel said to him conversationally, earnest honey-gold eyes meeting hazel. Dean watched, guiding Cas away from the potential confrontation by tugging on the sleeve of his trench coat, as Sam's jaw clenched, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He looked away and muttered, "Just don't do it again," and Dean sighed in relief, knowing that things would be okay as long as Gabriel kept the clown stuff to a minimum. Dean kicked the archangel as he passed, scowling, and the archangel gave an aggrieved eye-roll before looking back at Sam with wide eyes.

"I won't use your coulrophobia against you, Sam, I promise," he said, grabbing Sam's hand and—ignoring the young hunter's attempts to jerk away or the slight redness creeping up his face—latched onto his pinky. "See? Promise."

"Yeah right," Sam mumbled, yanking his hand away. "Can we just go already?" Without waiting for an answer, he got in the car and slammed the door. A moment later Gabriel was seated beside him in the back seat, Castiel was riding passenger, and Dean—of course—was driving. Tensions in the back were high as Sam glared out the window and Gabriel looked at him imploringly, knowing Sam wouldn't stay mad forever, but that was normal.

Dean was almost used to having the trouble-making archangel around, and even though he still didn't completely like him, Cas seemed to enjoy having his older brother stick around, not to mention he was helping them evade Michael and Lucifer's armies that were after them, so Dean was willing to tolerate his presence. For now, anyways. He wasn't sure how much longer Sam would put up with it, though.

"Where are we headed, Sam?" Dean asked, catching his brother's eye in the rearview mirror. Tired green met weary hazel, and they shared a moment of mutual understanding before the elder had to refocus on the road, not wanting to crash his precious baby.

"Detroit, Michigan," was all he said, prompting a frown from Dean and mystified glances from Cas and Gabe. Sam was looking out the window again, avoiding everyone's eyes, and Dean felt something uneasy settle into him.

"Why Detroit?" he asked, trying to hide his unease. He felt Cas watching him, probably sensing his disquiet, but he shook head mutely, asking Cas not to comment on it. The ex-angel held his silence and Dean exhaled quietly in relief, not quite a sigh, waiting for his brother to answer.

Sam could feel everyone's eyes on him: earnest, intent honey-gold from Gabriel; confused, serious blue from Castiel; and flickering emerald green from his brother, staring him down whenever he could afford to take his eyes off the road. It was making him twitchy, feeling like a specimen under the microscope. He could only take it for a few minutes before mumbling, "Case. Might be Pestilence."

"Alright, well, care to elaborate?" Dean prodded, wondering what was bugging him so bad.

"People dying. Puking their guts up—literally. Or procuring a multitude of diseases that overloads their immune system so it shuts down. Either way I'm pretty sure it's our kind of thing," Sam said, shrugging.

"Sounds like it. Could easily be Pestilence. What do you think?" Dean added to the angels, meeting Gabriel's eyes in the mirror and then flicking his gaze to Cas, who was frowning at his brother. After a moment they both nodded, and Cas looked back at Dean.

"We believe it is the horseman Pestilence," he confirmed. "Well, alright then. Five-hour drive to Michigan from Kentucky it is," Dean decided, stepping down on the gas pedal. The car lurched a bit as they sped ahead, and Dean couldn't help grinning a little as she purred down the highway. The startled yelp to his right, followed quickly by an amused snort and unamused grunt in the back, told him that his passengers weren't necessarily enjoying the ride as much as he was.

They coasted down the highway on the way to their next case, and Dean could only hope that it would go as smoothly as the road flying underneath baby's tires.

[A/N: Well look at that! Beginning of MTB and another chapter in the same day! I'm on a roll, guys! :D I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this for the beginning of the story but it's the best I got. How about you, though? My audience's thoughts are very important to me! Please leave a review to let me know!]

-Makky