SUPERNATURAL

THE PARCAEX RITUAL

Note – Thanks for reading =D

Review; Tell me what you think about how I portrayed hell – I'm curious about what you think, as it's probably the most difficult thing I've had to do.

Chapter Three

He could feel them pulling.

Agony beyond anything he'd ever felt before struck Dean hard. The thick, solid chaining that held his limbs apart suddenly tightened and then, without warning, released their hold on him, disappearing up into the darkness.

But there was no freedom for Dean. Though the chains had been lifted, he was now supported solely by the meat hooks embedded in his skin and bone, and the weight of his entire body was far too large for his bone-structure to handle alone.

He felt every muscle in his body contract with horrific anticipation as the flesh was torn from his left shoulder, and his collarbone shattered beneath the retracting hook. The true extent of the pain he felt was indescribably excruciating.

Whoever saw eternal life; a life with no death as a blessing was sadly mistaken. For there would come a time in every man's eternity where they would wish for it all to end, for everything to stop and to simply pass the final phase of life, to rest in that peaceful bliss.

But when you can never die, you never do. No matter how much you want it. And so there was no consolation for Dean, however much he willed it to be possible. For in Hell, you are beyond death, beyond any means of life at all, and it would never stop. Dean wished for nothing more than to black out, to forget everything and leave it all behind, never to breathe again – he just wished for the pain to stop.

But his pleas simply echoed away into the darkness, and the hurt and torture ensued.

His attempts to resist the second meat hook were futile, for no matter how hard he pulled; he held no sway over his fate. His rib cage violently shattered into a thousand fragments and Dean wailed in anguish, tears rolling down his cheek and dripping onto his wounded shoulder.

He knew very little of Greek Mythology, but the pain of Achilles paled in comparison to the third meat hook ripping apart Dean's heel, tearing the tendon in two and utterly destroying his right ankle. He had never contemplated the actual consequences of his deal, and now that he was witnessing it first-hand, the regret was finally beginning to sink in, and the only consolation he had was that he was enduring this so that his little brother could live a full life.

The myths of hell spoke truth in many ways, except perhaps the burning pits of stakes and lava, and the little man in the red suit with horns and a pitchfork. But the torture and pain was there, perhaps even understated in some of the lore. Nonetheless, Dean was facing it head-on, forced to withstand the most infamous misery and anguish known to man.

'AARRGGH!'

'SAAAM, GET ME OUT OF HERE!'

The second meat hook in his left ankle almost took his entire foot with it, tearing the heel to shreds, and his legs suddenly dropped downwards, his body left suspended by a single hook in his right wrist.

But only for a moment.

In those few horrible seconds, Dean felt the last chain tear from his flesh and he fell – fast.

An icy breeze stabbed into him like jagged knives as he plumaged down, falling through the network of chains around him. He was in so much agony that Dean didn't even realise his lack of contact with the chains below him. It was as if he just fell right through them.

The volume of the crashing thunder rose with each passing second as he fell, the wind soaring past him, enhancing the pain in his limbs, and at that moment he knew that he was suffering the worst physical pain possibly imaginable.

On Earth, he would have been spared. His body would have shut down, or not recognise the pain because of the shock. But unfortunately, he was not on Earth, and he felt every ounce of pain.

And so he fell, for what seemed like hours on end, weeping at his pain and the cries for his brother never heard by another soul. Everything suddenly went black, he felt a sudden stop, and the thunder around him faded into nothing.

****

Dean picked himself up off the ground.

Ground.

Shocked, Dean looked at his feet, firmly pressed against the tarred surface, and sighed with extreme relief. The pain had eased, though a terrible headache lingered and it was now that Dean realised that he was supposed to be wounded.

'Holy crap.'

There was nothing. No scars, no wound – in fact, besides his mangled clothing and rough windswept look, he looked completely fine. At the memory of that pain, Dean shuddered and felt an icy chill run up his spine; he was so glad to be rid of it. But he had no time to dwell on this, for he just realised where he was – and couldn't believe his eyes.

Moving to the pavement on the edge of a road in the familiar town of Lawrence, Dean looked upon the house he had once lived in, all those years ago when this had begun.

Everything I've suffered, everything Sam has suffered – it all began here. In this house.

Tears streaked down Dean's face, and he knew in that moment that he was home again. This was where he belonged; right here, and he never wanted to leave again.

Dean did a three-sixty, surveying his surroundings, and his focus came to a young man fifty feet away.

There's no way this can be hell, he thought, starting to move towards the man, and then an idea came to his mind; an impossible idea. Am I out? Have I escaped from the pit?

At second look, Dean realised that the man before him was armed with a baseball bat, and ruthlessly devouring what looks as if it were once a vehicle – long, black and pummeled – with such force that it sent vibrations tickling at his feet.

And then he realised. 'Hey!' Dean yelled, 'That's my car!'

He stood behind the guy with a fierce anger in his eyes, 'What the hell are you doing to my car!'

But there was no reaction from the man.

'Oi!' He growled, 'Why are you-'

Dean stopped, his eyes wide and staring.

No, no way.

'Sammy?'

It was, indeed. But Sam took no notice of him; streaks of salty tears scarring his face as he wielded the bat again.

Dean, who had moved around to get a clearer view, quickly jumped out of the way as Sam aimed another blow at the windscreen. Sam still paid no attention to what Dean was saying - in fact, he didn't even seem to be ableto hear him.

Then something strange happened.

Flying shards of glass whipped past Sam as he battered the car, and one sliced across his cheek, splitting and dripping with blood. Dean gasped with unexpected pain and reached up to his own cheek. There wasn't any sign of damage, but the pain was there.

'Sam?' Dean insisted, wondering what the hell was happening, 'Sammy, stop!'

'Dean,' he mumbled, looking up at the clouds above, 'what's the point of life anymore? You've taken everything from me. It's your fault Jess died; and Dad too!'

Dean, who thought that Sam was finally acknowledging him, realised that Sam wasn't actually speaking to him. No, he was speaking to his memory, and his memory alone.

If I'm not alive, then what am I doing here? This can't be real. It just can't. Sam couldn't be saying these things - he wouldn't… Would he?

'You know, Dean,' Sam yelled again into the sky, 'I'm glad you're gone. I'm glad you're suffering. Suffer like you made this family suffer; like you made me suffer. I hope you're having one hell of a time where you are!'

Dean couldn't take this. It wasn't Sam, it just couldn't be. Taking a running jump, he dove at Sam, attempting to tackle him to the ground and knock him out of this state.

But it was in this moment, when he fell right through Sam's solid body and onto the cement, that he realised what was actually happening. He hadn't come back to life at all. He was just another spirit, doomed to walk the earth forever, watching his loved ones suffer and slowly die around him.

Does that mean… Does that mean this is real? The possibility of it made Dean sick. No, I mean, there has to be another explanation!

But this couldn't be real. This just wasn't Sam. Was he looking at an alternate reality to the one he once knew? Or was he actually glimpsing the real world through the eyes of hell?

And why am I feeling his pain?

Sam collapsed onto the pavement, the bat clattering down beside him and rolling into the gutter. He bowed his head, letting the tears flow from his eyes, dripping from his chin. 'How could you do this, Dean?' He screamed, 'How could you just leave me to die? I have nothing left – nothing to live for; nothing to work towards. Only pain.'

Dean couldn't bear to see Sam like this. He wished nothing more than to be able to contact Sam, to have some form of communication with him, to tell him that he was sorry.

'But it's not all your fault,' Sam cried, 'If I hadn't been so careless with Jake, maybe everything would have been fine. If I'd just taken that final step. But I can't help that, and…' he sniffed, 'I just can't live alone like this.'

From a holster inside his jacket, Sam pulled out a glimmering silver pistol, and as tears continued to leak from his face, splashing onto the pavement, he clenched his eyes shut, and Dean knew what he was about to do.

'Sammy,' he whispered in the obscene hope that Sam would hear him, crouching down beside him, 'Sammy, don't.' he pleaded.

Placing the gun to his temple, Sam let out his last breathe as he pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through his flesh and pierced his skull.

The blue sky above them suddenly turned to a rich red, and the earth around them reflected the sickening colour.

Dean screamed in agony, clutching his head and cradling it, rolling on the ground. The pain was utterly immense – ironically like something shooting through his skull.

Brilliant, he managed to think. The one thing worse than killing yourself with a shot to the head, is taking the same shot, feeling the pain and not dying – and of course it happened to me.

Dean pulled himself to his knees, opening his eyes to look at Sam in anguish. The blood of his brother spread across the pavement, the body lying limp and broken, drowning in it's own pool of red.

He couldn't bear to watch his brother die, and knowing that he couldn't have stopped it made it all the worse. No matter if it was real or not, this was far too visual for Dean. He didn't know how long he sat there, mourning for his brother – but he couldn't stop; it was overwhelming. The pain in his head continued, but he didn't care. The emotional pain was much worse.

He sat there, unmoving – well, that was until he saw the five burly men making their way towards him. 'Hey!' he yelled, forgetting his situation and exactly how pointless it was to speak out, 'Hey YOU! Yeah, I'm talking to you!'

Of course, they didn't hear him, and simply kept walking, stepping over the body of Sam Winchester as if it were perfectly normal. Dean looked suspiciously at the long black object two of them carried between them, taking it up towards the house.

Dean left his brother's side, and though his legs felt as if they would collapse beneath him at any second, he followed closely at the men's heels.

The five men came to an abrupt halt, and Dean almost walked into the back of them – in theory – as the house door suddenly opened and Bobby singer emerged from behind them.

What the hell? Dean thought. This was probably the last thing he had expected.

'What the hell?' Bobby questioned, looking down at the men, 'What are you doing here?'

'Get away from the house, old man.'

But of course, Bobby didn't move a muscle – except to lift his arm and point towards the black object they held in between them. 'What is that?'

'None of your business,' One of the men spat, 'now get out of our way, or we will have to hurt you.'

Oh yeah?' Bobby's lips twitched into something like a smirk, but in the next instant it was gone. 'I'd like you see you try that.'

The burly man moved forward two paces, 'Don't try to be tough, senior.'

Bobby sneered, 'Senior?'

'Don't worry, we'll arrange for you to be shipped back to the old folks home – unless of course you'd rather your ass in the pavement.' The man grinned, 'Your choice.'

Giving no heed to this, Bobby quickly scanned the background for anything suspicious. It was in this moment that he spotted Sam's body, soaked in blood and beginning the slow process into decay down in the gutter.

Bobby's eyes shot wide open in horror. 'You… you killed-?'

The five men simultaneously looked around and saw what Bobby was staring at, who took the sudden distraction to pull a pistol from his jacket and cock it. Five heads instantly whipped around at the sound.

'Why?' They were the only words that Bobby could manage to whisper.

'Why what?' The men seemed unnaturally calm whilst staring down the barrel of Bobby's pistol, two of them failed at suppressing grins. 'We didn't kill him.'

Bobby scowled, 'What are you grinning at?'

The same question was running through Dean's mind. Bobby clearly seemed to have the upper hand – if you don't think that he could take all of them at once, clearly you've never seen Bobby angry.

But what Dean could now see that Bobby couldn't were two shadows slowly emerging from the doorway.

And they had weapons.

Hence the grinning.

Bobby!' He knew that any contact attempt was futile, but it burst out purely on natural instinct, 'Look out behind you!'

In just a few short instants, one of the men had pulled out a knife and then pounced onto Bobby from behind, holding it to his throat. Bobby struggled for a moment before attempting to disarm the man behind him, but the second figure revealed a crow bar and swung it violently into Bobby's shins. Dean not only heard the sickening crack of broken bones and his friend's screech of pain, but also collapsed into the turf beneath him as he felt the excruciating pain in his own legs.

But he soon realised, again, that it hadn't left a mark. No bones had been broken; he simply felt the pain. But there was nothing simple about the pain. It was agony. Terrible, unbearable, intolerable agony.

Dean looked up to see Bobby struggle, attempting to limp for a moment before slumping to the floor and moaning.

'No! Not you too! Come on,' Dean literally pulled himself across the ground closer to the body. 'Don't do this to me, Bobby!'

After a moment of satisfaction with their work, two of the men took Bobby's feet in their hands and dragged his body up and through the house. Another man pocketed the gun and grinned at the wailing from Bobby as they tortured his broken shins.

Dragging him up the stairs, they had not an ounce of consideration for Bobby; they simply seemed to enjoy torturing him. Dean knew that if Bobby weren't careful, he'd wind up with a broken neck as well.

This can't be real, Dean thought, wincing at the slight head-pains. But if it is… Are they demons?

Dean, who could walk perfectly fine, followed closely at the backs of the five men as they dragged Bobby's body up the stairs, across the wooden floorboards and into one of the bedrooms.

Dean winced twice during this process as his back prickled with sudden pain.

Splinters, he deduced.

And where's the pain in my shin gone? And my cheek? It shouldn't have disappeared that quickly.

He frowned. Looking himself up and down, he realised that he simply felt the pain, but it didn't last as long as Bobby's would due to the relieving fact that he wasn't physically affected at all. Which also raised the question of how he was feeling the pain in the first place.

Probably just another example of Hells' brilliant hospitality, he sneered. Spacious, too.

Dean followed the men into the bedroom, and one of them shut the door – conveniently having left time for Dean to enter the room before doing so.

It only took a few seconds and two small glances around the room to make him feel nauseous and almost pass out with shock.

The men dragged Bobby into a corner and lay him there against the wall, ignoring his continuous moans and pleadings. They dumped the long black object beside Bobby. It was now that Dean realised that it was a bag. Whatever it contained he bet wouldn't be good news for Bobby.

…Or the other three people tied up across the length of the wall behind Bobby, blindfolded too.

Dean knew that nobody could see him, so he ran over and crouched beside the victim closest to him. He recognised her without difficulty – a woman of at least forty, but her former toughness had long escaped her. It was as if Ellen Harvelle was sitting patiently, just waiting for the end to come. Her entire body was marked with bruises as if she'd been battered repeatedly with something metallic. It was a horrific sight.

Moving across, Ellen had her back leaning against another female. This one had dark-skin and long black curls – a girl that Dean once knew, a long time ago.

'No way.' But a closer look confirmed it. Yes way.

Cassie.

A tear fell from his close eyelids as Dean bowed his head. The last time he'd seen Cassie Robinson was almost two years ago, during a job in Missouri involving a violent killer truck. It was a strange sight, to come back into the real world so unexpectedly and come face-to-face with the one girl he'd ever truly loved.

Dean knew who the final person was the second he saw the thin blonde hair dangling around her shoulders. She, to whom Bobby was now being tied, had last come into contact with him whilst being assaulted by a sick demon possessing his brother. Jo Harvelle sat quietly, her head bowed and her lips whispering something that Dean could not hear. It seemed as if she was performing a ritual of some sort; just without any of the objects needed.

It was then that Dean realised that she was saying a prayer.

On the other side of Bobby, Dean took proper notice of the long black object sitting on the floor, and suddenly realised what it was a bag for.

A body bag.

But whatever – or whoever – was inside certainly was not dead, for he could see it moving; squirming as if insufficiently searching for a way out.

The men unveiled the cover of the bag, and as they pulled the fifth captive out and pushed her against the wall, Dean recognised the fearful face.

Sarah-Blake - the woman who Sam had fallen for all those months ago whilst investigating a murderous portrait, whom Dean specifically remembered asking Sam to marry at one point - was thrown face-first onto the floor with her hands tied behind her back, and then pushed into a corner where they strapped her to a chair, sick grins on their faces.

He didn't care if it was real or not; the sorrow he felt for all the people he'd ever loved was extraordinarily deep, and just the sight of their pain no matter if it was truly them was utterly heart-wrenching.

Taking a second chair, the captors heaved Cassie into it, pushing her into a second corner and began focusing their attention on her.

The men, who scarily seemed to know exactly what they were doing, sedated her through a syringe to the forearm, then untied her and lay her on the table perched in the center of the room.

Dean felt numbness within his skin, which he suspected was part of his oh-so-brilliant ability to take loved ones pain – and not be actually sedated in the process of course.

One of the men pulled out a long, glistening silver blade – another unveiling a 45' hand-pistol fitted with a silencer.

What the…?

'Oh, hell no.' Dean suddenly realised what they were about to do. 'Come on, aren't I in enough pain, already?'

One of the men laughed.

Dean looked around, suspiciously searching for their source of amusement.

'You can hear me?'

The man turned to stare directly at Dean, not speaking, just smiling menacingly. He then pulled the knife close to Cassie's chest and slashed a wide, gaping wound in her stomach.

Dean winced in preparation and anticipation of the pain – but it didn't come. The men just continued to smile, and he slashed again across Cassie's chest. But she didn't feel a thing; she was completely out of it.

Dean slowly moved into clearer view of what they were doing. Coordinated inflictions across her bare stomach, deeper each time, revealing something of a symbol, and whatever it meant Dean bet it wasn't pretty.

Why aren't I feeling her pain? Wasn't I supposed to? Is it only Sam and Bobby that I'm "connected" to?

But, as always, the answer simply came to him. Another syringe, another stab, another drug injection and suddenly Dean realised what they were now doing.

They were waking her up.

First the sedative, and now a counter-drug to reawaken her.

Oh, just great.

Cassie's eyes shot open in terror, screaming at the top of her lungs, wailing in agony as blood oozed from her wounds and dripped off the table, sinking through the floorboards.

Dean collapsed where he stood, clutching his stomach and gasping for air on the ground, hyperventilating at this sudden shockwave of pain, shooting across his stomach. But it wasn't going to get any easier.

The second man approached the table, cocking his pistol and holding it against her legs.

'You sick monster,' Dean groaned, 'You take enjoyment out of this?'

He ignored his statement, but Dean was sure that he saw a flicker of satisfaction upon the man's face.

'Please, no!' Cassie begged, 'Leave me alone! Don't do this,' she whimpered.

Sobbing, Dean could only watch as the trigger was pulled and tears rolled down Cassie cheeks, her wails of pain powerless to save her as the bullet wedged itself in her shin.

Dean cried out in shock as – for the second time in ten minutes – he felt the pain of a bullet wedge itself into his bone, only without the bullet. There was no drowning of the pain due to shock, or nearby morphine to absorb it. No, he just sat there, moaning in agony and wishing that he was dead – that he was really, truly dead – and not spending an eternity of suffering within this hole.

What hurt much more than the mentally physical pain throbbing in his body, was watching his loved ones suffer, and knowing exactly the pain they were feeling.

That is the true horror of hell.

Crying out for help, he knew that nobody could hear him. Nobody ever would, and he just couldn't take it anymore – not that he had a choice.

Picking himself up off the ground, he ran to the door, Cassie's screams echoing through his mind, piercing his eardrums with chronic pain as he attempted to pull at the handle.

But he just couldn't do it. His hand slipped right through it. But Dean being Dean, he always had an intellectually brilliant plan devised to back it up.

Yeah, right.

Taking a run-up, he threw himself from the ground at the wall. The feeling of movement through something inanimate was cold and icy, like passing through dimensions themselves, and he felt nauseous for that split second of a moment.

As he had hoped, Dean fell right through the wall, landing on the rough floorboards beyond – and looking up again.

'Damn it.'

Pouting, Dean picked himself up off the floor and confirmed that he'd landed back in the same room. In a sudden burst of anger, he beat the floor with his fist – the one place he could physically touch.

His mind was overcome with the pain of watching his friends and family suffer – to literally feel their pain as they slowly died before his eyes. Anger overcame his senses, and no matter how much it pained his knuckles; no matter how many times he felt his fingers break in his mind, he just continued pounding the wooden floorboard.

The sudden deepened cries indicated that Cassie had now been taken off the chopping block – only now she'd been replaced by what sounded like Ellen. Dean didn't dare look up, didn't dare to see what became of her. But he knew that she was in terrible agony, both by the intense wailing and the pain that shot through his veins to mimic it.

After a strong surge of pain, Dean continued to lash out at the floor, again and again. He hit harder and faster increasingly, wishing that he could just block out the pain, get out of that dreaded room and away from his family's suffering. After a loud snap, Dean opened his eyes, looking down and realising what he'd just done.

He'd put a crack in the floor.

And instantly his brain began to function properly again at this small glimmer of hope. He was upstairs in what was once his parent's bedroom, only a makeshift surgery table had replaced the white bedspread. The floor, being the only thing that his lifeless form could physically come into contact with, then…

It's worth a shot, he thought to himself. Here we go, Dean.

Focusing his anger and rage again, he allowed himself to become immersed in the screams echoing from behind him, filling his lungs with hate and despise as he swung at the floor, hitting it with tremendous force, slowly breaking through the layers of wood that kept him sealed within this hell-hole.

And, to his thrill, the floor began to fall inwards, a small gap protruding through the floors, and with a final kick a small section collapsed. Dean allowed himself to fall with the momentum, crashing through the ceiling of the first floor at his old home and once again, his mind went blank.

He didn't feel himself hit the floor.

****

By the time the sun had risen Sam and Bobby were already halfway through Kansas, roaring down the Interstate 35 at a hundred and twenty miles per hour, taking full advantage of the absence of cars.

Their logic was simple: No cars means no people. No people means no cops. And when there are no cops…

Boys, start your engines.

At their speed, they would reach Kansas within four hours, but since Bobby had been at the wheel since Arkansas, the two of them agreed to switch positions soon. Lawrence lay northeast of Arkansas, and only forty miles from Kansas City, of which, oddly, only half was actually in the Kansas state – It sat on the border between Kansas and Missouri.

Sam, in the passenger seat, sat reading through his father's old journal again – another item the car hadn't been stripped of – hoping to find some hint of the Manuscripts in all of John's works.

Of course, he found nothing, but he did notice something else that he had never understood before now.

It was a newspaper article, dated ten years back and headlined - "Talbot Fortune Inherited".

Curious, Sam began reading the article:

On the 26th of February earlier this year, Millionaires Albert and Nancy Talbot lost their lives in a horrific accident at Highway 30. Their car was travelling down East-Pacific road, ten miles from the nearest town, when they lost control and left the road. The couple died instantly, a large fire engulfing both their bodies…

Sam skipped forward a few paragraphs.

…The Police released the coroner's report two weeks later, concluding that the brakes had been cut, but no further investigation has been made, as the Police have no leads on who might have sabotaged the vehicle…

…The rich couple left no will, and so all their possessions were passed on to their only daughter, Abby Talbot, who inherited their vast fortune at the young age of Fourteen. The media swarmed over this story, and theories erupted everywhere about how the couple really died…

Sam looked up. It had been there, right in front of their noses the entire time. The history of Bela had lain inside their dad's journal, but they had never taken any proper notice of it. Bela was killed only a few weeks ago after giving them the information abut Lilith. She had struck a deal with the crossroads demon, exactly as Dean had done, and was given ten years to live in return for the Demon to kill her parents, who had sexually abused her as a child.

In the months before her death, Bela stole the colt from him and Dean, selling it to Lilith in exchange for the deal to be cancelled, but less than a week before she was due to expire, the contract was changed, and Lilith told her that she would have to kill him to stay alive. Only minutes before she died, they had led her into a trap, making her believe that he was in an apartment in New Harmony.

It was her dying breaths that had given them the information they needed to save Dean from his deal, but in the end it just wasn't enough, and Dean followed Bela into the pit.

Though she had caused them so much trouble, Sam couldn't help but feel minutely sorry for her. She didn't deserve what had come to her, no matter what she had done. He remembered the last words that Dean had spoken to her with barely a minute to go until her time ran out. 'See you in Hell.'

Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, Sam wondered what would happen if Dean actually met Bela in that horrible place. He wasn't sure whether it would the circumstance would be good or bad, and his last thought before he drifted into an uneasy sleep was of the times to come, where everything could depend on him to save not only his brother, but the entire world.

****

'Dean.'

At first Dean took no notice of the faint echo invading his mind, ignoring the interruption on his unconscious bliss. The blackness was peaceful – almost dreamlike, but

from what he'd already experienced, he knew that sleep wasn't something so easy to come by in a place like this.

'Dean,' the voice called again, heavily accented and anxious, 'Come on, Dean, wake up.'

Dean returned to reality, but kept his eyes shut; the pain burning the rim of his skull becoming apparent once more. Groaning, he forced himself to open his eyes, glimpsing a familiar person standing over him. The figure had long, thin brown hair, bright green eyes and a strong British accent that Dean would have recognised anywhere – figuratively speaking, for he only realised who the person actually was once his eyes had adjusted to the light.

'Bela?'

She grinned, 'Abby, actually.'

'Oh god, I must be dreaming.'

'First of all,' she said, 'There is no God where we are. And secondly: I say good luck to you with that dream thing – many of the souls down here haven't slept for decades; even centuries.'

Dean looked up at her, both exceptionally glad that he was actually able to actually communicate with somebody and withholding his rage upon the woman who had stolen his only chance of saving himself and thus dooming him to an eternity in here.

Looking around, he didn't recognise any of his surroundings. He rubbed his forehead and frowned, 'We're not in Kansas anymore?'

'It's good to see you too, Dean.'

'Where are we?'

Bela looked down at him in amusement, 'What, no hug?'

Dean moaned as he pulled himself off the ground and stood next to her. Unlike what he remembered, Bela was a complete mess. She looked oddly vagrant - dirty, bruised, didn't smell as if she'd showered in years and her hair stuck up all over the place.

'Where are we?' Dean repeated, 'and how did I get here from Kansas?'

'If I tell you that, what are you going to give me in return?'

'Give – 'Dean scowled, 'I swear, if you don't tell me-'

'Careful Dean, or you're going to break something.'

'What do you want?' he spat. 'Always the same, aren't you?'

Bela forced a laugh. 'And to you too – you're always the womaniser.'

'You want my foot down your throat?'

'Relax, Dean, I'm kidding. If you really need to know, we're in New Harmony, Indiana.'

'And how…?'

Bela shrugged, 'I don't know. I just found you lying on the ground.'

'Brilliant,' Dean growled. 'What the hell is happening here?'

'Exactly what you just said. Hell is happening here.' She sighed, 'Trust me, you haven't seen anything yet. Very soon you'll be getting a full spoonful of what Hell can really do.'

Dean gulped, 'I watched Sam die.'

'Dean, listen to me,' Bela demanded. 'This is not the real world. This is nothing like it. Whatever you saw, it isn't real, just something you've been made to believe. Trust me, I've seen many things of my own this past week; unimaginable things.'

Dean glared at her. 'You've never loved anybody in your entire life – you've always been a simple, selfish bitch. I doubt anything you saw was even close to what I've been through.'

Bela looked down at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes. 'You have no idea what terrors this place truly holds, Dean,' she whispered. 'You don't need to see loved ones die for them to torture you. They have other ways.'

Dean said nothing, just continued to glower at her with that piercing stare. In the past twenty-four hours he had suffered the worst pains anybody could possibly bear, and it was eating him up inside; he felt true fear swelling inside him as he thought about it.

'Dean, stop being such a wuss.'

In his anger, Dean pushed her aside and strode forward a few paces, 'A wuss, huh?' he stopped in his tracks, turning to look at her, 'Tell me, what have you been through that could possibly be worse than what I have?'

Bela refused to answer, shaking her head at his insolence. 'Shut up Dean. You know, I could just leave you here to be tortured for the rest of eternity, or you could stop trying to prove yourself better than me and just listen.'

He stopped, and slowly walked back to her, sighing. Calming himself down, he thought of something. 'Bela?'

'Hmm?'

'Have you seen anybody else while you've been here?'

Bela suddenly became interested in her shoes again. 'Yes,' she whispered, 'I've seen many. There are souls that have been trapped down here for centuries, wandering the streets at night.'

'Wandering?'

Bela nodded, 'Dean, if they find you – well lets just say that you haven't seen it all yet.'

'What-?'

'Come,' she beckoned, interrupting him, 'We should find somewhere to stay; it's not safe here, ever. The population of Hell is made up of mostly the worst of the worst kinds of people. Suicidal maniacs, vicious murderers – that sort. Their souls are not easily put to rest.'

Dean nodded slowly, understanding. 'One more thing,' he gulped, wondering whether to raise the question. In the end he decided it was worth a shot. 'Have you seen my father?'

Bela looked around nervously and then pulled her face right up to his. 'You must learn that it is not safe to speak of his name down here,' she insisted.

Dean was puzzled. 'Why?'

'There are many souls down here that despise the name of John Winchester.'

Dean still didn't understand, and Bela groaned. 'Dean, you know what your father did for a living. He sent hundreds, maybe thousands of creatures to this dreaded place in his lifetime – and until you now, he's the only major hunter ever to end up down here. I bet they would love to get their hands on either of you, if they were given that opportunity.'

This he understood. It made sense, but still didn't answer his original question. He decided to leave it for now. 'What about that place?' he asked, 'the place I was held before I came down here. What was that?'

She grabbed his arm nervously and began striding away, 'Honestly, I don't know. But there are many things for you; for us to learn about Hell, and from here it will only get worse.'

'What could be worse than what I've already been thorough, Bela?' He growled, pulling his arm free and standing his ground defiantly. 'I've had my bones plucked out of me by some freak-job set of hooks, seen old friends tortured right in front of me and screaming their lungs out, my own brother blowing himself away only inches from me – and you think there's worse?'

The look in her eyes was neutral, unchanging; she just stood and looked directly into his, and whispered softly, 'You will see, Dean.'

'You will see.'Thanks for reading - Hope you enjoyed =D

I'll post another after reviews =P