No man of woman born, coward or brave, can shun his destiny

~William Cullen Bryant

Chapter Warnings: Deals with disturbing hell themes, violence and torture worse than chapter 1.

Chap 4

Dean had watched in silence as the young couple, John and Mary Winchester, greeted each other with a loving kiss. John then bent down and pressed his face against his wife's stomach,

"Hey there, son." Mary smiled as John got up.

"This is Dean. He needs a place to sleep," John said by way of introduction.

Mary nodded instantly, needing no further explanation. She waved him into the kitchen and asked,

"Are you hungry?"

"Um…yeah…but don't…" He began, but Mary shushed him and went about making a sandwich.

John's mouth quirked into a grin and he said with a twinkling eye, "Don't question the Missus."

"Okay," Dean responded with a grin of his own. "Wouldn't think of it."

The three Winchester's sat around the table while Dean ate his sandwich.

"So you say you're in the military on leave and you're in Lawrence because you were born here and your mother…?"

"She died here," Dean answered. "House fire."

"I'm sorry," Mary consoled. John nodded to Dean in acknowledgement of his wife's statement.

"It's okay." Dean rasped. This isn't weird at all, he thought.

Dean lay awake on the spare bed that night—which oddly was in the bedroom that would be his as a kid. The other bedroom was decked out as the nursery for the couple's first baby…for Dean, and later on would be the place where Azazel visited Sammy.

Too many memories were in the house that hadn't even happened yet, and that made it worse. It was as if he were waiting for the horrors to descend upon the home. Finally, however, the tryptophan in the turkey sandwich did its work and he dozed off.

"That's it, Dean. You're almost there, almossst one of usssss." Alastair's "s's" slithered sharply across his tongue as he enunciated the words affectionately.

Dean fell on all fours to the ground, choking out anguished sobs as he viewed the shredded mess of a soul on the rack. He'd done that. His face was red from the effort of holding the tears back; his veins bulged as he strove to suppress the torment of his soul.

"Again, Dean." Alastair commanded, now cruelly.

They'd been here before. Dean had repented the first time he'd tortured a soul, and had gone back to be tortured on the rack. Today, Alastair had brought him to the same girl, saying all the pain of the previous day was her fault. Dean had picked up the knife and begun carving again.

"Well, Dean? What'll it be?" The demon said it like it was ordering off a menu.

Dean stood up, seeing that the girl was magically whole once more. He raised the dagger and stuck the girl viciously, again and again.

"Noooo!" Dean awoke screaming, shooting up straight as a poker. He looked around him, coming to himself and remembering his location. He fell back down on the pillow panting and sweating. That was the worst dream yet. It was so vivid he thought he really was back in hell. He put a hand on his head and closed his eyes, not breathing as the darkness of the room closed in on him. Finally, he got up and went outside. It was dawn, and he could see the rising sun sharing the firmament with the waning moon in the brightening sky.

He tried to lose himself and the terrors of the night in the sight and smell of the morning.

"You okay?" John's voice came from behind him. Dean jumped and his breath hitched, startled.

"Sorry," John amended.

"Yeah…" Dean croaked. The sound startled him. It sounded like it did in hell when he'd been screaming incessantly. Shuddering, Dean wondered how much he'd screamed last night. He hadn't before, or Sammy would've told him. Even in sleep, Dean usually kept himself and the horrors coiled inside of him contained.

"The war?" John asked unobtrusively.

Dean sighed. His Dad had heard him scream.

Mary made an appearance behind John's shoulder, worried eyes flitting from Dean to her husband.

The jig was up. They knew. But that didn't mean they had to know everything,

"My Mom," Dean began, "Guess being back in Lawrence jogged memories of her death in the fire."

Mary's eyes softened and she touched John's shoulder, as if expressing their shared consolation.

"I'll put on some coffee," She said. Dean couldn't help the small smile that played on his lips. He loved his Mom. All the comfort he needed was translated into her single look and the offer of a consoling cup of coffee. No questions or demands.

"It wasn't about your mother, was it? Your nightmare?" John asked when Mary was back in the house.

"Why?"

"Because if it were about your mom, a guy like you would never have admitted to it. I think you dreamt about something far worse."

Can't get one past Dad even now, Dean thought.

"In the military, in my particular line of work…once, I went to a place…a place no one should go…" Dean stopped.

"You were captured," John supplied.

Dean licked his lips nervously…his Dad was getting just a little too close to the truth. He could read him like a book.

"Where I was imprisoned, the people…they…" Dean faltered, and then continued, "You realize it's possible for people to become worse than beasts. They get twisted and turned into something less than human, less than animal even, because they actually take pleasure in inflicting pain."

John nodded, "Yeah, it's true. I saw some things in the war. Saw men endure things..." He shook his head at the memories welling up. "But the human spirit is strong. Stronger I think than any evil…I mean, when you think about it, evil is nothing more than the absence of good, right?"

But that was what Dean what haunted Dean: Nothingness, the hole that pitted his soul. In hell he tried to escape the pain of the rack by willing himself to feel nothing. He'd tried heartlessly torturing victims when that had failed. But man cannot un-create himself. Try as he might he cannot destroy himself—his soul or his humanity. The most he can do is distort it, pervert it into something hideous. And that's what he had let Alastair do to himself. Dean opened himself wide until he was filled with nothingness, until he was empty of thought, emotion, and hope. That's when evil entered him and twisted him inside. That's when he'd laughed at the weeping bitch as he gutted her.

Alastair was different from the rest of the demons. Ruby and the others were once human and molded into monsters, but Alastair the white-eyed demon had started out as a Patriarch of the ancient followers of God, the equivalent today of a religious leader. Now he was the Master Torturer of Hell. Alastair had told Dean in his disgustingly intimate manner that the greatest saints can also be the greatest sinners. The greater potential a soul has for good, the greater also its potential for evil. That was why Dean was his favorite. His pet.

Dean's thoughts ran wild: What destiny could Castiel foresee in Dean? What could the man he now was—the broken, hollowed out soul—have anything to do with the innocent unborn child his mother carried? What had he been brought here to see?

A/N: So a rather dark chapter...hmnn. What did you think? I wanted to show the stark contrast of the beauty and love in the life around Dean and what he carried inside. It also sets the stage for the discovery his destiny. Please leave your comments! They spur me on to write harder, quicker and better. Thanks!