Disclaimer: Wherefore art thou, Supernatural ownership? Wherefore art-Ow! Stop hitting me! Stop it! Geez . . .

Warnings: Angst. So much angst. Okay, not actually that much.

Summary: Sometimes what kills you makes you stronger.

He looks into familiar hazel eyes, feels the rope that confines him to the chair digging into his skin, says, "Don't, Sammy . . ."

"It's Sam," his brother says sharply. Then, softer, "It's Sam."

"Sam, please . . ."

"I'm . . . I'm gonna get you out. You're not him," he adds. "Stop pretending. Just . . . stop."

"I am him," Dean says. He tries not to sound desperate, or heartbroken.

He doesn't really care if he fails.

"You're a demon."

"I'm your brother. I'm Dean." But he can see that it's not going to work.

"I don't believe you."

"I know, but, but Sammy, I'm still me. I'm still me," he says again, as if those will be the words to convince his brother.

(They're not.)

"Dean's not a demon," Sam says.

"You don't understand," Dean almost pleads. "Hell's not . . . it's not like here. It's longer. Time's different there. Listen to me, Sam."

His brother falters. "I-I don't . . ."

"Please," he says. "Please."

Sam exhales unsteadily. "Okay."

"I wasn't down there four months, Sam. It was decades . . . centuries before anyone pulled me out. I don't know how long I was in Hell. But, um, I know I told you I was Dean, but I'm not . . . much of him anymore. I'm still kind of him," he rushes to say. "I remember you and Dad and Bobby, I still care, I do."

Sam's eyes are filled with tears, but they don't fall.

"Something, uh, something went wrong. I think. I'm not supposed to care. But." He tries for a smile. It comes out uncertain, almost . "Look. Right?"

Sam can't answer. The words build up in his throat, but in the end, they never make it off his tongue.

"They tried to make me stop. It didn't work. Not . . . not like they thought it did. Um." He clears his throat. "They, uh, broke me. In a different way. You know I used to try and not care? Well. It didn't really work back then, at least not at first. But I ignored that. That and everything to do with feeling. Kind of." He thinks for a moment, then adds, "Hell stopped that. Made me care even more. Uh. Maybe. Just a bit." There's a slight pause. Then he says, "Trust me?"

And really, what other choice is there?

Next up: A demon's true visage is no pretty thing.

Weird Randomness!

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"I'll trust you, Dean," he says gravely. "But only if you stand on your head while dancing the polka and, at the same time, juggling three grapes with your feet."

There's a pause.

Then Dean says, "I have just one question . . ."

Sam makes 'go on' motions with his hands.

"Are those grapes organic? Because I'm not touching anything that's not organi-Sam? Where're you goin'? Sam? Sam?"

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