Another chapter because, hey, it's Sunday! Thanks to all of you who read and review this story, I just can't say it too often! I'm so flattterd!

Warnings for some cruel hellish moments. Be prepared.

Chapter 08

It had something archaic and at the same time something oddly calming. Ruminant.

The cool blade eating it's way through the protecting bark to cut into the vulnerable insides of the doomed twig. At least one of them down here was allowed to die. For good.

He remembered doing this before. He remembered a river, mountains, the whole nine yards nature offered, a place that was so rarely visited by them, let alone used for precious spare time that was so badly needed, but seldom granted in their line of business and with the type of guy their father was.

He remembered Sammy wading through the current, his jeans turned up to his knees, trying to catch something with a makeshift fishing rod. It was a good one, he himself had lend his little brother his support while Sam had built it, but unfortunately a perfectly tinkered fishing rod wasn't very useful in the hands of an impatient 10 year old. Not that there was a chance Sam would catch a fish in the raging river, but why ruin the illusion?

He remembered a smile on his face at Sammy's swearing and cursing and he lowered his gaze, continued his work on the stake, the sharp blade running over the wood like smoothly.

It was a perfect moment, a perfect memory, a bright small stone in the dull tessellation that was his life. It hurt like a mother when the sun suddenly darkened, his surroundings faded, the rushing of the river turned into screams and the sizzling of flesh.

Because this was one of oh so many parts of hell. It showed you what you once had. Only to rip it violently from your grasp. Fire and blades to kill the body. Memories to kill the soul.

Dean watched the twig in his hands blacken and crumble to ash, his face crunching up in pain and sorrow only briefly before he pushed his emotions back and his features hardened again.

You know the drill, you've been here long enough.

"Please."

He stared at the ashes of the twig in his open palm, watched as it was blown away from the hot breeze that seemed to be his constant companion, tilted his hand to help the remnants find their freedom.

"Please...oh God..."

The blade was heavy, but the hilt fit into his fist as if made especially for him.

"Please..."

"Stop pleading", Dean growled, and he looked up from his sitting position on top of the dark solid rock he had settled himself on, the rock from his memories, warmed by the sun, smoothed by hundreds of years of river water.

He let his eyes wander over the man's body, his clothes that hung in tatters from his cadaverous limbs been a rather fine suit once, now a torn patchwork rug drenched in blood, sweat and tears. The chains that held him had scraped his wrists raw, the blood that ran freely down his arms mixing up with the wounds that graced his chest and stomach.

"Why did you do it?" Dean asked, almost whispered, his voice a dangerous canon of scorn and serenity.

The man breathed heavily, tilting his head slightly, "Do what? Please…I…"

"I said, stop pleading." Lower. Quieter. Menacingly. "Why did you do it? You threw it away, you threw everything away, just like that. A life many people would have envied you for."

His captive shook his head frantically, "No...you don't understand...it was the only way...I made a mistake and my life would have been over anyway...and my wife, my...my kids...they would have paid for my mistakes, too...this was the only way...".

Dean narrowed his eyes at the stammering, agitated man in front of him.

"Listen", the desperate bundle said, "I never did anything wrong. I didn't harm anyone or anything. I...I don't even know why I'm here..."

"You killed yourself, Mike, tell me where you thought you'd end?" Dean asked in an amused tone. He raised from his rock, warm, smooth, and eyed his knife, ran his thumb over the sharp edge, watching in mild fascination as his blood began to push out from the fresh cut.

"Please..."

Dean was fast, always had been, always would be, and down here it was almost magical how fast and gracefully he moved. Almost supernatural. So the surprised outcry that erupted from Mike's chapped lips was actually entitled when he found himself quite suddenly face to face with Dean, their noses almost touching, the tip of the knife placed right between his eyes, prickling him.

"Which part of 'Stop. Pleading.' didn't you get?" Dean whispered viciously, drilling the knife lightly into his captive's skin.

"Please...NO, no...I mean...let's talk about this, man, okay? Okay?" Mike stammered, tears streaming down his scrunched up face, the chains holding him jangling due to their strain of keeping the flailing man from moving.

"We've been seeing each other on a daily basis for almost a week now, Mikey", Dean laughed, "How often did we talk about anything?"

"Uh...we talked, right? We talked a lot...I told you about my family...all that...we talk a lot..."

"I'm not good with talking, you know. I'm a man of action." He cocked his head like an artist admiring a piece of clay he would soon set his hands on to form his own magnum opus, "I wonder how much strength I need to push this baby into your brain."

"No...no..."

"The skin's no problem, the skull...huh, should crack at some point, and the brain, in case there is one in there..." he knocked against the side of Mike's head with his left, "...might feel like..."

Dean froze when a hand closed around his right wrist, gripping him loosely.

"Don't do this...", Mike pleaded, crying, hyperventilating, beside himself with fear, "Nonononono..."

Dark green eyes widened while darting from Mike's face to his wrist and along the hand gripping it, the glare turning into a look of confusion.

How had Mike managed to get his left arm free of the chains?

"I could help you...be your apprentice or something...you don't have to do this...please..."

Mike's grip on Dean's wrist was gentle, however, there was a numbing sensation radiating from the touch, Dean's skin cooling rapidly.

"Let me go", Dean snarled, trying to pry the offending hand loose, "Take your hand off, NOW!"

"Look at me...you're not evil...I can see it...you're a good man...please...please...have mercy..." Mike had left the building, it seemed, the desperate rambling accompanied by glassy, unseeing eyes, his right arm still in chains, jangling, jarring, his left one clinging to Dean's wrist.

"Let go!" Coldness made way for desperation and Dean tried to fight his captured hand and wrist free with all his might, the numbness shifting into pain, causing him to drop the knife.

"...not again...don't...not again...please..."

God he hurt, how was this possible, he couldn't move his arm anymore...

"Please...no more..."

Shut up and let me go!

"Please..."

Please, goddamnit!

"...Yo, get up…the early bird catches the worm..."

It felt as if he should have jumped up at least five feet from the mattress when he woke. In effect, the only thing that jumped was his heart, feeling like an astray rubber ball in his chest, every single heartbeat causing the room to quake.

The second awareness had found it's way back to him, Dean tore his eyes open, blinking, looking around in confusion, not daring to move anything else except his eyeballs. When he saw the silhouette at the cell door window he almost cried out.

"Doesn't look very healthy, that sleeping position of yours", the silhouette said and banged against the window, "Rise and shine, Rodgers. Morning wash in 30."

Dean watched it vanish from the window, still not moving, the bright sunlight hurting his tired eyes. He blinked, still staring at the now bright white window, closed his mouth, surprised that it had been open in the first place, noticing the small puddle of drool he had his cheek pressed in.

He wanted to calm himself. Wanted to tell himself that it had been just a dream, that Mike was some delusional character from his troubled mind, fading together with the rest of the cobwebs until there was nothing left.

But Mike wouldn't disappear. Wouldn't fade.

No dream, Dean. No dream.

His right arm began to throb and it was then when he noticed the pain. The same pain he had felt back there with Mike.

He let out a low moan, tried to pull the hurting, dead limb up to check it, realizing that it was buried underneath him.

He had slept on it probably half of the night.

With a grunt, Dean pushed himself up on a shaky elbows, pulled his arm out from beneath him and dropped back onto the mattress, letting his right dangle from the mattress, waiting for the inevitable needles and pins.

He closed his eyes, too tired, too exhausted, grief, shame, dread pressing down on him, squashing him. The dreams he had since he came here were different – more intense, real, they hurt in ways only the real past had hurt. He didn't know why it was Mike who appeared every damn time, why it were the moments with the desperate banker that popped up every time Dean closed his eyes. Mike had been nothing special, just a a poor devil that had taken his life after a few of his business dealings had turned belly-up. Dean hadn't been more brutal or more creative with him. And yet, it was his face waiting behind the windows of this godforsaken facility.

Dean winced as his arm began to tingle and the pain increased once more, the feeling reappearing with vengeance, like a truck driving over his forearm and hand back and forth.

His eyes opened to mere slits and he looked over to the window again.

He could have sworn he had seen Mike out there last night. Or was he already asleep? Drifting maybe, somewhere in between, the dream of hell and the reality of this room melting together? The drugs, maybe?

Slide. Beep. Click. This time there was no face in the window. Just another blurred silhouette which had at least the decency to knock before it entered.

"Hey Dean", the blur said, the voice gentle, the volume subdued, "Dean? Is everything okay?"

Phillip, Dean thought, the urge to jump up and embrace the man and never let him go overwhelming, causing him to open his eyes again, this time focusing on the nurse.

Phillip stepped closer and knelt down in front of Dean, laying a hand on his back and shaking him softly, "Dean? You with me?"

Oh, how he wanted to spill his guts right here and now, bawl like a baby, wallow in self-pity, beg for a freakin' lobotomy to get rid of those memories, faces, voices...

I wish I were...but I think I'm lost...

"Yes", Dean rasped, licking his lips, for the first time noticing the incredible thirst that had waited patiently in the back for his senses to return. He pulled his still throbbing and tingling arm up and tried to push himself into a sitting position, failing miserably.

What the hell was wrong with him?

"Wait, wait, stay down", Phillip stopped him and pushed him onto his side instead, "Are you sick? Dizzy?" The nurse grabbed his unbandaged wrist and felt his pulse, his worried gaze darting from his wristwatch to Dean's face.

"I'm okay, Phillip", Dean reassured, clearing his throat, "Really, I just had weird dreams, that's all. And my arm fell asleep, nothing to worry about."

"Which one?"

Dean stopped himself from rolling his eyes and waved his right arm, which Phillip grasped immediately, checking it.

"Something wrong with the wrist?" he asked, "Shall we take you to the hospital ward, check the stitches?"

"No, really, it's okay, Phil, you can let it go..."

Let me go, take your hand off, NOW!

He slammed his eyes shut again and shook his head slightly, fighting the urge to yank his arm from Phillip's examination.

"Dean?"

"I just need...something to eat, I guess. I'll be as good as new", Dean said, managing a smile that was only a creeping current compared to his usual 10.000 watt smile. He pulled his arm close carefully, relieved that no one was touching him at the moment, and sat up, trying to hide his reaction to the wave of nausea that washed over him.

"When was the last time you ate?" Phillip asked him, and from the look on his face Dean could tell the man was highly suspicious.

"Dinner, yesterday..."

"You had coffee for dinner, Dean. I won't ask why someone has coffee for dinner but I will ask why you don't eat. So?"

Dean snorted. "So Griffin reports my order of courses to you?"

"That's his job."

"Well, that's cute, at least one part of his job he does strictly to rule."

Phillip let out a sigh and ran a hand over his face, and it was that unfamiliar gesture that told Dean something was off with the man today.

"How about we do some role playing", Dean suggested and tilted his head, "I'm the therapist, you're the patient and you tell me what's bugging you today."

At that Phillip barked out a laugh, but even that was lacking the normal lightness it normally had.

"Interesting idea, but I'll pass...although, I could assume your role and say: I'm fine, it's nothing."

Dean smiled the first genuine smile since he woke up and took a good look at Phillip. He was pale, he was shaky and nervous.

"Come on, time for a shower and a clean shave", Phillip stated, obviously uncomfortable under Dean's prying eyes and stood, his knee cap cracking in the process.

"No powers of persuasion needed!" Dean exclaimed, feeling his spirits revive at the thought of hot water and a tool to get rid of the uncontrolled growth on his face.

It was ridiculous how much of a luxury some things became when you had to go without it for some time. You were suddenly able to block out everything.

So Dean gave a rat's ass over the fact that Phillip kept guard for him in the washroom, leaning against one of the basins, discreetly counting the tiles on the floor while Dean himself relished the long overdue shower. Both palms planted against the wall, Dean let the water ease his tension, felt it run down his back along locked muscles, like a river rushing through a long dried riverbed.

He needed to talk to Sam. Had to let him know that there might be a demon in here.

Talk to him about those dreams and hallucinations, maybe?

No. No way would he tell Sam. The kid had his hands full already getting him out of here, too much mental hygiene would just...annoy him.

Because this was what Dean's spilling sessions did – they annoyed Sam. At least this was the impression he got. Funny, wasn't it Sam who always wanted to talk, Come on, Dean, talk to me, man, what's going on in that mind of yours, huh?, who always ran around wearing his heart on his sleeve?

Oh yeah, right, the old Sam had done that. The old Sam who had killed demons rather than bang them, the old Sam who wanted to talk and talk and talk and not kill any evil son of a bitch because it wasn't right, even if said son of a bitch was about to rip his geeky head off.

That Sam had died along with Dean. Had been torn to shreds right along with his chest and intestines and all that stuff, had oozed away into the carpet that night along with his life blood.

So no, he wouldn't burden Sam with the dreams that seemed to suck him dry like a leech, with the imaginary people he had tortured in hell popping up like gas bubbles, scaring him, driving him crazy ever so slowly.

Crumbs, Dean.

He would give him crumbs. There was a demon to chase. And there was a big brother to get out. That was enough to chew on.

Dean turned off the water, reluctantly, because he was cold and still tensed up, but he was sure Phillip's throat-clearing concert from the other room wasn't coincidence. Wrapped into a towel he strolled over to where his watchdog already waved a disposable razor and shaving cream at him.

"Can I trust you not to cut through your carotid or mine with this?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at Dean.

"Don't worry, Phil, bleeding out isn't my preferred way to leave", Dean replied, snatching the items from his attendant and set to work.

"No? Which way do you prefer?"

Dean smirked, keeping eye contact over the mirror, "Is this a session, doc?"

Phillip raised his hand in a placating manner, "Nope, sorry, just some mind candy to make the time fly. It's okay, you don't have to answer to that." He lowered his gaze, seemed to count the tiles again and once again Dean noticed the nervousness that radiated from the man, the way he toed something on the floor that wasn't there.

"So, half day off yesterday, huh?" Dean asked casually, running the sharp razor down his cheek, his eyes darting from his to Phillip's reflection.

Let's see if he was able to get to the bottom of the other man's unease.

"Yeah", Phillip replied wearily, "We moved into a house yesterday. You know the old train station just outside town? Ate up my whole savings that wrecked thing, but now it's ours. We spent the last months fixing it up, it's still far away from being cosy, but you have to spend your time with something, right?" While he talked, Phillip's face switched from beaming with joy to wincing in anguish ever so slightly.

"You don't like it?" Dean asked, still casually.

"What? No! Yes, I like it, I do...I...well...it's been a long night, that's all..."

"Long night? Why's that? If you don't mind asking, that is."

Phillip began to chew on his fingernails. A small, insane idea flashed up in Dean's head. Old train station. Been vacant for a long period of time. Long night?

Aw, come on.

"You know old houses", Phillip spoke up, waving a dismissive hand, trying to sound composed, "they're creaking and groaning and all that stuff. You think you hear voices, but it's just the wind and the floor boards."

Dean urged his razor hand to keep on shaving while the cogs in his brain were already turning like windmills in a storm. He had hoped Phillip had had an argument with his wife. Or problems with the payment of some invoices. Or stress.

His hunter instincts told him otherwise.

"Don't forget about all the cold spots", he remarked, watching Phillip carefully.

The other man looked up, confused. He scrutinized Dean for a moment. And nodded slowly. "Yeah. I never...I've never heard of something like this but there were indeed a few last night...like invisible clouds, and you can even see your breath sometimes. And in the next second they're gone again." He stared into nothingness before he shrugged. "Well, there's a lot to seal air-tight, I guess. Can't have all the cold air slip in, huh?"

He smiled a nervous smile that Dean returned, not as nervous, but slightly anxious. "That's were you're right", the Winchester agreed, finishing his shaving quickly.

He needed to talk to Sam.

To be continued...