A/N: Same stuff applies as in the first chapter. Oh, and unfortunately I neither own Supernatural nor Dark Angel. Just this.
A/N part two: Just a brief warning: the first part of this chapter gets kind of graphic. So heads up.
A/N part three: Specific episodes of Supernatural mentioned are: "Pilot," "Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things," "All Hell Breaks Loose, Part II," "Dream a Little Dream of Me," "No Rest for the Wicked," "Heaven and Hell," and a few lines from "Wishful Thinking" and "On the Head of a Pin." Specific episodes of Dark Angel mentioned are: "The Berrisford Agenda."
Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter XXIII: I Could Still Dream, Even in Hell
A new day dawns in Hell—December 13, 2047, Dean hazily notes—the weak sun crawling barely past the rippling horizon, casting a sienna glow over the landscape of the Underworld. It's not a particularly terrible landscape, Dean had figured out a few days into his stint here. The first ones were, certainly, being a processing stage of sorts, Dean fastened into it by meathooks through his shoulders while whomever handled the affairs of Hell slowly got around to admitting him. While he waits for his body to regenerate from its marrow-deep burns and the same routine to start once more, his mind flickers back thirty-nine long, sadistic years.
When the time arises for Dean to be done hanging in that sinister Limbo, a horrific sort of shapeless being appears in front of him, and in eerie silence grasps the hooks and rips them out. Dean falls, and for more moments than he'd like thinks that maybe this is what he was relegated to endure: falling for eternity in an endless pit.
But it isn't to be—before long, Dean slams into ground, an odd, unearthly amalgamation between cement, packed dirt, and glass. He's bleeding freely from the large chunks taken out of his skin, and he knows his cheekbone is shattered and a couple of ribs are broken or out of place, and really, he has no inclination of getting up.
Of course, the demons haven't intent of abiding by his wishes. He's on the ground for no more than half a minute before he's flung backwards, his back hitting hard metal. His hands are slammed upwards and his legs are forced apart, wrists and ankles shackled into too-tight chains by an unseen force. He looks up with all the strength of a dying cancer patient, and is presented with some…thing else, though one similar to whatever it was that tossed Dean from the processing down to what he now assumes is Hell proper.
This one has more shape, he supposes, than the last, the swirling mix of fog and charcoal smoke in the shape of a man, the eyes a burning white. He can only presume that this is a high-ranking demon, judging by the eyes alone. It isn't Lilith, he knows that, yet he has the same color eyes as she does, the same uniform ivory. Dean would prefer the black of normal demons. Hell, he'd prefer yellow ones. At least those sons of bitches he knows how to kill. Ones like Lilith…well. Look how fantastic his attempt to kill her turned out.
"Dean Winchester" are the first two words the demon utters, although somehow it's not speech, not the way Dean knows. It's more…like the demon's exporting words from somewhere within him, the voice much worse than nails on a chalkboard as its form appears to walk towards him.
Dean refuses to answer (honestly, he doubts it'd matter in the grand scheme of things), just stares up at the demon with a level of hate that Dean's never felt before. He's hated things in his life, sure, all the otherworldly bastards he's fought, but the rage he feels now squashes those without a second thought. The fury is almost physical, each cell in his body igniting in a rush of pure choler. He can't manage to move any parts of him, not with the way his neurons seem to be neglecting to do their duties, but his facial expressions more than make up for it.
"We've been waiting a long time for you," the demon continues, his humorless laugh even crueler and more terrifying than his voice. "You've caused a lot of trouble down here, boy."
"Happy to help," Dean spits out finally, blood dribbling from his mouth. "Be sure to send me a Christmas letter."
The demon chuckles again, walks closer to Dean. "I think you'll find it won't be…prudent to run that mouth of yours," he says. The smoke solidifies to form a sneer on his face, and Dean holds down the fear that's unwillingly coming to the surface. He won't show it, he won't. Without a change in expression, the demon puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, pushing down hard on the ripped, raw flesh that was torn open by the hooks. "It's not nice to backtalk."
"F-Fuck you," Dean manages, willing his eyes to stop tearing up. He's had more pain than this, really he has.
"Words hurt, boy," says the demon, clapping Dean on the shoulder again, before stepping back a pace. "But let's not worry about that now. I've got lots of time to cut that tone from your mouth. In fact, how about a little sneak peek…"
Dean watches as the demon holds out his hand and a curved knife materializes. The demon looks at it with a fondness that Dean finds thoroughly unnerving, the blade's metal glimmering unnaturally, given the sun's feeble light.
Smiling this time—and, if possible, that's even worse than anything else thus far—the demon adjusts his hold on the blade, grabs Dean's jaw in his hand to pry it open, and slowly presses the knife into Dean's tongue, not minding that the pointed end of it is also slicing through his cheek. Blood spurts out of Dean's mouth, simultaneously choking him and flooding down his chin, the lingual artery and capillaries bursting open from the force of the demon's hand.
Dean can't even muster up a scream because the blood is suffocating his esophagus, but his wrists writhe against their shackles, chafing the skin red. When the demon's done, he still has that smile on his face, and Dean's panting, viscous fluid still pouring out of his mouth, the main muscle gone. This time, Dean's pretty sure he's not been in more pain before. He's never had something cut off of him.
"That's better," says the demon, peering at the knife coated with Dean's blood with a kind of disdain, like the liquid has disfigured it somehow. "Now where were we?" he asks rhetorically, before answering his own question. "Ah, right. You've been a real pain in the ass around here. I've got a few friends who'd like to speak with you."
As he's literally unable to talk, Dean merely stares at the demon, afraid that if he tries to make a noise, it'll only cause the demon to inflict more harm. Of course, it's not something the demon's considered. To him, it really doesn't have any bearing what Dean says or does at this point. Within seconds, more shapeless forms—these ones with black eyes—walk toward the demon, each of them strapped with a grin of their own. Each of them strapped with a weapon of their own.
Dean loses track of time after the first few demons cut into him, his mind in a hurricane of unadulterated pain and anguish, and he's no longer responsible for any screams that may erupt from him. His brain is simply no longer connected to anything. He vaguely hears the cackles of the demons and the sluicing of the blades against what he can only assume are his bones and organs, and morbidly wonders just how he's still alive, given that he doesn't doubt they've cut through his spinal cord by now. Then he realizes that, oh wait, he's already dead, and there'd really be no fun in hacking Dean into pieces if Dean weren't awake for it, now would there?
He really couldn't tell you how long it is until the demons ultimately halt their assault, but they eventually move away, and from where Dean is now on the floor—the demons had sliced away control of his extremities long ago—the first demon kneels down to look Dean square in the eyes.
"Oh, you're going to be lots of fun, Dean," says the demon. "You'll have other playmates, but I'll be your primary tour guide for the next eternity. You can call me Alastair."
Dean can't speak, can't even fathom the ability to speak at this point.
"Although, I'll be fair to you," the demon—Alastair—continues. "There is a way you can avoid this messy business from continuing." Dean keeps his eyes open by way of response. Holding out a six-inch, serrated razor like a sick offering, Alastair furthers, "I'll make you an offer: I put you back together again like a good little Hell bitch, but in exchange, I'm afraid you'll have to take up a knife or two. You know, rattle around some of my other visitors a bit."
Dean gets, finally, what Alastair's proposing. His nerves are literally in pieces, but his morals won't change. "Never," Dean whispers, amazed, honestly, that he can utter anything remotely resembling words. He has a feeling it's Alastair's doing, the temporary skill of speech. "You dickless cocksucker."
Alastair remains smiling, unruffled by Dean's almost whimpered insult. "Have it your way," he replies, standing up. "I'll see you back in class, bright and early Monday morning, Dean."
Alastair walks away then, leaving Dean in an unrecognizably disfigured state, abandoning him to only manage three last words:
"Sammy…help me."
Alec doesn't know why he awakens, but in the middle of a meaningless dream, he suddenly jerks into consciousness, opening his eyes to see darkness. He remembers within a couple seconds just everything that had happened today—yesterday? He checks his watch, which reads 3:39; apparently yesterday, then—and despite the surreality of it, he frowns. He doesn't usually wake for no reason.
He hears mumblings and loud rustlings through the black, and sits up, turning to his right. Adjusting his vision, he sees Dean tossing and turning, in a manner that would twist the sheets like a straitjacket around his body, had he been under the covers. Alec gets up, shaking off the dredges of sleep and languor of his muscles, and walks over to Dean's bed.
He's not entirely certain as to what he should do. From the looks of it, Dean's in a horrible nightmare not dissimilar to the one Alec had had, though obviously worse. Dean's hands are gripping the coverlet with white knuckles, and his face is warped in anguish. His skin is pale and covered in sweat, beads streaming from his temples like his head's on fire and sticking his shirt to his body, hair plastered to his forehead.
Alec hasn't any idea as to what Dean could possibly be dreaming about—maybe those "demons" that he had so crazily brought up?—but he knows it'll be more problematic if he lets Dean ride it out. He knows he'd rather get no sleep than sleep plagued by terror.
Gripping Dean's arms should he try and attack him, Alec shakes him roughly. "Dean!" he hisses loudly. "Dude, wake up."
Dean doesn't respond besides mumbling unintelligible words (well, Alec catches a few "No!"s, but not much else).
"Dean," Alec says with more volume. As Dean still doesn't wake up, Alec resorts to a more unpleasant approach. Snatching the ice bucket from the other nightstand, he goes into the bathroom and fills it up with cold water. Standing a few feet away, Alec apologizes quietly before dumping the entire contents on Dean's face and torso.
At first, Alec thinks Dean hadn't noticed that either, but a second later, Dean's eyes snap open, pupils dilated by lack of light. The way they're focused, it doesn't look like he's fully out of the stupor yet, but it's not worryingly long until Dean realizes he's soaked—with water instead of sweat now, mostly—and he looks (glares, really) at Alec. Correctly surmising that if there were an intruder, they probably wouldn't have doused Dean with water from a dodgy motel's ice bucket.
He sits up slowly, resting his back against the headboard. "The fuck you do this for?" Dean accuses, trying to wring out as much water as he can from his shirt, and not really succeeding.
"'What'd I do this for?'" Alec repeats incredulously. "You were one twitch away from seizing, man."
Dean's annoyance fizzles to discomfort, and he clears his throat, trying not to meet Alec's gaze. "You get enough sleep, princess? Can we go now?" he covers, with a gruffer voice than usual.
Alec feels a mix of disappointment and condolence for Dean, chiefly because for some reason, Dean thinks he has to hide whatever it is that's accosting him like the friggin' Plague. Sure, Alec gets it from the perspective that they're both guys, and Dean's got the most masculine pride that Alec's ever seen, but still. He would've thought Dean would crack at some point. Especially because, whether either or both of them refute it, Alec and Dean are pretty damn alike.
Preparing himself for a smackdown, Alec takes a seat by Dean's feet. "Dean, come on," he says, attempting to keep pity out of his expression. "What's the deal with you? Something's up, you can't hide that. And I can't ignore it. Call it my cat persistence or whatever you want, but I'm not just gonna let this slide."
Dean's face is too carefully neutral, like he's trying to visualize Alec's intentions, some of which, Alec ventures a guess, concerning whether he would tell Max or not. Alec wouldn't, but he doesn't think Dean's as positive on that point as he is.
"I can't," Dean says, now meeting Alec's eyes. "I just—I can't."
"I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about," Alec swears.
"It isn't," Dean says, quashing Alec's hope that that was the only barrier. Not like he'd really thought it was, but the hope was there nonetheless. "It's—you wouldn't understand. And I could never make you understand."
Alec wants to violently oppose this, but something in the tone of Dean's words tells him that he's not being overdramatic about it. That there's a possibility Alec really just wouldn't be able to grasp what had happened to Dean. Alec can't, for the life of him, picture what would be out of his imagination, but Dean obviously thinks there's something.
Still, Alec's never been one for giving up, and he's not about to start now. "Try me," he says firmly. "You can't hold this in forever, Dean. Trust me—it'll come back and bite you in the ass if you do."
Rachel's sweet face flashes in his mind, her smile reserved only for him like a beacon of pure innocence and goodness.
It's followed by an explosion whose heat Alec can still feel brushing his skin, and then by a father pushed past the breaking point, holding a gun to the head of the man who, however inadvertently, caused his daughter's coma and subsequent death.
He's willing to tell the story to Dean if he has to, all the details that even Max doesn't know. It's not that he wants to, far, far from it. But if it'll allow some insight into Dean's labyrinth of a mind, Alec's ready to do so. At this juncture, it's not even a function of Alec's curiosity, regardless of what he'd just now told Dean. At this juncture, it's a function of Dean needing to tell someone, to have another person bear the weight that's so blatantly too heavy for his shoulders. Alec's not historically someone who'd go out of their way to help another necessarily (although in more recent times, it's been truer), but Dean's a special case, there's no arguing against that.
"Look," Alec tries again, "I know I'm not Sam, or Bobby, or anyone else you know from whenever before was. I know you don't know me all that well, and you think all I can see is you being some freak Charles Manson knockoff. But man…just let me help. Trust me."
Dean takes in Alec's statements without any grains of salt. He knows that Alec's genuine about wanting to help, in spite of what his exterior or Max's opinion of him would suggest. He knows Alec's interest goes beyond simple intrigue. He knows Alec has come to care for him, and Dean in turn has developed a kind of affinity for the transgenic. Most of all, he knows the expression Alec wears now is exactly the sort of expression Sam wore when he aimed to get Dean to confess something. That wide-eyed, somber-featured, I'm-going-to-stay-totally-silent type of face. Alec doesn't have quite the level of Golden Retriever puppy look yet like Sam had perfected, but it's close enough to Dean's little brother's that he almost tells Alec right then and there, the only thing missing being a picturesque roadside and the Impala.
"I'm sorry," Dean says truthfully.
"If you really think I wouldn't understand—"
"It's not only that," Dean intervenes. "Listen…what I saw? There aren't words. There is no forgetting. There's no making it better."
Alec nods in faux comprehension. What Dean saw? Alec doesn't even know the context of it. He hadn't thought Dean had served, but maybe he had somewhere overseas? Seen people blown to pieces that would stay in his memory forever? Maybe something had befallen Sam that Dean wants to atone for?
Alec's lost in a sea of confusion and half-truths, completely out of his element.
"Where were you, Dean?" Alec asks. It's a pretty basic question, he thinks, but Dean's pale face suggests it's anything but.
Dean takes a scarily shaky breath, running a hand through still-soaked hair. "Hell," he answers after a long moment, and adding a hollow laugh. "I was in Hell."
Under other states of affairs, Alec would have snorted and called Dean out on yet another exaggeration. But he's seen Dean's sarcastic face before, and he's not wearing it now. Alec doesn't believe in Hell—or Heaven, for that matter—but if Dean's haunted look is any indication, he might as well.
"What do you mean, Hell? Like…pitchforks and fire?" he asks, only able to envision the classic scenes out of Bosch or some such.
Dean laughs again with the farthest thing from humor. "There were pitchforks and fire," he affirms. "But not in what Hell looked like."
Alec's forming a picture in his mind now, and it's a terrible one. There wasn't anything in Dean's words to imply anything beyond a mentally ill patient conceptualizing a false setting, but Alec knows, somehow, that Dean isn't lying. He doesn't know how he knows, but he does.
"What did it look like?" Alec asks, avoiding the elephant in the room in the form of the question What happened to you?
"It was…I don't know," Dean pauses, actually in thought and not just fright. "It never really had a full shape, I guess, not from what I could see. I mean, when they switched it, yeah, but when it was normal…it's hard to describe. The setting itself was almost…peaceful, to be honest. Like they were going for the thickest kind of irony. It wasn't like anything I'd ever seen before."
Alec tilts his head in confusion, trying to make sense of Dean's trailing sentences. "When 'they' switched it?"
Dean casts his eyes over to Alec's, taking in the younger man's unusually still and captive state. "You didn't believe me when I told you."
Alec frowns, before coming to the conclusion of what Dean means. "Wait…demons?" he asks. "I thought you were being figurative."
Dean scoffs, finding it hard to even think of explicating demons to Alec. It's one thing to have grown up knowing what they, and all manner of other supernatural beings, are and entail, and to give a CliffsNotes version to some victim of one of them. It's another entirely to try and tell someone who hardly even entertains the idea of demons being possible to exist, let alone describe the ones who had sliced and diced parts of Dean while he was Downstairs.
He then remembers the things Rade had told him when he'd just come out of unconsciousness. The renditions she'd given him of what Manticore was, of what animals the people running it were, of how messed up it made its creations, are the closest things he can think of to a facsimile of Hell. Definitely it wasn't the real thing, and no matter what Rade said or how terrible she depicted it, it isn't anything close to how Hell was, but it's the best example he can give.
"Think Manticore," Dean says, his timbre full of meaning. "But a million times worse."
Alec swallows heavily, unintentionally doing just what Dean had said. Sterile, metal hallways; piercing needles and scalpels; red lasers shooting past the eye to engulf and enflame the thalamus, the center of pain, absolutely; barked orders commanding him to kill, to snipe, to asphyxiate, to bomb; endless trial and error to fix seizures, each attempt more painful than the last; "examples" of what happened if someone mouths off; transgenics in his unit he'd thought of as friends, but whose moralities and personalities had been cut away by Manticore.
Alec looks at Dean, and they both know what Alec envisions.
"You can't get worse than Manticore," Alec says darkly, like he's trying to convince himself of it.
Dean quirks a corner of his mouth and shakes his head. "Rade told me what you went through," he offers. "And it sucked. But it's nothing like Hell."
"Don't fucking patronize me," Alec snarls, forgetting his intent to stay calm and collected. "Manticore was Hell. It's not your fault you don't get it—Ordinaries can't."
Dean clenches his jaw, his lips set in a thin line. "You're right," Dean says. "I don't. But you know what? At least you have people to kiss it and make it all better. At least you've got a whole damn city of people from there. Guess what. I don't. I can't just get over what happened. I can't ever forget it. No matter how much sympathy your precious Max or Cindy or who the fuck ever else tries to lay on me."
Alec tries to rein in his temper again. "That's why you want to find Sam, isn't it?" he asks, the answer dawning on him. "Because Sam can understand."
Dean shrugs, and his entire face is filled with a desperation, a longing, a need to find his brother. Alec had gotten it exactly right—while Dean would want to find Sam anyway, just to see him, it's more than that. In this alien environment, where Dean doubts people would recognize a demon attack even if they saw one because of how preoccupied they are with being all third-world, there's no one that could comprehend Dean's history. He doesn't doubt there's hunters still stationed in numerous parts of the country, but the odds that they'd know him personally are practically zero. Even less of a chance that they'd actually aid him.
Sam's the only one that Dean is sure can help him cope. Bobby would try his best, but…it just wouldn't be the same. Sam's…Sam's his brother. His baby brother. And even though Dean's been Sam's protector for as long as he was alive, Dean knows Sam would do the same for him if Dean would allow it. The few times he had—Dad's death; Dean's fear of what his deal really meant; even Dean coming to get Sam at Stanford just because he was in too much pain of being without any family—Dean hadn't exactly felt better about the whole thing, but in the sense that he knew that Sam would always be there, hell yes, he did.
It's true that Sam had changed ever since he learned that Dean had sold his soul in order for Sam to live again, that Sam had become obsessed 'til the end, 'til the Hellhounds dragged Dean out of the living world and into the dead-but-not-dead.
But Dean doesn't care about that now, almost can't believe he ever had cared, given what he's suffered. Now that Dean's finally out, he needs to get to Sam. Needs to see his little brother. Needs to see the one thing in his life that's always been someone he could trust it to and trust to not make snap judgments on him. Alec's fine and all, and Dean's sure the kid means well, but he's just…
He's not Sam.