Screaming echoed in her ears. A minute or so passed before she realized it was from her own throat. Although her eyes were screwed shut, she found no relief in the darkness. Flames licked at her bare feet, occasionally scorching her toes, turning them brown. Whips caressed the rest of her naked body, leaving sore open wounds that would never heal.

There was blood everywhere. On the floors, on the walls, on the tools, on her, even on her torturer. Her heart never stopped no matter how many veins they opened. It kept bleeding, causing a continuous drip. Finally after what felt like an eternity, they stopped. The flames were gone, the whips were dropped, and the demon who was beating her took her off of the meat hooks that held her before dragging her to her cell.

It was a cycle they enjoyed, beating her until she couldn't stand before the physiological torture began.

The cell was simple, no bed, no chairs, just three walks, one barred door, and chains. The demon threw her in, not even bothering to chain her. After all, where was she going to run?

Crawling to the nearest wall, she pressed her burning back to the cool metal. A small sigh escaped her.

"Hello, love," a British voice smiled. Looking up, she was surprised to see the King of Hell outside her cell.

"What are you doing here?" she growled. It had been nearly fifty years since she had seen the King, her King.

"I missed my favorite hunter," Crowley smiled. Then he was in her cell, right in front of her, stroking her cheek. "After all, it's been so long, darling."

"No," she growled as he came closer. She had refused him, she had said no, and she had been put back on the rack. This was supposed to be over.

"Don't worry, love," he whispered, his breath warming her already scorched neck. "I'm saving you for someone else."

XXXX

Dean was running faster than he ever believed possible. Behind him came the growls and barks of Hellhounds. He was right behind Jo Harvelle, protecting her in a sense.

Better me than her, he though.

He felt claws wrap around his denim clad leg and get pulled out from under him.

"Dean!" Jo yelled, turning around in time to see him hit the concrete. She loaded her shotgun.

"No, stay back," Dean barked.

Better me than her.

Better me than her.

She didn't listen to him, and fired at the Hellhound that stood over him. Dean ducked, trying to stay out of her way. She approached, losing sight of her surroundings, but Dean didn't.

The hound came out of nowhere and too fast. No one saw it, until Jo was down. Ellen Harvelle was yelling, but Jo's screams raged over all other sounds. Dean was on his feet instantly, running for Jo. When he finally reached her, his heart stopped. The Hellhounds and chaos fell away. Silence took over.

Blood had already soaked her shirt and was beginning to be absorbed by her jeans. Her brown eyes stared at him dazed.

"Dean," she whimpered, her hand pressed against her torn side. Dean kneeled net to her, and pulled her to him.

"Sh," he whispered. "It's gonna be okay, Jo."

She shook her head and her honey curls bounced at the movement.

"This is all your fault, Dean. I could have had a life, a family, a future! You took all of that from me."

"Jo, I was just trying to protect you."

"I loved you," she sobbed. "But what good did it do?"

"Jo, I'm so sorry." Dean's fingers traced down her face, following her tears.

"Liar," she growled. Dean watched in horror as her soft brown eyes turned a deep ink black. Jo grabbed the demon knife from Dean's waistband and smiled wickedly. "See you down there, baby."

XXXX

Dean woke up with a gasp, his blood pounding in his ears.

Nightmare, he told himself. It was just a nightmare. Breathing deeply, he reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The small light bathed the corner of the empty motel room, but Dean's eyes were captured by the photograph Crowley gave him.

Jo Harvelle stared up at him, her eyes a normal brown.

"Damn it, Jo," Dean muttered, picking up the photo. "What happened to you?"