Disclaimer- I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters.

Aren't you glad? She's out of hell!

(You can start thanking me now, you know. I was planning on her staying for another five chapters.)

Chapter title borrowed from Good Charlotte.

Lyrics borrowed from Bon Jovi's 'Always.'

Thanks to everyone who reviewed!

On with it, shall we?

It's been raining since you left me,

Now I'm drowning in the flood,

You see, I've always been a fighter,

But without you, I give up.

CHAPTER NINE- BROKEN HEARTS PARADE

Dawn stretches its rose-red fingers over the horizon, caressing the sky lovingly.

The beauty does nothing to move me.

For me, it is always night.

With trembling fingers, I grab a cigarette and light it up.

I inhale a shaky breath, taking in a greedy, long pull.

I sigh in relief.

It'll stave it off for some time.

And once the effects finish...

My eyes stray to the beer bottles lined in a neat row inside the glass cabinet.

Well, I have a plan for that, too.

One month has passed since I climbed out of that devil's gate.

I was wrong.

I am not free from hell.

I never will be.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Alistair's face.

I see Lucifer.

I see my own broken body.

I see the face of the soul I tortured.

I see Jared screaming in pain.

I pour out a glass of beer, taking in gulps of alcohol.

This is my way of coping.

But that's too generous a word.

This is my way of existing.

Life after death.

Had it been up to me, I would've ended my life fifteen days ago.

But I know where I'm going after I die.

And this time, I deserve it.

I am trapped, suffocated.

I can't go back, and I can't go forward.

I never really left hell.

This is almost as bad.

Rage floods through me, and I jump to my feet, punching the wooden plank to the side of me.

It breaks into two.

My hands do not even bruise.

I have my wish.

I am strong now, stronger than I've ever been.

But the price I've had to pay isn't worth it.

Hell has acted as a catalyst to my powers.

Pushed to breaking point, it has been the final straw.

I've unlocked my powers- in full.

This is the only way I can explain it.

I flex my hand.

My pistol shoots upwards, hovering in mid-air.

This is the least of my abilities.

I vault off the sofa.

Physically, too, I am no longer weak.

I can hold my own in a fight.

I've been training- desperate for a distraction.

I glance at my toned legs.

The sight does not bring me any satisfaction.

Hell has broken me.

If I'm being honest, it's not the only thing.

He has broken me.

I grit my teeth together.

I still can't force myself to speak his name, let alone think of it.

I still can't accept that I love him.

I am living in my old house.

My father is dead.

His death brings a muted sort of grief, my mind is not capable of shouldering so many painful emotions, it pushes away those which are no longer needed.

Except the one that matters the most.

There is only so much I can take.

I have not tried to find Sam.

How can I?

How can I look him in the eye after all I have done?

I miss him terribly, but I cannot see him.

Just as much as I miss Dean.

And I miss him most of all.

There are only two hunts I am actively working on.

The first is to rescue Dean from hell.

The second is to save Jared.

This time, my eyes remain dry.

I have long since perfected the art of suppressing my emotions until I am almost numb.

Almost indifferent.

Almost.

It will not help me with what I plan to do.

I resort to drinking and smoking.

I do not care if it harms my body- I will take anything to block out the pain.

I ignore the voice in my head that whispers that this is exactly what my father did.

That this is what led to his death.

I stare out the window.

The sun is still a faint, orange glow in the east.

I cannot sleep.

I must not sleep.

Every time I do, I revisit hell.

Once was bad enough.

I don't need a reminder.

But there are times I do fall asleep, out of sheer exhaustion, and then nothing can keep the nightmares away.

Nothing at all.

I stand and look at myself in the mirror.

I am no longer the clueless, naive Odette Slessor of a year ago.

Or should I say thirty years ago?

I look broken.

I look beaten.

I stare at the topmost cupboard.

I feel a strange, prickling sensation at the nape of my neck, an odd sixth sense that tells me to open it.

I clutch my bowie knife tightly, flinging it open.

Inside lies a silver sword, very much like the one Alistair used on Amitiel.

A name is scratched onto it in red letters, in some arcane language I do not understand.

I realize without any real surprise that it is written in blood.

A note falls out into my hand as I pull it down.

Just in case you need to use it.

Somebody knocks on my door.