The darkness had won. All light had been sucked from the world, leaving only the impenetrable blackness pressing in on him from all sides with a physical force. It was cold, restricting his breathing to ragged, irregular gasps. Or was it his fear that fed that staccato rhythm?

Dean lay on his side in the darkness, his wide eyes searching the deep black futilely for any hint of light or danger, listening to his uncontrollable gasps.

He didn't know where the demon had gone. He couldn't remember what had happened after making contact with the creature's flesh. He didn't know how long he'd been here, either. Apart from the constant terror of not knowing where he or the demon was, this was probably the most calm he'd felt in a long time. Sure, the darkness burned like ice and his body ached like he'd just gone nine rounds with a demented poltergeist, but his new blindness had a strange sort of comfort to it. All he could hear was his own breathing. There were no footsteps, no stranger's breath. He was alone and therefore safe. No one was hurting him.

And he knew Sam was safe.

That thought was like a small fire inside his chest, keeping the coldness at bay. He had saved Sam from the demon. He'd done something good. That knowledge gave him hope. Surely, surely he couldn't be completely evil if he had some speck of good in him? If he had hope?

Even the fact that Sam had been there was comforting. He was almost sure it had really been him. He'd been older than all the Sams he'd been seeing lately, and he'd said "I'm me", not "I'm you". None of the other Sams had said that. Which meant that Sam cared enough to come find him, wherever he was. He'd said he wanted him. That can't have been a lie, could it? If it was really Sam and he was really there, then he must have meant it. He wanted Dean back. He wanted him to wake up.

Dean felt his breathing begin to even out, each breath coming a little more easily, a little more deeply. The warmth in his chest seemed to be spreading, bringing with it a fragile calm.

Moving slowly, Dean pulled himself into a sitting position, becoming aware as he did so that the heavy, ice-cold chains that had bound him had disappeared. Well, that was something. He found there was a smooth, hard surface behind him and leant his back against it. It was colder than marble. He ignored his shivers: he needed to think.

If Sam had been telling the truth, and he was still alive and in a coma, then that meant he had a choice to make. Either he could figure out a way to fight his way back to consciousness, or he could stop, relax, and allow himself to die. Which would most likely mean going to Hell. With the Veil full and Heaven closed, not even Cas could smuggle him through the Pearly Gates. Provided he'd even want to. So, that meant the only place he could go was Hell.

Dean was not overly fond of Hell.

He blinked in the blackness. He'd known for years that his road would end there. That everything he had been would be burned and carved away and his soul would turn black and that he would one day become the thing he hated most. As fate would have it, he managed that without a trip to Hell. Dean had to admit he hadn't seen that one coming.

And it made everything acutely worse.

He now knew what he was capable of as a demon. Before, it had all just been murky nightmares and avoided thoughts as black as his old eyes. Now, he knew precisely what manner of demon he was. He had become the villain he'd spent his life hunting. So many families, whether they knew it or not, had their own Azazel. How many lives would be sucked into the abyss of revenge? How many would die before achieving it? How many would lose their mothers and fathers the way he had? How many would watch their siblings die? How many would run themselves into the ground, into the tip of a knife for the same reason he had? How many people would fall asleep as he had, imagining his fingers crush the life out of a faceless foe?

That hunter, Melanie Harker. She was just the first. There would be more. She wouldn't be the only one to devote their lives to killing him.

He'd deserve every death they imagined.

What he had done, all the death and suffering he had caused, had committed ... how could he possibly come back from that? Even if he could somehow wake up, how could he ever look into Sam's eyes again? Or Cas's? He had become everything they fought against. For god's sake, he had tried to kill Sammy!

That thought was what scared Dean the most. If he could be so removed from himself that he would want – really want – to kill Sam, how could he ever be sure he'd come back to himself? How could he know for certain that that darkness in him was gone? Or even contained? If he went back, knowing his life, some curse or spell or demon could take a hold of his mind, and if they felt this evil in him, if they unleashed it ... How could he expect to be saved again? To be given yet another chance he didn't deserve?

Yet dying meant Hell which meant becoming that thing again some day. That was guaranteed. He had proven ten years ago that he wasn't strong enough to resist Hell's torture. It didn't matter that Alistair was gone; he'd had plenty of apprentices. Dean would scream until he made others scream and then one day the last speck of his humanity would escape him and there would be no one to kill him. By the time he made it out of Hell, Sam would probably be dead. If he woke up and miraculously recovered from all this, was somehow able to function, he would still die some day and be lost.

So what was the point in prolonging the inevitable? Why should he fight against this freezing, crushing blackness? Why not just give in and become the monster he was always destined to be? There was no escaping it. Why not welcome what was coming to him?

Dean put a hand to his forehead, needing to feel something in the darkness. His fingers were cold against his skin and he could feel dried blood on his temple.

He could just give up. Sam would think the demon won. Dean supposed he had.

Sam would be all right. He'd find a girl, go back to school or keep researching the Men of Letters. He'd proven twice that he was the exception: he could leave the life of a hunter. Without Dean dragging him back, he had a chance to live out Dean's happily ever after: grow old and have kids who weren't afraid of the dark. Cas would watch over them. He could keep any vengeful monsters away from them, keep them safe.

Safe.

Sam had never felt safe in his life. Their version of 'safe' was relative. No immediate danger and a salt line under the door and windows meant 'safe' for them. Sam could be properly safe. No longer a target, no longer carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His kids would think the wild stories their dad told them about ghosts and werewolves and vampires were just that: stories. His kids could have the life he and Dean had always wanted. They'd have a dad who'd be home to tuck them in, a mom to cut the crusts off their PB and J's. They'd start and graduate the same high school. They'd only travel on vacations.

Dean smiled at the image of faceless nieces and nephews running into his brother's arms, being scooped up into the air and bundled into Baby, whose trunk was full of suitcases and a cooler of beer. Of a woman waiting in the passenger seat, laughing as the kids pretended to fight their dad off as he belted them into their car seats.

Dean's shoulders began to shake. They'd listen to Disney songs on their way to see the Grand Canyon – just to see it, not because they were close by for 'dad's work'. Just a family going on a trip together. Staying in a hotel, 'cause Sam had a proper job and could afford a legit credit card. The kids would think it was such a novelty, staying in the fancy room with the minibar and fresh towels every day. They'd take photos at the Canyon, get them framed and put them up their house, like Mom had done. A house that would be a home. One that would last forever, one that wouldn't burn up in a supposedly random fire.

Tears trickled down from under Dean's shaking palm. He wondered what names Sam would call out into the backyard when it was time for dinner – a proper pot roast, not mac and cheese with Lucky Charms for dessert. Bobby, probably. And Jess. A Bobby and Jess who would never know the true evils that filled the world. Who would never know how it had consumed their uncle. He would just be a sad story, nothing more. Just a story with no happy ending to sate their curiosity when they were old enough and asked Sam things he couldn't lie about anymore.

But that was a happy ending. It was the only happy ending Dean ever hoped for. And he could allow it to happen. All he had to do was die.

That wasn't so hard. He'd done it plenty of times. You just ... let go. Everything goes quiet and still for a moment, and then you wake up.

In Hell.

Where he belonged.

Dean's shoulders shook harder and he brought his other hand to cover the first, clutching his forehead with trembling fingers. He knew what he had to do. He knew what was right.

"I'm scared," he whispered into the blackness, his voice catching on his own cowardice.

Footsteps moved slowly towards him. He froze. Unable to lower his hands, he stared wide-eyed at his bloodied palms as the newcomer moved closer. Only then did he realise that he could see again. There was a dim bluish light coming from directly in front of him, behind whatever was stopping above him. Dean's breath halted. Bare feet waited inches from his own. Tiny, frightened gasps replaced the silence as the stranger knelt in front of him. Dean tensed, waiting for the pain that would undoubtedly start any second.

Fingers that were deceptively gentle wrapped around Dean's wrists and pulled his hands away from his face. His chest heaving now, he looked into the face lit by the blue-white glow.

"Oh, Dean," his mother whispered. "You don't have to be scared, my little angel. I'm here."