cado in nusquam (angelus in meus umerus humerus), Part III, Supernatural, NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: cado in nusquam (angelus in meus umerus humerus) ( Part One, cado in nusquam, Part two, haud sileo pro scelestus
Pairing/Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, John/Dean
Rating: A very serious NC-17
Word Count: 4335
Summary: Dean got out of hell, but still isn't sure what is real and what isn't. This is largely a re-write of episode 4X01 "Lazurus Rising"...and what Dean's dealing with after the first two parts of this story.
Warnings: This is maybe the darkest thing I've ever written, and those of you who have read my work know I don't say these things lightly. This at the very least rivals the "P!Verse"...in some ways it goes darker places than that. There is rape/non-con, dub-con, there is torture, both physical and mental. This part of this fic does not contain any real comfort.
A/Ns: This began as a comment fic prompt that simply wouldn't leave me alone. Then I was surrounded by dirty, filthy enablers (I'm eyeing varkelton and denyce specifically here). I haven't seen fandom really address the issue of John and his year in hell in light of Dean's revelation that 4 months was like 40 years...and if Dean broke in 30 years, how much longer could John have held out? In my mind for this, John escapes hell in "All Hell Breaks Loose" but isn't necessarily the John we remember...and what happens after he kills his enemy is murky at best...what if he was just far enough gone that he never could come back?
Art provided by fallen_for_lost.
cado in nusquam (falling into nothing)
haud sileo pro scelestus (no rest for the wicked)
angelus in meus umerus humerus (angel on my shoulder)
Pain lances through him, his illusion-body falling away into nothing and he is nothing…nothing held in the grip of nothing. Pulled, dragged, hauled and then the black gives way to white, light that is too much…too much and there is no where to hide, it burns through him, through his nothing and he gets a sense of being judged, being scrutinized.
There's a clap of thunder and everything vanishes. He lands with a thud that rocks the ground. Everything hurts. Everything hurts.
Dean gasps in air. His hands shoot out to his sides, slamming into wood. He blinks in the dark, slowly realizing it's more than the after shock of all that light. He is…someplace that is dark.
He is…He shakes his head. It isn't possible. It's probably another one of Alistair's tricks. He'd done it before. Made Dean believe he was out, that Sam had gotten him free from hell.
Dean breathes slowly, smelling damp earth and soft pine. It's quiet. Close. He is closed in a small space. He is dressed. He is alone. All alone.
No Sam. No Dad. No Alistair. Just silence and his breathing. Actually breathing. It's different somehow than before. It feels real. Still, he doesn't want to believe it. He fumbles for a pocket, finds a lighter…his lighter.
It lets him see his prison. A box, simple and plain, nothing fancy, easy to break into.
Or out of.
It can't be true. Can't be.
But that won't stop him from hitting at the wood, spitting out the dirt as it cascades into his mouth. Won't stop him from fighting his way up, won't stop him from crawling out of his grave or laying on the brown grass gasping in the sweetest, freshest air he has ever known.
His hands hurt, scrapped raw.
The sky above is blue, stray clouds drifting, the sun blinding, but he can't close his eyes, can't risk it fading away, needs to see it all…before Alistair rips it all away.
He half expected Alistair or his father to be somewhere down the road. Or for Sam to be there. But he's alone. Very, very alone as he trudges down the one lane, back country road. He has no idea where he is, or if it's even real.
Everything feels different than it had those times before. His body feels…real, solid…not like the illusion. He hurts, but it's different too than the pain he felt on the rack…it doesn't go as deep, it lives in his skin, in his bones, doesn't go all the way down to his soul.
He had nearly convinced himself when he found the gas station. Although he was beginning to wonder if he'd maybe come back to an empty world because he'd been walking for hours and not seen a soul and it was the middle of the day and the gas station was empty.
Maybe it should have given him pause, but it didn't. He broke open a window and made straight for the bottles of water. Cold. It poured down his parched, raw throat and if he wasn't convinced before that moment, he certainly took a step toward closer to believing he actually was out of hell.
Though how and why were thoughts he couldn't begin to think about. He had to find Sam, make sure…because the last Dean knew, he was alone in a room with Lilith…and Dean didn't trust anything they told him about Sam…and if he was dead…if she had turned him, well…Dean had learned a few things in hell and Lilith was in for a surprise or two.
Dean closed his eyes, leaning against the bathroom sink as that thought brought it back, blood and pain and screaming…he turned, throwing up into the toilet, though all he had in his stomach was water. Turning back to the sink, he splashed water over his face, drying it on his shirt. For all the pain and suffering, for all the aches and pains, he wasn't hurt.
He pulled up his t-shirt, expecting his chest and stomach to be torn, scarred at the very least, but his skin is smooth…not a mark on it other than the tattoo above his left nipple.
It gave him pause, the thought taunting him that this was just another dream, a delusion, another sign that he was breaking beyond repair. He smoothed the shirt down and examined his face in the mirror. Even there, the tiny marks left by a hard lived life were gone, the scar just under his hairline, the tiny one near his left ear.
It's almost as if his body had been reborn. Almost. The aches and pains had started to recede, all but a stinging sensation on his left shoulder. Turning to the mirror, Dean lifted his sleeve, wincing as he revealed the raised red hand print on his skin. It was raw, tender.
He touched it, and the memory filled his mind. Memory of pain and nothingness, memory of being yanked, pulled, judged. He flushed with shame and dropped the sleeve. Judged…He shook his head. Whatever it was that yanked him out…it clearly had some serious mojo and it wanted Dean for something.
Panic seized him when the electronics started going crazy. He grabbed a canister of salt off the shelf and started working on the window in the door, but anything that could pull him out of hell wasn't likely to be stopped by a line of table salt.
The sound was deafening, high pitched and Dean dropped the salt to grab his ears, then cover his face as the glass started to break. He imagined Alistair coming for him…imagined his father, the fury in his voice when Dean was pulled away from him.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. Shattered glass covered the floor and Dean's body. He picked himself up, brushing bits of glass off of him and looked around cautiously. As far as he could tell, he was alone.
He huffed and grabbed his bag of stolen goods from the counter. He had to find Sam.
He wasn't surprised when Sam's cell phone was disconnected. If everything was good, he'd be covering his tracks. So Dean tried the number that was never disconnected.
It only rang once, then Bobby's voice filled his ear. "Yeah?"
He almost couldn't speak, because Bobby had never been a part of the delusions. This was really Bobby, this was real. "Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"It's me." Dean fidgets a little. Bobby won't believe him.
"Who's “me”?"
"Dean." The dial toned sounded as Bobby hung up on him. Dean sighed and pulled out another quarter. He hesitated for a second, then dropped the quarter and dialed again.
"Who is this?"
Dean took a deep breath. "Bobby, listen to me."
"This ain't funny. Call again, I'll kill ya."
The click had the sound of finality to it…but Dean wasn't finished. He'd just have to prove it to Bobby.
It comes at him randomly, as he drives a stolen car across a state line, as he stops for gas, as he pulls through a drive through…faces, screams…bloody memory so real he can feel it in his gut…the hooks and chains, whips, claws…rape, torture…it leaves him gasping, clenching the steering wheel, sweat in his eyes.
Sometimes it's his face on the victim, sometimes it's Sam's. Sometimes it's a random string of faces that he knows aren't real, and his hand wielding the blade.
He pulls over a few miles from Bobby's house, gets out of the car, sucking air into his lungs, reminding himself he's free, he's out…it's over.
Only a part of him knows it won't ever be over. He won't ever be free.
Dean pulled in and parked, looking at the familiar house with trepidation. How many times had he come here seeking Bobby's help, shelter, knowledge, even just a place to crash and recover from whatever job-gone-bad had beat him half to hell.
Bobby'd been a second father while John Winchester was alive, a voice of reason in the crazy world their father dragged them through, and after…Dean couldn't think of that day, the way his father had touched him gently, whispered to him the secrets about Sam…not without remembering his father in hell, not without feeling his hands, his cock.
Dean beat the memory away and stood, breathing deep and heading for the door. Bobby just needed to see him, know he wasn't some sick fuck making prank calls. Dean just needed to prove it was really him. At least he thought he was really himself…and right at that moment, that was really all he had to work with.
He should have known it wouldn't be that easy. The door opened, Bobby's face staring at him. "Surprise."
Bobby took a few steps back. "I…I don't…"
Dean nodded and took a hesitant step over the door. That should go part way to convincing him. Dean knows Bobby is no slacker with the basic protection shit. "Yeah, me either…but here I am…"
He anticipated the attack, but it still stings at least until he realizes he'd do the same. He blocked the knife, twisted away. "Bobby, it's me."
"My ass!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and... you're about the closest thing I have to a father. Bobby. It's me."
Bobby didn't look convinced, though he lowered the blade, his free hand reaching out to Dean's shoulder. He wasn't done though, and the blade nearly connected before Dean got it away from the older man. "Fuck, Bobby. I am not a shapeshifter."
Bobby backed away, fear and disgust on his face. "Then you're a Revenant."
He should have known it wouldn't be easy. Fine. He knew one way to convince him. He held up the knife. " All right. If I was either, could I do this - with a silver knife?"
He sliced neatly into his arm, watching the blood flow down his arm. His stomach twitched, bloody body parts filling his brain. He pushed them away and looked up at Bobby who's face had softened. "Dean?"
Dean nodded. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."
It's harder than he imagined, talking to Bobby. They bandage the wound, but Dean keeps touching it, pressing against it to feel the sting. Some part of him is functioning, talking, looking for Sam, but there's a part of him that can't seem to think past the pain, past the pleasure of the pain.
There's no reason Dean is free…none but that Sam made a deal and he and Bobby are on the road to where Sam is with that knowledge burning in his stomach…and whatever mother-fucking demon Sam found with the power to bust him loose is stronger than Lilith, and Dean keeps seeing Sam on that rack, Sam's gut ripped open, his mouth stuffed with demon cock, his body broken, his eyes flooding with black…
He shakes himself out of the image and Bobby looks at him strange, but doesn't ask. It's easy to lie, to tell Bobby he doesn't remember…because he doesn't want to, and if he lies long enough, maybe he'll forget.
Only then there's a girl and Dean remembers his father talking about Sam with some demon girl, but she looks confused and her eyes don't flash all black and she leaves so he lets it go.
If he thought talking to Bobby was hard, it was nothing compared to Sam. Once they convinced him Dean was real, despite the relief, despite the joy at seeing each other again, everything was strained.
Dean couldn't look at him without seeing the Sam in his delusions…the one who fucked him and left him, the one Dean tortured and fucked on the rack…It was easier to focus on other things.
Everything eased a little though when he saw his car, his hand sliding over her long lines on his way to the driver's seat. It was like a connection to himself. He had Sam and his car. He was home.
Even if Sam had douched up the car, tainted it with his emo, girly music…even if there were lies between them, because Dean would never tell Sam what he wanted to know, about the horrors of hell…and Dean knew Sam would never tell him what all went down after he died.
But this was good. Real. Right. The two of them in the Impala, cruising down some back road, the rest of the world out of sight. And maybe Sam wouldn't tell him everything, but there was at least one thing Dean really wanted to know…because he knew demons lie and he had to know if his father had been lying to him. "There's still one thing that's bothering me." Understatement, but it was a start.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, the night that I bit it. Or... got bit." His eyes closed briefly as the memory flashed through him, skin tearing, teeth ripping into him. "How'd you make it out? I thought Lilith was going to kill you."
Sam looked a little pale as he exhaled. "Well, she tried. She couldn't."
That was not what he'd expected to hear. "What do you mean, she couldn't?"
Sam looked uncomfortable, squirming in the seat beside him. "She fired this, like, burning light at me, and... didn't leave a scratch. Like I was immune or something."
"Immune?"
"Yeah. I don't know who was more surprised, her or me. She left pretty fast after that."
"Heard about your brother." John said as he dropped a bowl of soup in front of Dean and took his seat. "He met a girl."
He looked up at his father, dropping deeper into the illusion. "Sam's got a girl?"
John's eyes met his, flooded with black. "Well, maybe she's got him."
Dean swallowed down the memory. Demons lie. His father was a demon now, just like Dean had been on his way to becoming. His father lied. Dean has to believe that now. "Huh. What about Ruby, where is she?"
"Dead….or in hell…I don't know."
Dean bit his lip and glanced aside at him. The demon who had been John Winchester wanted Dean to believe that Sam was on the path to his own trip to hell, and that it was all related to the Yellow Eyed son-of-a-bitch and what he'd done to Sam. "So you've been using your, uh, freaky ESP stuff?"
"No." He sounded indignant. Or maybe guilty. Dean couldn't be sure.
"You sure about that? Well, I mean, now that you've got... immunity, whatever the hell that is... just wondering what other kind of weirdo crap you've got going on."
"Nothing, Dean. Look, you didn't want me to go down that road, so I didn't go down that road. It was practically your dying wish." Okay, that's irritated, Dean knows that sound and the pissy face that goes with it.
"Yeah, well, let's keep it that way."
It nags at him, suspicion…the idea that Sam is lying. Hounds him all the way to the place they stop, Bobby already out of his car and standing by the sidewalk. Psychic. Dean draws in a breath and looks up at the house. She could probably see right through him…right through all of them.
She'll know he is lying, know he remembers, know what he did…she'll see the black stain on his soul and toss him out into the black on his own, leave him to whatever demon had done this…marked him.
Why should she help him? She's one of the good guys to hear Bobby talk…and Dean? Well, he isn't sure what he is any more….because he ain't good, not like that…not with the things he's done, not with the things he thinks about…
"Hey, you coming?" Sam asks and Dean realizes his brother's already out of the car, already ready.
"Yeah, yeah, okay." Dean shoves it all down, the memory, the desires, the pain, the pleasure, pushes it so far down inside him he almost can't feel it, almost doesn't know it's there himself and climbs out of the car, feeling almost like Dean Winchester.
He puts on all the bravado and bluster of the man he was once as he follows Sam and Bobby to the door, flirts his way inside…and it feels good…and maybe he's just fooling himself, but maybe it's a start at something more, a way to get free of himself.
At least until the psychic ends up in the hospital and the only thing they get out of the whole ordeal is a name.
Castiel.
Dean's heard the names of lots of demons in his time in hell, but that isn't one he knows…isn't in any of the books that Bobby gives them to start looking either, but Dean's done pussy-footing around when it comes for him again, shattering the glass in the room, leaving Dean with ringing ears and a bleeding scalp. He's pushed enough of the fear away that he's ready to call the mother-fucker up and face it down, find out what the price is for his ticket out of hell.
"You sure you did the ritual right?"
Bobby glared at him. Dean held up his hands. "Sorry. Touchy, touchy, huh?"
Wind whistled through the building, the roof rattling. Dean reached for the shotgun and stood, Bobby echoing the motion. At the far end of the spray-paint adorned building, a door burst open, the overhead lights flaring and exploding as a man strode in, right over the symbols and traps, as if they weren't even there.
Both Bobby and Dean opened fire, but aside from the dirty look, the man didn't even react.
"Who are you?" Dean yelled, anger and fear warring inside him.
The man turned to him with open blue eyes that seemed way too tender for a demon. "I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."
"Yeah? Thanks for that." Dean plunged the knife into his chest, breathing heavy, but nothing happened.
They both looked at the knife and the man pulled it out, dropping it to the floor. Bobby lunged, and the man turned catching him before he could attack, and with just a touch to the forehead, he dropped Bobby to the floor too.
"We need to talk Dean. Alone."
Dean scrambled past the man, squatting beside Bobby, feeling for a pulse.
"Your friend is alive."
"Who are you?" He wasn't sure now how to feel, pissed, afraid.
"Castiel."
Okay, that pushed him a little closer to annoyed. "Yeah, I figured that much, I mean what are you?"
"I'm an Angel of the Lord."
Dean squints at him. There's no sense of irony, not hint that the guy is crazy, off his rocker, delusional…he seems serious. "Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing."
Castiel sighs a little. "This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."
And really? Dean has a fucking hell of a lot more problems than his lack of faith, in fact, his lack of faith had come in quite handy over the years, and he was just about to say so when lightening flashed and thunder rumbled, and in the light he could swear he saw great shadowy wings appear behind the guy.
He looked away, not ready yet to believe, even with proof standing in front of him. He would rather cling to his disbelief. "Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes."
"I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be... overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice. But you already knew that."
The guy was so goddamn sincere, so sure of himself and it rubbed Dean all wrong. "You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking?" Castiel nodded, moving a little closer. Dean took a step back. "Buddy, next time, lower the volume."
"That was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong."
This can't be real. None of it. Angels didn't exist. Angels didn't pull people like him out of the pit. "And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?"
Castiel looked down at himself, disheveled tie, white shirt with some food stain just left of center, rumpled trench coat. "This? This is... a vessel."
"You're possessing some poor bastard?" That sort of proved his point. If angels did exist--
"He's a devout man, he actually prayed for this."
Right. Dean shook his head, held up one hand. "Well, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you really?"
Castiel frowned at him, looking genuinely confused by Dean's disbelief. "I told you."
"Yeah, right. An angel of the Lord. And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?"
The so called angel leaned in closer. "Good things do happen, Dean."
Something in the guy's demeanor made Dean very uncomfortable, fidgeting. "Not in my experience."
Castiel moved in even closer, those damn eyes looking right past all of the things Dean was trying to keep locked down, tearing open the walls he was hiding them behind. Dean flinched as the images of the things he'd done flooded his mind…all the laws he'd broken, the people he couldn't save, the souls he tortured, the pleasure he'd gotten from the perverse things they made him do in hell.
"What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved?"
He wanted to punch the guy, wanted to beat him bloody because nobody deserved to be saved after that, after coming with his father's cock in his throat, after raping some woman whose face he can't even remember…Dean's face set hard as he looked away. "Why'd you do it?"
"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."
It isn't real. It isn't real. He repeats it over and over, even as he cleans up the weapons and loads them into Bobby's trunk. Even as he helps Bobby up and they drive. It isn't real. It isn't real.
He doesn't say much. They ride all the way to Bobby's with barely two words between them. Bobby calls Sam to meet them and when they get there, Dean can't bring himself to go inside. Not just yet.
"Suit yourself." Bobby says, leaving Dean out in the yard. He walks. He fumes. Angel. Some goddamn fucking joke or something. Some demon thinks he can string Dean along, dangle something like salvation on a string to get him to do whatever fucking thing it is it wants.
He's half way to the road before he realizes how far he's gone, walls of cars and junk between him and Bobby. He wants a cigarette, and he hasn't smoked in years. He stops, leans against a car. Sam would be at least a few hours behind them. Leaving Dean alone with the idea that an angel had pulled him out of hell.
The sound of a heavy boot on the gravel pulls his attention and he looks up. Okay, not alone.
"Hello Dean."
His eyes sweep up denim clad legs, leather jacket, scruffy face, dark hair. He stands, pushing off the car. "Do I know you?" Though he has a sneaking suspicion that he does, a familiar feeling in his gut. The smile on that face cuts through him and Dean gasps as a hand reaches out, catching him by the throat and pushing him back against the car.
"Now, I know you haven't forgotten your old man so soon."
Dean can't swallow, can't breathe as he steps in, his stolen body tight against Dean's. "I'm the one who fucked you last, remember?" His tongue slides up Dean's face and he can't repress the shudder. "You screamed for me, came all over the place with my cock so far up inside you that you could taste it."
The face pulls back, eyes filled with inky black, hissing. He cracks his neck, sniffs at Dean's chin, over his neck, down to his shoulder. "What have we here?"
Strong fingers pull on his shirt, ripping it open to expose the hand print branded into Dean's skin. John's borrowed face ghosts over it, sniffing at it. "He put his hand on my boy…gonna have to pay for that."
Dean opens his mouth, tries to find his voice, but those lips close over his, tongue invading his mouth. The hand holding him moves, but Dean doesn't, stuck against the car while those two hands yank his jeans down, fondle him, lift his legs…and before he can do more than whimper into the mouth covering his, there's a cock in his ass, and Dean screams.
John swallows the sound and pulls back, grinning. "You want to bring Singer out here? Make it a party? Bet he gets turned on watching you get fucked by a demon, Dean."
"Please, stop." Dean tries to fight, to pull away, but his cock his hard now in those big hands and John laughs at him, pulling a dry hand up Dean's cock.
"You're the big warrior for God, Dean. Stop me yourself."
It doesn't take long and Dean's cock shoots come, followed quickly by the feeling of the cock inside him coming too and then Dean is sliding to the ground, bare ass on gravel.
"Tell your brother I said hi, Dean. I'll be seeing you soon."
He's gone before Dean can fully register what just happened, before he can even think about exorcisms or whether or not it was real.
But he knows as he pulls himself up, come oozing from his aching ass, gravel sticking to his skin. Because if it were just an illusion, he'd be in the pit right now as Alistair and the others laughed. But this isn't an illusion. It's real. Very real…and as Dean gets his jeans zipped up and turns for the house, he thinks that maybe, just maybe he'd rather be back in hell than here like this.
Title: cado in nusquam (angelus in meus umerus humerus) ( Part One, cado in nusquam, Part two, haud sileo pro scelestus
Pairing/Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, John/Dean
Rating: A very serious NC-17
Word Count: 4335
Summary: Dean got out of hell, but still isn't sure what is real and what isn't. This is largely a re-write of episode 4X01 "Lazurus Rising"...and what Dean's dealing with after the first two parts of this story.
Warnings: This is maybe the darkest thing I've ever written, and those of you who have read my work know I don't say these things lightly. This at the very least rivals the "P!Verse"...in some ways it goes darker places than that. There is rape/non-con, dub-con, there is torture, both physical and mental. This part of this fic does not contain any real comfort.
A/Ns: This began as a comment fic prompt that simply wouldn't leave me alone. Then I was surrounded by dirty, filthy enablers (I'm eyeing varkelton and denyce specifically here). I haven't seen fandom really address the issue of John and his year in hell in light of Dean's revelation that 4 months was like 40 years...and if Dean broke in 30 years, how much longer could John have held out? In my mind for this, John escapes hell in "All Hell Breaks Loose" but isn't necessarily the John we remember...and what happens after he kills his enemy is murky at best...what if he was just far enough gone that he never could come back?
Art provided by fallen_for_lost.
cado in nusquam (falling into nothing)
haud sileo pro scelestus (no rest for the wicked)
angelus in meus umerus humerus (angel on my shoulder)
Pain lances through him, his illusion-body falling away into nothing and he is nothing…nothing held in the grip of nothing. Pulled, dragged, hauled and then the black gives way to white, light that is too much…too much and there is no where to hide, it burns through him, through his nothing and he gets a sense of being judged, being scrutinized.
There's a clap of thunder and everything vanishes. He lands with a thud that rocks the ground. Everything hurts. Everything hurts.
Dean gasps in air. His hands shoot out to his sides, slamming into wood. He blinks in the dark, slowly realizing it's more than the after shock of all that light. He is…someplace that is dark.
He is…He shakes his head. It isn't possible. It's probably another one of Alistair's tricks. He'd done it before. Made Dean believe he was out, that Sam had gotten him free from hell.
Dean breathes slowly, smelling damp earth and soft pine. It's quiet. Close. He is closed in a small space. He is dressed. He is alone. All alone.
No Sam. No Dad. No Alistair. Just silence and his breathing. Actually breathing. It's different somehow than before. It feels real. Still, he doesn't want to believe it. He fumbles for a pocket, finds a lighter…his lighter.
It lets him see his prison. A box, simple and plain, nothing fancy, easy to break into.
Or out of.
It can't be true. Can't be.
But that won't stop him from hitting at the wood, spitting out the dirt as it cascades into his mouth. Won't stop him from fighting his way up, won't stop him from crawling out of his grave or laying on the brown grass gasping in the sweetest, freshest air he has ever known.
His hands hurt, scrapped raw.
The sky above is blue, stray clouds drifting, the sun blinding, but he can't close his eyes, can't risk it fading away, needs to see it all…before Alistair rips it all away.
He half expected Alistair or his father to be somewhere down the road. Or for Sam to be there. But he's alone. Very, very alone as he trudges down the one lane, back country road. He has no idea where he is, or if it's even real.
Everything feels different than it had those times before. His body feels…real, solid…not like the illusion. He hurts, but it's different too than the pain he felt on the rack…it doesn't go as deep, it lives in his skin, in his bones, doesn't go all the way down to his soul.
He had nearly convinced himself when he found the gas station. Although he was beginning to wonder if he'd maybe come back to an empty world because he'd been walking for hours and not seen a soul and it was the middle of the day and the gas station was empty.
Maybe it should have given him pause, but it didn't. He broke open a window and made straight for the bottles of water. Cold. It poured down his parched, raw throat and if he wasn't convinced before that moment, he certainly took a step toward closer to believing he actually was out of hell.
Though how and why were thoughts he couldn't begin to think about. He had to find Sam, make sure…because the last Dean knew, he was alone in a room with Lilith…and Dean didn't trust anything they told him about Sam…and if he was dead…if she had turned him, well…Dean had learned a few things in hell and Lilith was in for a surprise or two.
Dean closed his eyes, leaning against the bathroom sink as that thought brought it back, blood and pain and screaming…he turned, throwing up into the toilet, though all he had in his stomach was water. Turning back to the sink, he splashed water over his face, drying it on his shirt. For all the pain and suffering, for all the aches and pains, he wasn't hurt.
He pulled up his t-shirt, expecting his chest and stomach to be torn, scarred at the very least, but his skin is smooth…not a mark on it other than the tattoo above his left nipple.
It gave him pause, the thought taunting him that this was just another dream, a delusion, another sign that he was breaking beyond repair. He smoothed the shirt down and examined his face in the mirror. Even there, the tiny marks left by a hard lived life were gone, the scar just under his hairline, the tiny one near his left ear.
It's almost as if his body had been reborn. Almost. The aches and pains had started to recede, all but a stinging sensation on his left shoulder. Turning to the mirror, Dean lifted his sleeve, wincing as he revealed the raised red hand print on his skin. It was raw, tender.
He touched it, and the memory filled his mind. Memory of pain and nothingness, memory of being yanked, pulled, judged. He flushed with shame and dropped the sleeve. Judged…He shook his head. Whatever it was that yanked him out…it clearly had some serious mojo and it wanted Dean for something.
Panic seized him when the electronics started going crazy. He grabbed a canister of salt off the shelf and started working on the window in the door, but anything that could pull him out of hell wasn't likely to be stopped by a line of table salt.
The sound was deafening, high pitched and Dean dropped the salt to grab his ears, then cover his face as the glass started to break. He imagined Alistair coming for him…imagined his father, the fury in his voice when Dean was pulled away from him.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. Shattered glass covered the floor and Dean's body. He picked himself up, brushing bits of glass off of him and looked around cautiously. As far as he could tell, he was alone.
He huffed and grabbed his bag of stolen goods from the counter. He had to find Sam.
He wasn't surprised when Sam's cell phone was disconnected. If everything was good, he'd be covering his tracks. So Dean tried the number that was never disconnected.
It only rang once, then Bobby's voice filled his ear. "Yeah?"
He almost couldn't speak, because Bobby had never been a part of the delusions. This was really Bobby, this was real. "Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"It's me." Dean fidgets a little. Bobby won't believe him.
"Who's “me”?"
"Dean." The dial toned sounded as Bobby hung up on him. Dean sighed and pulled out another quarter. He hesitated for a second, then dropped the quarter and dialed again.
"Who is this?"
Dean took a deep breath. "Bobby, listen to me."
"This ain't funny. Call again, I'll kill ya."
The click had the sound of finality to it…but Dean wasn't finished. He'd just have to prove it to Bobby.
It comes at him randomly, as he drives a stolen car across a state line, as he stops for gas, as he pulls through a drive through…faces, screams…bloody memory so real he can feel it in his gut…the hooks and chains, whips, claws…rape, torture…it leaves him gasping, clenching the steering wheel, sweat in his eyes.
Sometimes it's his face on the victim, sometimes it's Sam's. Sometimes it's a random string of faces that he knows aren't real, and his hand wielding the blade.
He pulls over a few miles from Bobby's house, gets out of the car, sucking air into his lungs, reminding himself he's free, he's out…it's over.
Only a part of him knows it won't ever be over. He won't ever be free.
Dean pulled in and parked, looking at the familiar house with trepidation. How many times had he come here seeking Bobby's help, shelter, knowledge, even just a place to crash and recover from whatever job-gone-bad had beat him half to hell.
Bobby'd been a second father while John Winchester was alive, a voice of reason in the crazy world their father dragged them through, and after…Dean couldn't think of that day, the way his father had touched him gently, whispered to him the secrets about Sam…not without remembering his father in hell, not without feeling his hands, his cock.
Dean beat the memory away and stood, breathing deep and heading for the door. Bobby just needed to see him, know he wasn't some sick fuck making prank calls. Dean just needed to prove it was really him. At least he thought he was really himself…and right at that moment, that was really all he had to work with.
He should have known it wouldn't be that easy. The door opened, Bobby's face staring at him. "Surprise."
Bobby took a few steps back. "I…I don't…"
Dean nodded and took a hesitant step over the door. That should go part way to convincing him. Dean knows Bobby is no slacker with the basic protection shit. "Yeah, me either…but here I am…"
He anticipated the attack, but it still stings at least until he realizes he'd do the same. He blocked the knife, twisted away. "Bobby, it's me."
"My ass!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and... you're about the closest thing I have to a father. Bobby. It's me."
Bobby didn't look convinced, though he lowered the blade, his free hand reaching out to Dean's shoulder. He wasn't done though, and the blade nearly connected before Dean got it away from the older man. "Fuck, Bobby. I am not a shapeshifter."
Bobby backed away, fear and disgust on his face. "Then you're a Revenant."
He should have known it wouldn't be easy. Fine. He knew one way to convince him. He held up the knife. " All right. If I was either, could I do this - with a silver knife?"
He sliced neatly into his arm, watching the blood flow down his arm. His stomach twitched, bloody body parts filling his brain. He pushed them away and looked up at Bobby who's face had softened. "Dean?"
Dean nodded. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."
It's harder than he imagined, talking to Bobby. They bandage the wound, but Dean keeps touching it, pressing against it to feel the sting. Some part of him is functioning, talking, looking for Sam, but there's a part of him that can't seem to think past the pain, past the pleasure of the pain.
There's no reason Dean is free…none but that Sam made a deal and he and Bobby are on the road to where Sam is with that knowledge burning in his stomach…and whatever mother-fucking demon Sam found with the power to bust him loose is stronger than Lilith, and Dean keeps seeing Sam on that rack, Sam's gut ripped open, his mouth stuffed with demon cock, his body broken, his eyes flooding with black…
He shakes himself out of the image and Bobby looks at him strange, but doesn't ask. It's easy to lie, to tell Bobby he doesn't remember…because he doesn't want to, and if he lies long enough, maybe he'll forget.
Only then there's a girl and Dean remembers his father talking about Sam with some demon girl, but she looks confused and her eyes don't flash all black and she leaves so he lets it go.
If he thought talking to Bobby was hard, it was nothing compared to Sam. Once they convinced him Dean was real, despite the relief, despite the joy at seeing each other again, everything was strained.
Dean couldn't look at him without seeing the Sam in his delusions…the one who fucked him and left him, the one Dean tortured and fucked on the rack…It was easier to focus on other things.
Everything eased a little though when he saw his car, his hand sliding over her long lines on his way to the driver's seat. It was like a connection to himself. He had Sam and his car. He was home.
Even if Sam had douched up the car, tainted it with his emo, girly music…even if there were lies between them, because Dean would never tell Sam what he wanted to know, about the horrors of hell…and Dean knew Sam would never tell him what all went down after he died.
But this was good. Real. Right. The two of them in the Impala, cruising down some back road, the rest of the world out of sight. And maybe Sam wouldn't tell him everything, but there was at least one thing Dean really wanted to know…because he knew demons lie and he had to know if his father had been lying to him. "There's still one thing that's bothering me." Understatement, but it was a start.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, the night that I bit it. Or... got bit." His eyes closed briefly as the memory flashed through him, skin tearing, teeth ripping into him. "How'd you make it out? I thought Lilith was going to kill you."
Sam looked a little pale as he exhaled. "Well, she tried. She couldn't."
That was not what he'd expected to hear. "What do you mean, she couldn't?"
Sam looked uncomfortable, squirming in the seat beside him. "She fired this, like, burning light at me, and... didn't leave a scratch. Like I was immune or something."
"Immune?"
"Yeah. I don't know who was more surprised, her or me. She left pretty fast after that."
"Heard about your brother." John said as he dropped a bowl of soup in front of Dean and took his seat. "He met a girl."
He looked up at his father, dropping deeper into the illusion. "Sam's got a girl?"
John's eyes met his, flooded with black. "Well, maybe she's got him."
Dean swallowed down the memory. Demons lie. His father was a demon now, just like Dean had been on his way to becoming. His father lied. Dean has to believe that now. "Huh. What about Ruby, where is she?"
"Dead….or in hell…I don't know."
Dean bit his lip and glanced aside at him. The demon who had been John Winchester wanted Dean to believe that Sam was on the path to his own trip to hell, and that it was all related to the Yellow Eyed son-of-a-bitch and what he'd done to Sam. "So you've been using your, uh, freaky ESP stuff?"
"No." He sounded indignant. Or maybe guilty. Dean couldn't be sure.
"You sure about that? Well, I mean, now that you've got... immunity, whatever the hell that is... just wondering what other kind of weirdo crap you've got going on."
"Nothing, Dean. Look, you didn't want me to go down that road, so I didn't go down that road. It was practically your dying wish." Okay, that's irritated, Dean knows that sound and the pissy face that goes with it.
"Yeah, well, let's keep it that way."
It nags at him, suspicion…the idea that Sam is lying. Hounds him all the way to the place they stop, Bobby already out of his car and standing by the sidewalk. Psychic. Dean draws in a breath and looks up at the house. She could probably see right through him…right through all of them.
She'll know he is lying, know he remembers, know what he did…she'll see the black stain on his soul and toss him out into the black on his own, leave him to whatever demon had done this…marked him.
Why should she help him? She's one of the good guys to hear Bobby talk…and Dean? Well, he isn't sure what he is any more….because he ain't good, not like that…not with the things he's done, not with the things he thinks about…
"Hey, you coming?" Sam asks and Dean realizes his brother's already out of the car, already ready.
"Yeah, yeah, okay." Dean shoves it all down, the memory, the desires, the pain, the pleasure, pushes it so far down inside him he almost can't feel it, almost doesn't know it's there himself and climbs out of the car, feeling almost like Dean Winchester.
He puts on all the bravado and bluster of the man he was once as he follows Sam and Bobby to the door, flirts his way inside…and it feels good…and maybe he's just fooling himself, but maybe it's a start at something more, a way to get free of himself.
At least until the psychic ends up in the hospital and the only thing they get out of the whole ordeal is a name.
Castiel.
Dean's heard the names of lots of demons in his time in hell, but that isn't one he knows…isn't in any of the books that Bobby gives them to start looking either, but Dean's done pussy-footing around when it comes for him again, shattering the glass in the room, leaving Dean with ringing ears and a bleeding scalp. He's pushed enough of the fear away that he's ready to call the mother-fucker up and face it down, find out what the price is for his ticket out of hell.
"You sure you did the ritual right?"
Bobby glared at him. Dean held up his hands. "Sorry. Touchy, touchy, huh?"
Wind whistled through the building, the roof rattling. Dean reached for the shotgun and stood, Bobby echoing the motion. At the far end of the spray-paint adorned building, a door burst open, the overhead lights flaring and exploding as a man strode in, right over the symbols and traps, as if they weren't even there.
Both Bobby and Dean opened fire, but aside from the dirty look, the man didn't even react.
"Who are you?" Dean yelled, anger and fear warring inside him.
The man turned to him with open blue eyes that seemed way too tender for a demon. "I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."
"Yeah? Thanks for that." Dean plunged the knife into his chest, breathing heavy, but nothing happened.
They both looked at the knife and the man pulled it out, dropping it to the floor. Bobby lunged, and the man turned catching him before he could attack, and with just a touch to the forehead, he dropped Bobby to the floor too.
"We need to talk Dean. Alone."
Dean scrambled past the man, squatting beside Bobby, feeling for a pulse.
"Your friend is alive."
"Who are you?" He wasn't sure now how to feel, pissed, afraid.
"Castiel."
Okay, that pushed him a little closer to annoyed. "Yeah, I figured that much, I mean what are you?"
"I'm an Angel of the Lord."
Dean squints at him. There's no sense of irony, not hint that the guy is crazy, off his rocker, delusional…he seems serious. "Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing."
Castiel sighs a little. "This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."
And really? Dean has a fucking hell of a lot more problems than his lack of faith, in fact, his lack of faith had come in quite handy over the years, and he was just about to say so when lightening flashed and thunder rumbled, and in the light he could swear he saw great shadowy wings appear behind the guy.
He looked away, not ready yet to believe, even with proof standing in front of him. He would rather cling to his disbelief. "Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes."
"I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be... overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice. But you already knew that."
The guy was so goddamn sincere, so sure of himself and it rubbed Dean all wrong. "You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking?" Castiel nodded, moving a little closer. Dean took a step back. "Buddy, next time, lower the volume."
"That was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong."
This can't be real. None of it. Angels didn't exist. Angels didn't pull people like him out of the pit. "And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?"
Castiel looked down at himself, disheveled tie, white shirt with some food stain just left of center, rumpled trench coat. "This? This is... a vessel."
"You're possessing some poor bastard?" That sort of proved his point. If angels did exist--
"He's a devout man, he actually prayed for this."
Right. Dean shook his head, held up one hand. "Well, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you really?"
Castiel frowned at him, looking genuinely confused by Dean's disbelief. "I told you."
"Yeah, right. An angel of the Lord. And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?"
The so called angel leaned in closer. "Good things do happen, Dean."
Something in the guy's demeanor made Dean very uncomfortable, fidgeting. "Not in my experience."
Castiel moved in even closer, those damn eyes looking right past all of the things Dean was trying to keep locked down, tearing open the walls he was hiding them behind. Dean flinched as the images of the things he'd done flooded his mind…all the laws he'd broken, the people he couldn't save, the souls he tortured, the pleasure he'd gotten from the perverse things they made him do in hell.
"What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved?"
He wanted to punch the guy, wanted to beat him bloody because nobody deserved to be saved after that, after coming with his father's cock in his throat, after raping some woman whose face he can't even remember…Dean's face set hard as he looked away. "Why'd you do it?"
"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."
It isn't real. It isn't real. He repeats it over and over, even as he cleans up the weapons and loads them into Bobby's trunk. Even as he helps Bobby up and they drive. It isn't real. It isn't real.
He doesn't say much. They ride all the way to Bobby's with barely two words between them. Bobby calls Sam to meet them and when they get there, Dean can't bring himself to go inside. Not just yet.
"Suit yourself." Bobby says, leaving Dean out in the yard. He walks. He fumes. Angel. Some goddamn fucking joke or something. Some demon thinks he can string Dean along, dangle something like salvation on a string to get him to do whatever fucking thing it is it wants.
He's half way to the road before he realizes how far he's gone, walls of cars and junk between him and Bobby. He wants a cigarette, and he hasn't smoked in years. He stops, leans against a car. Sam would be at least a few hours behind them. Leaving Dean alone with the idea that an angel had pulled him out of hell.
The sound of a heavy boot on the gravel pulls his attention and he looks up. Okay, not alone.
"Hello Dean."
His eyes sweep up denim clad legs, leather jacket, scruffy face, dark hair. He stands, pushing off the car. "Do I know you?" Though he has a sneaking suspicion that he does, a familiar feeling in his gut. The smile on that face cuts through him and Dean gasps as a hand reaches out, catching him by the throat and pushing him back against the car.
"Now, I know you haven't forgotten your old man so soon."
Dean can't swallow, can't breathe as he steps in, his stolen body tight against Dean's. "I'm the one who fucked you last, remember?" His tongue slides up Dean's face and he can't repress the shudder. "You screamed for me, came all over the place with my cock so far up inside you that you could taste it."
The face pulls back, eyes filled with inky black, hissing. He cracks his neck, sniffs at Dean's chin, over his neck, down to his shoulder. "What have we here?"
Strong fingers pull on his shirt, ripping it open to expose the hand print branded into Dean's skin. John's borrowed face ghosts over it, sniffing at it. "He put his hand on my boy…gonna have to pay for that."
Dean opens his mouth, tries to find his voice, but those lips close over his, tongue invading his mouth. The hand holding him moves, but Dean doesn't, stuck against the car while those two hands yank his jeans down, fondle him, lift his legs…and before he can do more than whimper into the mouth covering his, there's a cock in his ass, and Dean screams.
John swallows the sound and pulls back, grinning. "You want to bring Singer out here? Make it a party? Bet he gets turned on watching you get fucked by a demon, Dean."
"Please, stop." Dean tries to fight, to pull away, but his cock his hard now in those big hands and John laughs at him, pulling a dry hand up Dean's cock.
"You're the big warrior for God, Dean. Stop me yourself."
It doesn't take long and Dean's cock shoots come, followed quickly by the feeling of the cock inside him coming too and then Dean is sliding to the ground, bare ass on gravel.
"Tell your brother I said hi, Dean. I'll be seeing you soon."
He's gone before Dean can fully register what just happened, before he can even think about exorcisms or whether or not it was real.
But he knows as he pulls himself up, come oozing from his aching ass, gravel sticking to his skin. Because if it were just an illusion, he'd be in the pit right now as Alistair and the others laughed. But this isn't an illusion. It's real. Very real…and as Dean gets his jeans zipped up and turns for the house, he thinks that maybe, just maybe he'd rather be back in hell than here like this.