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He’s pinned. Dean Winchester is not sure of much in his too long too short life, but he knows, instinctively, that he’s pinned. No more than the wiggle of a fingertip is permissible by whatever force it is that holds him tight.
When he steels his resolve enough to open his eyes, he begins to cry. Bloodied chains are strewn about like macabre party streamers. Bits of viscera cling to the chains and the walls, and torn flesh makes the floor look like an overstuffed mattress.
He’s in hell. Again. Dean always knew that he would end up back in the Pit. For a while it seemed like he might return as ruler, and overthrow Crowley once and for all. But he didn’t. He was brought back from the brink, and the inky darkness faded from his eyes. Sam thought he was saved.
Dean figured he’d never been more damned.
Looks like he was right. Screams echo around the stone walls, unbreaking, and it stays in his head like a ringing in his ears. Pained groans send shivers through his chest, and he’s not sure if he’s making the sounds or feeling them. The worst, though, are the other sounds. The happy ones. The pleased ones. Dean can almost handle the laughter. He lived with the laughs from hell for forty years, and they chilled him. After hearing the Leviathan laugh with Cas’s voice, the demons seem to be child’s play. But the panting breaths, the moans of ecstasy, that’s more than Dean can bear.
Footsteps approach where he’s bound. For some reason, he’s expecting the staccato echo of shoes on stone. The gore that covers the ground instead offers a sound of the sick squelch of wet moss. Dean heaves, and nearly chokes on his own bile. His esophagus burns from swallowing it back. He closes his eyes again, and tears leak from below his lids. The salt burns the scratches on his face. He didn’t even know they were there.
“Look at me,” a familiar voice growls.
Dean whimpers, but refuses. A moment later, strong hands are gripping him. One is bruising tight on his chin, fingertips grinding the inside of his cheek against his teeth. The other grips his eyelid and pries it open, tearing out a few lashes in the process. Everything is blurred, and his eye is rolling in his socket as he feels cool metal pressing against it. When he tries to blink, the muscles spasm, but the world never goes dark.
He catches a flash of too-white teeth and a snarl of laughter before the process is repeated on the other side. When it’s done, a rough palm slaps his cheek in an imitation of familial affection.
“What,” the voice says, a petulant whine extending the vowels. “Don’t you remember me?”
The squelching footsteps circle closer, and a face looms into Dean’s line of sight. There’s no avoiding it now.
“Michael,” Dean croaks.
“Not quite. Aim a little lower. Closer to home.”
“Adam.”
“Ding ding ding, we have a winner.” Adam hoists himself onto the table Dean is bound to, and drops his weight heavily upon Dean’s abdomen. Bony knees grind into bound arms, but the physical pain pales in comparison to the free-fall the eldest Winchester’s heart is in. “Hi there, big brother. Did you miss me?”
Dean’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly. He’s gaping like a fish, and his youngest brother leans forward, bracing his hand against the base of Dean’s throat. Air supply is immediately cut off, and stars burst at the corner of his vision. That’s the thing about hell-all the sensations of suffocation, without the satisfaction of passing out or dying. Finally, he’s able to gasp out, “How,” before his lungs feel completely crumpled and empty in his chest.
“Interesting question. You see, after Sam was ripped out of the cage, Mikey and Lucy realized that in this meta-space, they don’t need meatsuits. So Michael jumped ship, and then I became their punching bag. Once I stopped reacting, I wasn’t fun anymore, so they turned on each other.” Adam laughs, and leans more of his weight against Dean’s throat. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he hisses against Dean’s ear. “The cage isn’t meant for puny mortals. Once I came to, I was able to walk right out.” He sits up again and removes his hand, making Dean dizzy with the rush of air. “Of course,” he muses, “I don’t have a leashed Seraph to haul my ass out of hell. Guess I’m just not Winchester enough to merit a rescue mission.”
“But,” Dean gasps. “But they took you out of Heaven. You should’ve gone back to Heaven.”
“I shouldn’t be dead in the first place,” Adam roars. His exclamation is punctuated by a bone-cracking backhand. “It’s all you. You and your fucking family. I was happy, you know? Nice, quiet life with Mom. Baseball games and fishing trips with Dad, when he stopped by. You know he took me to see where his parents were buried? Told me that if he had his way, I would’ve been named Henry. Since I wasn’t going to be a Winchester by name and all. He never told me about you or Sam because he wanted to protect me. I thought he was a goddamn truck driver. I never heard about your precious Mary.”
Tears are streaming from Dean’s open eyes, now. They track sideways down his temples and pool in his ears, making his hearing fuzzy and the skin feel slimy. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sorry…” trails off, words incoherent through his sobs,
Adam’s weight lifts from him, and there’s a moment of relief. Then he feels hot breath at his ear as his littlest brother hisses, “We’ll see.”
More footsteps approach, and Alastair enters his field of vision. “Oh, Dean,” he drawls. “We are going to have so…much…fun.”
Dean’s screams join the din.
A loud thud rattles his bones and jolts Dean awake. He’s on the floor of his room at the bunker, entangled in the sheets so thoroughly a straitjacket would give him more freedom. Cold sweat prickles across his skin and shrink wraps his clothes to him. Dried tears leave salty trails across his face.
He can see his bedside table. His lamp. The overflowing hamper with his overdue laundry. The belt of a worn out khaki trench coat. The carpet rubs his tender flesh raw as he wriggles around, desperate to see more of his room. He has to know this is real.
There’s a stack of ancient books that leans against the wall, an angel blade resting on top. Shelves are covered in knick knacks and knives. A pair of aviator sunglasses reflect the greenish glow of the alarm clock. Dean’s breath saws in and out of his raw throat, and he returns his gaze to the piece of trench coat. It soothes him, and his muscles go lax as his gasps deepen into a steady rhythm.
Dean startles again as the door slams open, and Cas is there, eyes wild and out of breath. He sees Dean prone on the floor, and charges forward and drops to his knees next to the hunter’s shoulders. “Dean, what happened? I heard a crash…”
When he opens his mouth to answer, his body rebels, and the phantom bile from his nightmare becomes real. He heaves and spits, and Cas doesn’t even move out of the way, he just rubs gently between Dean’s shoulder blades until the worst has passed, and procures a glass of water and a tissue from the nightstand that Dean hadn’t been able to see.
“So, it was a nightmare, then?”
Dean whimpers the affirmative.
“Hell again?” At Dean’s nod, Cas’s eyes soften even more, and his shoulders rise and fall in a monstrous sigh. “Come on, let’s get you into bed. I was almost done for the night anyway when I heard you fall.”
“Stay?” Dean rasps as he settles back against the pillows.
Castiel gives Dean a confused glance, before comprehension dawns. He sits at the edge of the mattress. “Dean, this is real. I promise you. You’re human. I’m human. We’re in the bunker in Lebanon, Kansas. Sam is just down the hall with Boomer.”
“Boomer?”
“He’s Sam’s dog. Mastiff/Golden Retriever mix. Three legs. You sneak him table scraps when you think Sam isn’t watching.”
Dean nods, as if this makes perfect sense to him. It does, at least, sound like something he’d do. He’s the cool uncle, even if the kids are canine.
“We’ve been together for two years, Dean. This is our room, now.” He pauses, searching Dean’s face at this revelation.
“You… Gave up your grace. We became human together. You told me you loved me.”
“I still do.”
The edges of the nightmare begin to trickle away as the real world settles in around the edges of Dean’s mind. He’s on Cas’s side of the bed. Gripping Cas’s wrist lightly, Dean scoots back over onto his side, and pulls Cas down beside him. “Sam almost hit Boomer with his car. He half expected to meet a girl, like when he met Amelia. No girl, though, just the tripod mutt. Brought ‘im home and the first thing it did was piss on the Impala.”
Cas laughs, a deep rumble that clears the last of the cobwebs from Dean’s mind. He settles down onto his side, facing Dean, and gently runs his fingers through sandy brown hair.
“’M glad this is real,” Dean slurs. Sleep is pulling him under, and it’s harder to reopen his eyes after every blink. He feels soft, slightly dry lips press against his forehead before he’s pulled into a solid chest.
“Me too, Dean. Me too.”