Archive of Our Own

Pain Keeps Me Here

It started with a Seal. Of course. Me and Sammy had to drop everything and bag ass to PA to stop some asshat demon named Agares from corrupting a true believer. Why PA? I don’t fucking know. Maybe it was the name of the town: Bethlehem. Or maybe there was something special about that one unlucky fuck: Father Phillip Brenton of Our Lady of Perpetual Grace.

Where were the angels? Anywhere but where they might be useful.

Huggy Bear swears they’re doing their part in fighting to protect the Seals but I’m starting to doubt. Either angels are all a bunch of bitches or they’re throwing the game. Either way, I wish they’d just go back to playing the fucking harp and not trying to tell me what to do every ten fucking minutes.

Anyway. Agares and Father Phil were having quite the orgy when Sammy and I busted in. Men. Women. Latex. Good times. Right up until I got shot, that is. One of Agares mooks got me while I was wrestling with a possessed stripper. Right in the fucking thigh. Missed anything important but damn it hurts. Bled a fuckload.

And now I’m stuck in bed for at least a day. Sammy wants me laid up for a week or two, taking whatever pills he hands me and staying off his laptop. Fuck that. A day’ll be fine.

I’m fucking stuck here, leg propped up with pillows, blood still soaking through the damn bandages. Sammy, aka Nurse Fucking Ratched, keeps feeding me these pills like I’m some invalid. Don’t get me wrong, I know I need the shit. My leg feels like it’s on fire, like the bullet’s still in there twisting around. But these fucking pills—some kind of muscle relaxer mixed with whatever the hell else Sam can get his hands on—are making me foggy as hell. Heavy. Drowsy. Exactly what I don’t need.

Because sleep? Yeah, that’s where Hell still lives.

Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there. Back on the rack, back with Alastair whispering in my ear, telling me how I’m his little project, how I’m just getting started. And it’s not just the pain. No, the worst part is what I did. You think getting tortured for decades is bad? Try remembering the look in a soul’s eyes when you’re the one doing the slicing. Try feeling the fucking blade in your own hand, over and over again, until it feels like it’s part of you.

So, fuck sleep. I’d rather feel the pain in my leg, keep the burn alive, than deal with that shit. But Sam’s not having it. Every couple of hours, he’s right there, shoving more pills in my face. “It’s gonna help the healing, Dean,” he says like I don’t already know how this works. Yeah, right. I can tell when the meds are kicking in, too. My head gets heavy, the edges start to blur, and I’m sinking into that place where the nightmares grab hold and rip me apart.

I can’t let myself slip under. Not yet. Not while every goddamn second spent asleep feels like going ten rounds with Hell’s greatest hits. So I wait until Sammy’s not looking, spit the next pill into my palm when he turns his back, flush that shit down the toilet when I get the chance. The way he hovers, you’d think I’m gonna die if I don’t take his magical cocktail of drowsy-making garbage. But honestly? I’d rather feel my stitches pop open than get dragged back to the Pit, even in my head.

He’s back again, right now, standing at the foot of my bed with this bottle of pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He gives me that look, the one that says I know what you’re doing. He knows I haven’t been taking them right, that I’ve been faking it. But he doesn’t push—he just hands me the glass, waits for me to take it. I pop the pill into my mouth, wash it down. This time I swallow, because I can’t deal with another fight. Not with Sam. Not today.

“Dean,” he starts, soft like he’s tiptoeing around my temper, “you need to rest. The wound’s not gonna heal if you keep pushing yourself.”

Yeah, no shit, Sammy. But I can’t say that. Not right now. Not when he’s looking at me like that. So I just grunt, give him a half-assed nod, and try to look like I’m getting comfortable.

Doesn’t matter though. Once he’s gone, the plan stays the same. No sleep. Not tonight.

Bastard has the remote. He’s making me watch a documentary, something about space-time. Neil deGrasse Tyson’s voice droning on about black holes, wormholes, and dark matter. It’s almost interesting. Almost. But not quite enough to keep me from losing it. I know what Sam’s up to—trying to bore me to sleep, thinking if he feeds me enough science facts, I’ll conk out like a good little soldier.

Fuck that. I’m not doin’ it. Not gonna go back. I got out. Not gonna let a damn documentary lull me into closing my eyes, only to wake up in Hell again. Nope. Not happening. I’d rather sit here and learn all about the solar system or… whatever… planets, gravity, some shit about light years. Tyson’s voice is smooth, soothing almost. Like he’s talking straight to me. Hell, maybe if things were different, if my brain wasn’t wired like a fucking bomb, I’d be into it. The stars, galaxies, infinity stretching out forever. But right now?

Right now, the thought of endless nothingness, black holes swallowing everything whole, makes my skin crawl. Reminds me of the Pit, how you can fall forever and never hit the bottom. Not a damn thing to hold onto. It’s too close. Too much like the empty dark I spent decades trapped in. And the more I think about it, the tighter my chest gets. Like if I don’t focus, I’ll slip, and I’ll be back there again. Just like that.

Sam thinks this is helping. Thinks I need to rest. But he doesn’t get it. Hell isn’t just fire and chains. It’s endless. It’s nothing and everything, all at once. And sleep? Sleep is the last thing I need, ‘cause sleep means slipping into that dark place again, with Alastair whispering in my ear, telling me how I belong there. How it’s my true home.

Not gonna go back.

I tighten my grip on the blanket, trying to focus on Tyson’s voice, telling me something about the speed of light. Something about how we’re all made of stars or some bullshit. But it’s not working. The weight of my eyelids is winning, the drugs Sam gave me creeping through my veins like poison.

Fuck.

I jerk awake, my heart pounding. No. No. Not gonna let this happen. I’m not gonna sleep. I can’t. I won’t.

The taste of blood in my mouth. Not mine. That’s what makes it better. Sweeter. I swallow it down, savoring the way it coats my tongue like the finest whiskey, smooth and warm, filled with the raw terror of the soul it came from. The sound of screams ripples through the endless void around me—screams that don’t stop, that never stop, each one a razor-thin shard of glass tearing through my brain. I feel them like nails scraping the inside of my skull, sharp, painful, and endless.

The slick of warm tissue under my fingers, the way the skin peels back like ripe fruit, exposing the red muscle and nerves beneath. I slip my hand under the surface, feeling the throb of life—or what’s left of it—trembling against my touch. The wet slide of muscle under my palm, the way the flesh twitches in response to my fingers. I know every inch of a human body now. Every nerve, every pressure point. I know exactly where to press to make them scream harder. Louder.

Good… very good… The hiss slithers through the darkness, wrapping around me like a caress. His voice. My mentor. My God.

Alastair.

He’s always there, hovering just behind me. I feel his presence, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder, guiding me, teaching me. Pushing me. His voice echoes in my ear, soft and deadly, a snake’s whisper. He owns me. He made me. I am his creation, forged in the fires of Hell, shaped by his hands. Every scream, every drop of blood, every torn muscle is a testament to him. To what I’ve become under his tutelage.

I hate him. Fucking hate him. But the fear? The fear is worse. It’s buried deep in my bones, in every fiber of my being. Fear of him, of what he can do. Of what he will do if I ever step out of line. He is the embodiment of Hell, the personification of agony itself, and he enjoys it. He relishes every moment of suffering, every twist of the knife, and he’s taught me to love it too.

He taught me well. Too well.

Because now… now I am someone else’s Alastair.

I see it in their eyes. The souls I torture, the way they look at me with that same hollow terror that I once reserved for him. That fear, that desperation to escape, to be anywhere but under my hands. It’s the same way I looked at him. Every time I pick up the blade, every time I reach for another soul, I hear his voice in my head, guiding me. Telling me where to cut, where to press, where to pull. And I do it. I follow his orders, his lessons, perfectly.

But it’s not just fear I see in their eyes. It’s something worse—recognition. Because they know. They see what I am, what I’ve become. They know I’m more than just a torturer. I’m their god now. The one they plead to, beg for mercy. And when I smile down at them, their screams growing more frantic, I realize something that makes my stomach churn, makes the bile rise in my throat.

I enjoy it. I enjoy the power, the control, the knowledge that I hold their entire existence in my hands. Alastair showed me the way, and now I can’t unlearn it. Can’t stop.

I am him.

I am someone else’s Alastair

My heart slams against my ribs, thundering in my ears, louder than the screams that still echo there, bouncing around my skull, refusing to fade. I can feel the blood slicking my hands—sticky, warm, coating every inch of my skin—and it takes a split second to realize it’s not real. None of it’s real. But my hands are shaking, fists clenched so tight my knuckles are white, fingers frozen like they’re still wrapped around a blade.

The taste of bile rises, acidic and bitter, forcing its way up my throat. I lurch sideways, barely making it to the edge of the bed before I retch, empty and raw. My mouth floods with spit, and I swallow it back, trying to breathe, trying to ground myself. The room is too small, the walls pressing in. My skin prickles with sweat, cold and hot, like Hellfire under the surface.

Every inch of me is screaming to run, to fight, to kill—like I’m still down there, like I never left. My leg throbs, sharp and insistent, reminding me I’m alive. I dig my fingers into the wound, hissing through my teeth as the pain spikes. It’s grounding, brutal and ugly, but it keeps me here, keeps me from slipping back. My hands are trembling, and I’m barely able to focus, barely able to hold on. I squeeze until my vision goes white around the edges, the pain anchoring me, reminding me I’m in a shitty motel room in Pennsylvania, not on the rack.

I choke down a breath, then another. My lungs burn, chest heaving like I’ve just run for miles. The air is thick, and I can still smell the blood—his blood, my blood, it doesn’t matter anymore. I swipe a hand across my mouth, wiping away the spit, the bile, feeling my fingers graze the stubble on my face, feeling real for a second.

The sheets are twisted, knotted around me like chains, and I rip them off, tearing them free. I stumble to my feet, fighting the urge to bolt, to put distance between myself and… what? There’s nowhere to go, nowhere that’s safe. Just the sick, dark room and the memories clawing at the back of my mind, dragging me down.

I collapse onto the edge of the bed, forcing myself to sit still, digging my nails into my palms until I feel the sting, the faint trickle of blood. My skin is cold, sweat-soaked, but my mouth is dry, the taste of blood lingering like metal on my tongue. My breath rattles in my chest, coming out in shallow gasps, each one scraping my throat like broken glass.

It takes a few minutes—minutes that feel like years—before the room stops spinning, before my heart slows down to something almost normal. The muscles in my back ache, the tendons in my neck pulled tight like a bowstring. I’m wired, wide-awake, and empty, completely hollowed out.

I stare down at my hands, red half-moons embedded in my palms where my nails dug in. They’re shaking, useless, covered in phantom blood that I can’t wash away. It’s still there, no matter how many times I tell myself it’s not.

And I realize, in this brutal, sobering moment, that I’m never going to be clean.

Huggy Bear, that self-righteous bastard, keeps calling me The Righteous Man. Says it like it’s supposed to mean something. Like I’m some goddamn savior, like I’m worth a damn. But he’s wrong. So fucking wrong. I’m not righteous. I’m not even good. I’m nothing. Less than nothing. Not because I got shot. Hell, in this country, that’s practically a rite of passage. No, that bullet in my thigh doesn’t mean shit. It’s just flesh. Just blood. Something to patch up, walk off, move on from.

But the shit in my head? That’s something I can’t walk off. That’s what makes me less than nothing. That’s what makes me rotten from the inside out. I can’t forget Hell. Can’t forget what I did down there. What I became down there. Doesn’t matter how many Seals I stop, or demons I gank, or lives I save. None of it can scrub away the stain on my soul.

Because it’s not just my brain that’s fucked. It’s deeper. My soul is fucking ruined, twisted into something dark and sick, and no matter how hard I try to bury it, some part of me keeps dragging it back up to the surface. Insisting I never forget. Never forgive.

Every breath I take, every goddamn second I’m still alive, it’s like a reminder, like a knife twisting deeper into my gut. I can’t escape it. The memories, the screams, the faces of the people I tortured. The people I broke. They’re with me. Always with me. My punishment. My fucking legacy.

Huggy Bear thinks I’m supposed to be some kind of hero, thinks I was dragged out of Hell because I’m important, because I’ve got a destiny or some bullshit like that. But the truth? I’m worse now than I was before. Before Hell. Before Alastair made me into this thing. This... hollowed-out shell.

I don’t deserve to be back. Don’t deserve to be walking around like I’m some righteous warrior. Because I’m not. I’m just a broken, damned son of a bitch who’s too weak to forget, too stained to forgive myself.

The skin stretches, thin and pale as smog, mottled with boils and pustules that ooze thick, foul-smelling liquid. My blade slices through it without hesitation, the silver edge slick with old blood and dark ichor. The flesh parts with a sigh, and I almost smile at the hiss of gases escaping, thick and noxious, burning my nose as they waft up. I peel back the skin like I’m unwrapping a present, revealing the tangled mess of pink and purple intestines coiled beneath.

I poke around, inspecting the guts, pulling at a twisted piece of meat until it unravels. Let’s see… what did this poor fuck have for lunch?

The smell hits first—heavy with grease, the sour sting of onions still clinging to it. Bacon cheeseburger, extra onions. I drag the blade lower, slipping it deeper, splitting the intestines open like they’re nothing. Coffee too, black as sin, mingling with the rot. I can feel it all, every rancid ounce of it, seeping through my gloves, running down my arms, as if I’m absorbing it, becoming it.

The face of the soul on the rack—my victim—twists and writhes, the flesh rippling as if something’s moving beneath the skin. Slowly, the features shift, morphing, rearranging themselves until they’re familiar. Too familiar. Those black eyes staring back at me, filled with something dark and bottomless, filled with hunger. The face of the soul rises like a storm cloud, and I can feel my heart lurch as recognition hits.

It’s me.

The face is bloated, flesh swollen with rot, black eyes gleaming, mouth twisted into a grimace of eternal suffering. It’s my face, staring back at me, empty and evil. My own mouth is slack, lips pulled back to reveal rows of rotting teeth. The skin is gray, mottled, sloughing off in chunks, exposing the raw, red muscle beneath.

Those eyes—black as the Pit itself, abyssal, endless. Are those my eyes? My soul? The blade in my hand trembles, for the first time unsteady, as I look down and see my own body on the rack, putrid and corrupt. I’m cutting into my own flesh, peeling back layers of skin, hacking into my own intestines, and the stench fills my lungs, suffocating, overpowering.

The bile rises in my throat, my stomach heaves, but I can’t look away. I’m caught, frozen, transfixed by the horror of it. Alastair’s laughter echoes around me, seeping into my bones, filling the air with a sick, twisted joy. He knew. He knew all along. He knew I’d end up here, hacking into my own damned soul, carving away pieces of myself, and loving every second of it.

My hand jerks back, and the blade slips from my fingers, clattering to the ground. But the face on the rack—it smiles, a rotting, leering grin, lips peeling back over teeth that are all wrong, all crooked and sharp.

And I hear a voice—my voice—whispering back at me, filled with malice, dripping with contempt. Look what you’ve done. Look what you are.

Sam’s phone buzzes, and he gives me a quick glance, something tight in his expression, like he’s debating whether to answer it. Finally, he picks up, turning slightly away, voice low, serious. I can’t make out much, just a few clipped words: “Yeah. Tonight?” and then something like, “I’ll be there.” He turns back to me, eyes narrowed, all business.

“I’ve got a lead,” he says, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Shouldn’t take long. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Just… stay put, okay?” He’s got that look, the one that says he knows I’ll ignore him, but he’s asking anyway.

Before I can argue, he pulls out another dose of whatever cocktail he’s been feeding me and holds it out. “Here,” he says, like it’s a damn peace offering. “It’ll help. You need to rest.”

“More like you want me passed out so I don’t do anything stupid while you’re gone,” I mutter, but I take the pills, wash them down with the flat, metallic-tasting water he left by the bed. They hit my stomach like lead, and I swear I feel them sink, spreading a thick warmth through my veins that pulls at my eyelids, heavy and relentless.

Sam gives me one last look, then grabs his jacket, muttering something about not being gone long. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me in silence, the muffled hum of the TV and Neil’s voice still rumbling on in the background.

I lie there, letting the seconds stretch out, my head swimming, eyelids slipping shut despite myself. Gotta stay awake. Gotta keep fighting it, but the drugs are strong—too strong—and I can feel my thoughts fuzzing around the edges, slipping through my fingers like sand. Shitty TV? I flip through the channels, not even registering what’s on, just mindless noise, flashes of color. But my eyes keep blurring, can’t focus on a damn thing.

Alright. Music. I love music, right? It’ll keep me awake. I fumble with the old radio beside the bed, and it crackles to life, static filling the room, then the faint thrum of a guitar, some classic rock station barely coming through. But even the music slips away, blending into the hum in my brain, like I’m underwater, sounds distant and hollow.

“Damn it, Sammy,” I mutter, blinking hard, dragging a hand across my face. “You’re cheating, you know that?”

Everything’s hazy. My limbs feel heavy, like they’re not even mine, like they’re made of lead. The drug haze is winning, and I can feel my eyelids drooping, sinking lower and lower.

No. I’m not letting this happen. I can’t.

If there’s one thing I learned in Hell, it’s the merits of pain.

The thought hits hard, like a slap to the face, but it’s true. Pain’s the only thing that keeps me grounded, the only thing real when everything else is slipping away. I glance down at my leg, at the bandages, tight and uncomfortable, pinching my skin where the bullet ripped through. My breath hitches as I touch the wound, fingers grazing the edge, pressing just enough to feel the sting beneath the gauze.

It’s a bad idea. A really bad idea.

But fuck it.

I peel the bandage back, just enough to see the angry red flesh, swollen and sore. My breath hisses between my teeth as I press my thumb into the wound, slow at first, testing the sharpness of the pain. A thin trickle of blood seeps out, warm against my fingers, and for a second, the fog in my head clears. The pain cuts through the drugged-up haze like a knife, bringing everything back into sharp focus.

It hurts like hell. But it’s real. And that’s all that matters.

I press harder, biting down on a groan, feeling the wound throb like a second heartbeat under my fingers. Blood’s trickling out now, faster, thicker, but I can’t stop. Won’t stop. The pain’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this shitty motel bed, to this shitty motel life. The sting slices through the fog in my head, sharp, electric, but not enough to pull me all the way out. Just enough to remind me I’m still here. Still bleeding. Still real.

The room shifts. Everything’s too bright. Colors too sharp, like someone cranked the contrast all the way up on a busted TV, everything blaring in high-def. The lights flicker, buzz, cutting through the air like a chainsaw, slicing into my skull. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, a relentless thud-thud-thud that drowns out the hum of the AC, drowns out everything. The world’s shrinking down, narrowing in on that single point of pain in my leg, like I’m seeing everything through a pinhole, the edges blurred, distorting.

I hear something. A shuffling sound. Shoes dragging across the thin motel carpet. My hand is slick, blood smeared across my fingers, dripping from the wound. The pain’s sharp, but it’s losing its grip on me. It’s not enough to keep me here, not anymore.

The sound is closer now—shush, shush, shush. It’s coming from the dark corner by the bathroom. I glance up, heart hammering in my chest. The shadow’s small, barely a foot deep, cast by the flickering overhead light. There’s no room for anyone to hide. No way someone’s there.

But I know that sound. That slow, deliberate shuffle. That’s when I hear it, that rasping, oily voice slithering through the air like a fucking snake.

“Mmmm, this is very interesting,” the voice croons, low and rough like sandpaper on bone. A pale, gaunt figure steps out from the corner, like he’s been there the whole time, hiding in the thin strip of shadow. Alastair.

Of course it’s him. It always is.

He’s holding something. A book. Looks like a Bible, old, worn, the kind of thing that’s seen too much blood. His smile’s there, that twisted, hungry grin I’ll never forget, his teeth like rows of broken glass, his skin sickly pale, stretched tight over sharp bones.

My breath catches, and I do the only thing I know will keep me from falling further—I jam my finger deep into the hole in my thigh. Deeper than I should. The pain roars through me like fire, so raw it tears a shout from my throat. The world tilts, my vision flashing white for a second. I clench my teeth, trying to ride it out, waiting for him to disappear.

But he doesn’t.

Fuck!

Alastair just stands there, smiling like I’ve done exactly what he wanted. His eyes flick down to my leg, then back up, gleaming with amusement. He opens the book, slow and deliberate, like he’s about to read me a bedtime story. His finger trails down the page, and I can see the words now, scrawled in some script I don’t recognize. And then, in that same smooth, dark voice, he begins.

“Dean, please,” he purrs, voice dripping with condescension, “tell me what you think of this—‘I submit to the embrace of buckled black leather and lean to kiss a bearded face which pulls forever away.’ What do you believe the author had in mind when he wrote this?”

I glare at him, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Pain is coursing through me, but it’s not enough. Nothing’s enough. He’s still here, looming, pressing down on me like a weight I can’t shake off. The words slither from his lips, curling in the air, sticking to my skin like sweat. His eyes glint with sick curiosity, like he’s genuinely interested in my answer, like this is some fucking literary analysis class and not a waking nightmare.

My hand tightens around my thigh, nails digging into the skin around the wound. Blood oozes between my fingers, and I force myself to look away from him, to focus on the pain, to ground myself in it. But his voice—God, that voice—it’s everywhere, inside me, inside my head.

“Submit.” He draws the word out, savoring it, rolling it around like a mouthful of blood. “What do you think it means, Dean? To submit to the inevitable, to the pain, to me?”

I want to tear him apart. I want to scream, to tell him to fuck off, to tell him that I’m done playing his games. But the words die in my throat. He’s too close. Too real. My fingers twitch, but they don’t move from the wound. I’m stuck. Pinned between the pain and the fucking poetry dripping from Alastair’s lips.

He laughs, a low, rumbling sound, and flips the page, like there’s more where that came from. Of course there is.

“Come now,” he croons. “You were always such a good student. Tell me, Dean, what do you think? What color will your eyes be when it’s all said and done? White, like mine? Or something darker, deeper, more fitting for someone who’s learned so well at my hand?”

I dig my fingers deeper into the wound, trying to rip myself out of this. Trying to drown out the voice, the words, the fucking questions. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

And he’s still here. His pale, bony fingers tracing the words like he’s reading a bedtime story, but the story’s fucked, and I’m the punchline. One finger skims the page, a gesture that would seem gentle if it weren’t for the way his other hand reaches down, cold and deliberate, to grip the torn muscle in my leg. My breath catches, every nerve lighting up, my entire body screaming out in warning, but I’m frozen. Pinned.

“Mmmm,” he purrs, his voice like oil slicked across glass, “I’m especially curious about this bearded face the poem mentions.” His fingers tighten, the pressure sending a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. “Do you think it’s God? A lover? A father?”

Alastair looks up from the book, his dead eyes locking onto mine with a cruel gleam. And then, slowly—so slowly it feels like time itself stops—he dips two fingers into the wound. My gaping, bleeding wound, fingers sliding in like they belong there, like my flesh is his to play with. He swirls them inside, stirring the raw muscle, poking at the torn edges like he’s testing the texture of meat before a meal.

The pain is… incandescent. There’s no other word for it. It’s blinding, pure white-hot agony. A level of pain only Alastair can bring, one I thought I left behind in the Pit. I scream. My throat tears itself apart, the sound ripping through me until there’s nothing left. I scream until I can’t breathe. Until I’m gasping for air that won’t come. Until my vision spots and tunnels and fades.

Then, so fucking slow it feels like a goddamn lifetime, he draws his fingers out of my wound, slick with blood and tissue, shining under the flickering light. I’m shaking, my body convulsing from the shock, but it’s nothing compared to what comes next.

He brings his fingers to my lips. Blood dripping. My blood.

And I open my mouth.

Just like old times.

I suck his fingers in with a moan, my body betraying me, heat flooding through me as the taste of my blood hits my tongue. It’s hot, salty, sharp, and metallic, and fuck, I hate how good it feels. How familiar. My cock throbs in time with the wound, a sick, twisted rhythm that I can’t control, that I can’t stop. Pain and pleasure, all tangled together in the worst way possible. Just like old times.

Alastair grins, that sick, knowing grin that makes my skin crawl and my pulse spike. He draws his fingers out slowly, watching me with that glint in his eye, savoring every second of my brokenness.

“Who would it be for you, Dean?” he whispers, his voice dripping with mockery, with venom. “What bearded face do you lean to kiss, only to have it turn away?” He drags his slick fingers down my chin, smearing blood across my jaw. “God? John? Or…” he leans in closer, his breath hot on my skin, “is it me?”

And that’s it, isn’t it? The unspoken question hanging in the air, the one that burns deeper than the wound in my leg, deeper than the Hell I crawled out of. What am I chasing? What face do I keep reaching for, hoping it’ll stay, only to have it pull away?

Sam?

Cas?

Bobby?

Dad?

The room seems to tilt, the walls bending in on themselves, warping like they’re made of something soft, pliable. My head spins, and for a moment, I’m not sure which way is up. The pain is supposed to keep me tethered, but now it’s blurring into something else. Something worse.

The air around me thickens. It’s heavy, suffocating. The smell of blood grows stronger, more pungent, and it’s no longer just my blood. It’s the thick, coppery scent of bodies—of flesh, burning, rotting, decaying. I close my eyes, just for a second, just to try and focus, but when I open them again, the room is wrong.

The walls are closing in, the TV flickers like a strobe light, and the sound of the documentary twists, mingling with the screams I thought I’d left behind. The walls pulse, throbbing with the beat of my heart, and the light from the screen warps into a sickly green hue. I blink hard, trying to shake it off, but the smell of blood is thick in my throat now, choking me.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

But the pain in my leg tells me otherwise. I dig my fingers deeper into the wound, harder, desperate, and feel the wet, slick pull of flesh under my fingertips. And that’s when I see them—the eyes. Black, yellow, red. Swirling at the edges of my vision, watching, waiting. The room is wrong. The air is wrong. And I’m not sure if I’m here anymore.

The next time I open my eyes, there’s some garbage about aliens and pyramids blaring on the TV. The kind of shit that makes Sam flip his goddamn lid. If I’m ever feelin’ real bored—like, dangerously bored—I’ll throw this crap on, pop some popcorn, and do a shot every time Sammy loses his shit over some wild claim from The Dude With The Hair. You know the one. The guy with the invisible beachball hands. Always gesturing like he’s holding some mystical, alien orb that’s about to reveal the secrets of the universe.

Sammy fucking hates that dude.

I think he’s hilarious.

But something’s wrong. I squint at the TV, trying to focus, trying to make sense of what the hell I’m looking at. Where the fuck did Neil deGrasse Tyson go? Weren’t we talking about black holes and galaxies like five minutes ago? How long was I out?

A pit of dread settles in my stomach.

Oh shit!

I look down, and my heart jumps into my throat. My leg. My fucking leg.

The bandage is soaked through, blood seeping around the edges, staining the sheets in dark, angry patches. The wound looks worse—far worse than when Sam patched me up. My breath hitches, and I feel the blood pounding in my ears again, panic rising fast, hot, consuming.

What the fuck?!

I shift, trying to sit up, but the second I move, pain lances through me, sharp and immediate. I grit my teeth, hands instinctively flying to the wound, and fuck, it’s bad. It’s so much worse than I remember. The edges of the hole are red and swollen, oozing something that shouldn’t be there. The bullet wound is angry, pulsing under my fingers like it’s alive, like it’s trying to tear me apart from the inside.

My stomach churns.

I press down harder, trying to keep pressure on it, trying to stop the bleeding, but it’s too late. The blood’s coming fast now, hot and sticky between my fingers. I blink, trying to push back the dizziness creeping in around the edges of my vision.

How long was I fucking out?

And why didn’t I wake up sooner?

The pain’s not pain anymore. It’s a roar. It’s everything. Blood running down my leg like a fucking faucet, soaking the sheets. The wound. Gaping. Pulsing. Black. Black like the Pit. Black like my soul.

I try to sit up. Can’t. The world tilts, spins. Fuck, I’m falling. But I’m not falling. Not here. Not now. Not in the shitty motel with the shitty TV still playing that shitty alien bullshit.

Falling back. Back into Hell.

The wound’s wide open. Flesh, bone, rot. Black veins crawling up my thigh, twisting under my skin like worms. Fucking worms. I’m back there. The smell. Flesh, burning. Flesh, melting. Acid in the air. No air. Fire. Screams, the screams never stop.

My breath’s gone. Stuck in my chest. Like breathing through wet cement. I try to move. No good. My body, my leg, pinned. My hands, covered in blood—my blood, but it’s not. It’s not red anymore. It’s dark, thick. Bubbling. My fingers slip inside, into the wound, and I feel it. Feel it crawling. Crawling in me.

There’s something in my skin. Something under my fucking skin. Moving. Fucking moving.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Open them. Shut. Open. I’m still here. But I’m not.

The TV flickers, the volume warps. One second, the dude with the hair is rambling about aliens and pyramids, the next it’s a voice. His voice. Low. Twisting. Dripping. Alastair. Whispering. Laughing. He’s close. Too close.

My leg throbs. Pulses. Beats in time with my heart, slow and steady. Rhythmic. And there’s his voice, “What’s the matter, Dean? Feel it, don’t you?”

Feel what?

I can’t—fuck, I can’t breathe. I try to move, push up, but the world tips, and I see them. The eyes. First one, then two. Ten. Twenty. A fucking ocean of them. Black, yellow, red. White. They blink, watching, waiting. Hungry.

I’m back. I’m fucking back. I’m still there.

I try to rip the sheets, push away, anything. But it’s too late. The air’s thick. Choking me. The smell. Burnt meat. My hands are on fire, blistering, peeling, but they’re not. They’re fine. They’re here. They’re not. The TV hums, whispers, it’s all in your head, Dean, it’s all in your fucking head.

But I see it. I fucking see it.

The Pit. The rack. The screams. Alastair’s face, just on the edge of the shadow, grinning. That sick, fucking grin. “You really thought you could leave? You think it just ends?”

I shake my head, squeeze my eyes shut again. Open. Shut. Fuck. I’m losing it.

I grab the wound, dig my fingers in deeper. I need the pain. I need it sharp, real, now. But it’s not enough. Not enough. The blood bubbles. Black. Boiling. It’s spreading. I’m fucking rotting.

The TV flickers again. The hum of the voices warps and whines, “Back where you belong, Dean.”

And I can’t tell if I’m here or there or somewhere in between, and I don’t fucking care because I’m stuck. Stuck in this room. Stuck in this body. Stuck in Hell.

The eyes blink. The voices whisper. And I swear to God I feel it—the flames licking at my skin.

I’m small again. Six. Maybe seven. Already a parent. Already a fucking expert at taking care of Sam, Dad, and whichever shithole we’re in this week. No questions. Never question. Dad made that real clear from day one. My job? Take care of Sam. Diapers, bottles, clean clothes. Keep him quiet. That was the big one. Keep Sammy quiet. Keep him safe. Also, cook for Dad and me, do the laundry at the laundromat, clean the dishes, sharpen the knives, clean the guns. Everything Dad didn’t have time for? Yeah, that fell on me.

And I was fucking good at it.

But not now. Not today. Today, Sammy’s screaming his head off, and nothing I do is working. Not the bottle, not the blanket, not the rocking back and forth like Dad showed me. He’s just screaming. And I’m starting to panic. Starting to think maybe he’s sick. Maybe something’s really wrong, and what the fuck am I supposed to do then?

That’s when Dad comes home. Smelling like sweat. Like whiskey. Like anger. The door slams so hard it rattles the walls, shakes the shitty frame of this shitty house. And all I can think is keep him quiet. Keep him safe. Keep him out of the way.

But it wasn’t Sammy that day. It was me.

Dad’s yelling about something. Something I did. Or something I didn’t do. Doesn’t matter now. Didn’t matter then either. I just remember the feeling—my stomach turning to ice, that cold sweat prickling the back of my neck, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

Don’t look scared. Don’t look weak.

I try to stand tall, chest out, shoulders back, like I’ve seen him do a hundred times, but I’m just a kid. A fucking kid. My feet barely reach the floor, my hands too small to hold a gun, but here I am, standing in front of him, trying to act like I’m not scared shitless.

I don’t even know what set him off. Probably something stupid. Something small. But he’s already pissed, and once he’s pissed, there’s no stopping it. There’s no going back. He’s yelling, getting closer, his words like bullets, each one punching a little harder, a little deeper.

I’m trying. Trying so hard to be tough, to be what he wants me to be, but I can’t. I’m just a fucking kid.

And then the first blow landed.

I didn’t see it coming. His hand was fast, brutal, and the slap sent me stumbling back. The sting spread through my cheek, hot and sharp, and for a second, I couldn’t process it. Couldn’t believe it happened. Dad hit me.

The next hit came harder. A fist this time. My ribs lit up, exploding with pain I’d never felt before, and the air got punched out of me, like the world shrunk in on itself. I gasped, but it wasn’t enough. The pain kept building, like a wildfire crawling through my chest.

I hit the floor, hands grabbing at the carpet, but I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The taste of iron flooded my mouth—blood from where I’d bitten my tongue.

“Get up!” he snarled, his voice like gravel, thick with frustration, with rage. But I couldn’t. I tried, I really did, but my body wouldn’t listen. The pain throbbed, echoed, and everything in me screamed to stay down, to stay small. But I knew better. Knew he’d just keep going. So I forced myself up, my knees trembling, vision blurry with tears I refused to let fall.

Then came the belt.

I wasn’t prepared. Couldn’t have been. The sound it made—the snap of leather cutting through the air—was worse than the impact. When it hit my back, I thought my skin had split open. It burned, a line of fire tearing across my shoulder blades, and I screamed. Couldn’t help it. The sound tore out of my throat before I could stop it.

“Shut up,” he said. And then it came again. And again. Each lash carving into my back like hot knives, searing the pain deep into my bones, deeper than I knew pain could go.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. All I remember is the feeling of the world shrinking down to just me and him, to the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, the sting of my skin, and the heavy weight of knowing this was my fault. I should’ve been better. Quieter. Stronger.

Eventually, he stopped. The room was quiet again. Just me, curled up on the floor, shaking, my body humming with pain, and John breathing hard, standing over me like he wasn’t sure what to do next. He didn’t say sorry. He didn’t say anything. He just left. Slammed the door behind him, the way he always did.

I stayed there on the floor for a long time. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t scream anymore. Just lay there, trying to breathe, trying to understand what the fuck had just happened. My body ached, my skin on fire, but the real hurt? The real fucking damage? That was buried so deep, I didn’t know how to pull it out.

That was the first time I really knew pain. The first time I learned what it meant to hurt. The first time my world shrank down to nothing but fists and belts and skin that tore too easily. The first time I realized this—this suffering, this endless fucking loop of pain—was going to be the core of my existence.

It wouldn’t be the last.

Pain became a part of me. Every single fucking day since Mom died, I’ve either been injured or healing from something. Cuts. Bruises. Broken bones. Split lips. Nearly thirty years of patching myself back together like I’m nothing more than a busted-up car. A quick fix. Move on. Get up. Again. And again. And again.

But Alastair? Alastair perfected it. That was real pain. That was art.

Thirty years on the rack. Thirty years being taken apart, shredded, burned, sliced, vivisected. His hands were instruments of suffering, and my flesh was just the canvas. You think John Winchester knew pain? Thought he was a master at brutality? No. Fuck no. Dad was a fucking newb compared to Hell. Compared to Alastair. Dad was a schoolyard bully slapping me around with a belt. Alastair was a fucking God.

But here’s the kicker—here’s the part that sticks in my throat like a jagged shard of glass—I said Yes. I fucking said Yes. Broke the first Seal. Not that I knew it at the time, not that it mattered. Alastair smiled, and BAM. The knife was in my hand. I wasn’t the victim anymore. No. I got to make someone else hurt for a change.

Sixty years of suffering was unleashed in one single moment. Decades of agony, of fire, of screaming—all of it was handed back to me, like a gift. And I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t stop.

I let it all out.

And I fucking loved it. I carved my rage into every soul Alastair put in front of me. Every scream, every tear of flesh, every bone I shattered—it was like breathing. I made Dad look like a fucking pussy. All that time he spent trying to make me strong, to toughen me up with his belt and his fists—it was child’s play.

I made Alastair proud.

And worse? I was proud that he was proud. Proud that I could make him smile that twisted, satisfied smile as I peeled someone else’s skin off. As I made them scream. As I broke them the way I’d been broken.

Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? I’m broken. And there’s no fixing this. Not after what I’ve done. Not after what I am. Dad thought pain made me strong. But all it did was make me dangerous. Dangerous to myself, dangerous to everyone around me.

I’m not John Winchester’s son. I’m Alastair’s fucking masterpiece.

The room snaps back, slamming me out of the memory like I’ve been thrown through a fucking windshield. My chest’s too tight—way too tight—like a goddamn vise is crushing my ribs. I can’t get enough air. My heart’s jackhammering against my chest, and my hands—Jesus, my hands are shaking. Trembling. Like they’re still holding the knife, like I’m still on the rack, still tearing into—

No. No. Not now. Not here.

Can’t breathe. Can’t think. My heart’s pounding this sick, frantic rhythm, faster and harder, like it’s trying to tear its way through my ribs, trying to rip me apart from the inside. My lungs seize up, choking on nothing, on everything. Panic’s digging in, twisting, fucking killing me.

Where the hell is Sam?

My hands—fuck, they won’t stop shaking. Trembling like a scared kid in the cold. Like I’m still on that rack, still holding the goddamn knife, still back there. My skin’s slick, fevered, soaked in sweat, clinging to me—hot and cold all at once. The heat’s crawling under my skin, gnawing at me, chewing me alive from the inside. I swipe at my face, but my hands, my fucking hands, they won’t stop. Won’t stop shaking.

The TV’s different now—the alien guy’s gone, thank fuck, but it’s not better. Now it’s some bullshit about sunken cities, the sound all warbled and distant, like it’s underwater too. Just like me. My body feels heavy, like I’m sinking, like I’m being dragged down into the sweat-soaked mattress.

But Sam. Sam. Where the fuck is Sam?

He should be here. He should be here, but he’s not. He’s out there, doing fuck knows what with fuck knows who, and I’m stuck here, alone, a goddamn mess. And what if—what if he doesn’t come back? What if he’s finally had enough of my bullshit? Wouldn’t fucking blame him. Why the hell would he come back to this? To me? To the broken, useless piece of shit I’ve turned into?

The sweat drips into my eyes, stinging, burning, but I don’t bother wiping it away. Can’t. What’s the point? My leg’s throbbing, the wound pulsing, screaming at me, but it’s nothing compared to this, to the noise in my head, to the fucking emptiness.

Where’s Sam? Is he even coming home? He’s probably sick of it. Sick of patching me up, dragging me out of every hole I’ve crawled into. Wouldn’t blame him. Hell, I’d leave too. If I had to look at me, I’d fucking run. I’d run so far, so fast, and never look back.

Sam’s gone. I’m on my own. Always have been. Always will be.

I’m a fucking anchor around his neck, dragging him into the same darkness I can’t crawl out of. And now I’m stuck. Stuck in this bed, stuck in this body, stuck in this fucking head, waiting for him to come home. If he even comes home.

And even if he does—how long before he leaves for good? How long before he leaves, just like everyone else?

The world starts to blur at the edges, soft and hazy, like everything’s smudged together in some shitty watercolor. My vision flickers in and out, a strobe light effect that’s making my head spin. The walls breathe, moving in slow, shallow pulses, like they’re alive, like everything around me is alive.

No, no, no—stay here. Stay fucking here.

But the world keeps fuzzing out, sinking me into that dangerous place between here and wherever the fuck my brain wants to drag me. Flashbacks. Hallucinations. I know what’s coming, and I can’t—I can’t fucking go there again.

I reach down, my hand shaking as it moves toward my leg, the wound. Still open. Still throbbing. Still bleeding. The bandage is soaked through, dark red spreading, staining everything beneath it. I press my fingers into the wound, harder than I should, and a hiss escapes my throat. The pain’s sharp, white-hot, but it cuts through the fog.

Blood. So much blood. It spills over my fingers, slick and warm, and I dig deeper. I need it. I need the pain, the wet, pulsing heat under my skin, to keep me here. To keep me from falling back.

But the more I press, the more it pours. Dark, thick, spilling over my hand, over the sheets, over everything. It’s warm, too warm, crawling up my arm like it’s alive. The smell hits me—metallic, thick, heavy—and it’s everywhere. So much blood.

My head swims, the fever twisting everything into this red, swirling nightmare. Everything is bleeding. My hands, the bed, the fucking walls. It’s spreading, crawling across the floor, up the sides of the room like it’s trying to drown me in it. The TV flickers, the sound warping, voices drowned in the hum of blood pouring through the speakers.

I press harder, biting down on a scream. But the blood keeps coming. Keeps spreading. And in the middle of it, in the middle of all this red and pain, I hear it. The sound of something thick, sticky. Dripping. Splattering.

Blood.

It drips from my fingers. It drips from the ceiling, from the walls. It’s coming from everywhere.

My mind’s spinning, slipping, twisting around that one word: blood. It’s all I see, all I hear. The pulse of it, the slick feel of it between my fingers. It’s all around me, drowning me in it. I look down at my hands, covered in red, and I can’t tell if it’s mine anymore. It doesn’t feel like mine.

The bed’s soaked through, the sheets heavy with it, and I keep pushing into the wound, forcing the pain to ground me. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I’m sinking into it, into the blood, into the fever, into the madness, and it’s swallowing me whole.

I try to focus, try to breathe, but the blood keeps rising. It’s in my mouth now, hot and salty on my tongue, choking me, and I’m drowning. Fucking drowning in it.

My breath hitches, and I push harder. Pain. Come on. Come on. Focus.

But it’s not working. The world’s slipping further away, the blood filling my throat, filling my lungs. I gasp for air, but all I taste is blood, all I feel is the slick warmth pouring from me, through me, into me. I press again, harder, harder, but everything’s spinning, spinning—

I look up, and the walls are bleeding too.

Red, dark streaks, sliding down, dripping onto the floor, into the pool at my feet. I blink, but the blood’s still there, spreading. Spreading. Growing.

I’m not sure where I am anymore. I’m not sure if I’m awake, or if I’m slipping back under, if this is another flashback, another hallucination, or if I’m still trapped in Hell. Am I still there?

My head spins, the fever burning, my body slick with sweat, and the blood—it’s everywhere. I can’t escape it.

Where the fuck is Sam?

The door crashes open. There’s a blur—Sam. His footsteps pound heavy across the floor, the sound mixing with the warbled hum of the TV and the wet, slick drip of blood that’s everywhere now. It’s pouring through the room—from the walls, from the ceiling, from my own fucking hands.

I look up, and there he is. My baby brother. And he’s pissed. His face twisted in something between fear and frustration, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing—like he can’t believe I’m still here, in this mess, in this fucking bloodbath.

“Dean!” His voice slices through the haze, sharp, raw. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He’s closer now. Looming over me, eyes wide, dark, filled with panic. He’s yelling something else, but I can barely hear it. Just fragments. “You’re bleeding!”

But he’s covered in it too. Blood. It’s spilling from his mouth—fuck, it’s everywhere. Thick, dark lines, streaming out of him, running down his chin, dripping onto his shirt, streaking his throat red, like he’s bleeding from the inside out.

So much blood. Everywhere.

It coats his skin, painting him, drowning him in it. My stomach churns, flips, the room spinning faster, my head swimming.

I blink, slow. My vision's fading in and out, everything tipping sideways. “You’re covered in blood, Sammy.”

Sam freezes. His eyes lock on mine, and for just a second, something flashes there. Guilt. Deep. Buried. But I see it. It’s there. Behind the anger. Behind the fear.

Why the hell does he look so damn guilty?