Echoes of Hell (Supernatural Fanfiction Book 4)

The Pain Beneath the Surface

Dean's Point of View

The pain in my leg is like fire, shooting up from the shattered bone all the way through my body. I can feel it pulsing, demanding my attention with every beat of my heart. But I can't let them know. Not Sam, not Bobby, not anyone. They've got enough on their plates without worrying about me.

I lie on my bed, trying to will the pain away, but it's no use. It's worse today, so much worse than usual. I don't know if it's because of the weather or just my own stubbornness catching up with me. Maybe both. I should probably get up and go join the others, but moving sounds like a nightmare right now. Besides, I don't want them to see how bad it is. I need to be strong for them, even if I'm falling apart inside.

I start drifting off to sleep, the pain dulling just enough for me to find some peace. Someone comes into the room, probably to check on me. I hear them move closer, then they toss Mom's blanket over me. It's comforting, even if it makes me feel like I'm being coddled. They must think I'm asleep because they leave without saying anything.

A while later, I hear voices from the other room. They're probably getting ready for dinner, but I don't move. I can't. The pain is worse now, like it's digging deeper into my bones. I try to shift to get more comfortable, but it just makes things worse. I grit my teeth and bear it, pretending I'm fine. I've had worse, right?

Sam's Point of View

Dinner's come and gone, and Dean still hasn't joined us. He usually drags himself out for a meal, but not tonight. It's not like him to miss out on food, especially not lately. A knot of worry tightens in my stomach, and I exchange a glance with Bobby.

"Maybe he's just tired," Bobby says, but I can hear the doubt in his voice. We both know that's probably not the case.

"I'll check on him," I say, getting up from the couch.

When I enter our room, Dean's still lying on the bed, Mom's blanket draped over him. He looks like he's sleeping, but something feels off. His breathing is too shallow, too tense, like he's trying to keep the pain at bay even in sleep.

My eyes land on his journal, open on the nightstand. I pick it up, intending to close it, but my gaze catches on the words written on the page.

The second time I went to Hell was worse than the first. But nothing the second time compares to when Crowley tried to have me kill a child. After I refused multiple times, he punished me instead. He didn't quit hitting my leg with a sledgehammer until the pain was so intense I couldn't stand on it even if I wanted to...

I feel a wave of nausea wash over me as I read the words. My throat tightens, and I look over at Dean, who's still lying motionless on the bed. Bobby steps into the room, sensing something's wrong.

"Did they ever tell you how bad his leg was after he came back?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Bobby looks grim. "They said it was broken, but I don't think they went into detail."

I hand him the journal, and he reads the passage. His face hardens with every word.

"Damn it," Bobby mutters, his voice laced with anger and sorrow. "That boy's been through Hell, literally, and he's still trying to shoulder it all on his own."

I can't believe he didn't say anything. The guilt hits me like a ton of bricks—how could I not have noticed how much pain he's been in? I should have known, should have done something. But he's always so damn good at hiding it.

I turn back to Dean, watching as he shifts slightly in his sleep, his face contorting in pain. My heart aches for him, for everything he's been through, and the thought of him suffering in silence is almost too much to bear.