In Hell

Chapter 3

There was no dignity in Hell. Not for any of them. Meg had freed herself from the table as quickly as she dared, watching carefully as his figure dwindled to nothingness in the distant darkness. Now was the time to leave. His mercy today would result in pain for both of them tomorrow, and the only way to avoid was to not be present when the collector came to call. But getting out of Hell was never an easy task. There were so many doors, so man wandering paths, and so many other lost souls trying for exactly the same door. She'd seen souls torn to shreds right before her eyes the last time she'd climbed out, and she had no intention of joining their number. Still, even facing such a possibility, it was the wiser path. Wiser by far than what she was doing now.

Meg dragged clothes over her aching body, wincing as the muscles pulled at bones not yet fully healed. On the outside, she looked whole, but she hadn't been whole in centuries. Here, in these pits, she only became more broken. Sometimes she felt like nothing so much as a puppet with cut strings as she pushed her body, her stolen body, through the motions of living. She'd been left no shoes, and so she pressed on barefoot. The grit beneath her feet was familiar, as was the occasional bite of small stones against the unprotected skin. Funny how such small hurts could cause reactions almost as easily as a knife between her ribs. She felt smaller without the added, artificial height of her boots. Smaller and more vulnerable.

She didn't have to look for his cell. Hell was a funny place in a lot of ways. A Labyrinth that constantly shifted, betraying the wanderer. But she was not a wanderer. For her, the paths righted themselves, lead her where she wanted to go. For her? There was only one path.

Dean's cell was vacant when she arrived. She'd beaten him to it, despite leaving after, and she used the time to her advantage, prowling the edges, taking in the cage and everything it said about the animal it held. The walls were marked by gashes, the grayness of their centers marking their age far better than their actual count could. She ran her fingers along them. The oldest ones, the ones from his first years in Hell, were deeper. Angrier. He'd carved them in frustrated determination, a need to mark the passage of time, such as it was. The newer ones? Barely scratches in the hard stone. He was losing interest. He was losing his ability to care. Losing hope. That was the point wasn't it? That was the goal.

"Shoulda left you tied down."

Meg turned in the direction of his voice, a half smile already on her lips. He towered over her, blocking out what little weak light filtered in from the hallway beyond, but it was only physical height. Down here? She dwarfed him.

"And why didn't you?" she asked, effecting a tone that implied she already knew, and was amused by his answer. Liar. But she was so very good at lies.

Dean didn't answer. He stepped into the small room, his face lost in darkness that even she couldn't see through. For a moment, she thought he might advance on her. Might reach for her, try to right his mistake at the table. She held her breath, waiting. Watching. But he didn't touch her. Didn't reach for her at all. For one brief moment he stood close, menacing, like a tiger sizing her up, ready to spring. And then he stepped aside.

"Get out."

"Why did you cut me loose?" She hadn't meant to ask him, hadn't realized until that moment why she'd really come.

She could see his eyes in the gloom, but only barely. He looked at her quickly, a flick of the eyes only, and in that look she saw too much. Pain and suffering were her art form. She knew the strokes of a master when she saw them in them in front of her. She'd seen them often enough, after all. Every time she looked in the mirror she saw them, etched into her bones. The burnt, dessicated thing she had become had been pulled from flesh and bone as surely as an angel pulled from marble by the hands of sculpture. What was it that Michelangelo had said? "I saw an angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." Whatever lurked within Dean Winchester was no angel, and never would be.

"Why did you set me free?" A whisper. A sound nearly lost in the darkness.

"Because I'm not a monster." Yet. He didn't say it. They both heart it.

She didn't run as she left, but she wanted to.