Lazarus Falling [Supernatural]

Chapter Three - Dean and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Eternity

Dean Winchester couldn't even remember what pure silence sounded like. The screams were so constant, so incessant.

Hell was...well, hellish.

His fingers closed around the handle of the jagged knife, ignoring the sticky blood everywhere. On the knife, on his hands, on his face. The dregs of goodness that still lingered annoyingly in his head wanted him to stop this madness, but the rest of him refused to obey. The memory of pain was a powerful thing, combined with the sweet release that had been given to him when Alistair finally took him off the rack.

He turned to the damned soul stretched out before him, the darkness in Hell obscuring the person's face.

The first time, he had chickened out. The soul he was supposed to torture had been a young woman, not much older than Dean, with pretty blue eyes and crystalline tears running down her face. She had begged for Dean to stop what he was doing when he lifted the knife and held it against the skin of her arm. He had dropped the knife, taking a step back.

"I-I can't...I can't do it," Dean shuddered, hating the way his voice had trembled.

Alistair had said nothing; he only retrieved the knife. After holding it for a moment thoughtfully, he sliced the blade across Dean's back. As Dean swayed dizzily with pain, his new mentor handed him the knife and whispered in his ear, "Torture her, or there's worse in store for you."

He had taken the blade and approached the damned woman, who made the same protests as before. This time, though, Dean pictured this woman as what she would eventually become: a demon, a nameless, wretched thing that deserved no mercy. Thus he began to torture her, hesitating only occasionally. Whenever he did, Alistair would carve a new line into Dean's back. Needless to say, he didn't pause as much and she screamed more.

Now, Alistair didn't even need to be present while Dean performed his daily mutilations. It had become such a routine that Dean had stopped caring what happened. What happened in Hell, stayed in Hell, right? And Dean had to avoid pain as much as he could, whatever the cost.

His mind wandered as began to make artful, torturous cuts and the soul beneath him quailed and screamed. To whatever powers prevailed in Hell, he prayed that his brother was all right. After all, Dean had made this sacrifice for Sam. He was here because he needed to save Sam. And if his punk little brother died...well, then his sacrifice was for nothing.

He actually hoped that Sam was more than all right...Dean hoped he was happy. But the words "happy" and "hunter" usually didn't go together, and Dean would have settled for just alive.

Sam, wherever you are, I miss you. I want you to know that. I wish I could be with you, but this is just the way it has to be. Besides, you were always the better one of us. I'm glad you're the one that survived.

Dean's thoughts were interrupted by an especially loud scream of the prisoner. "Shut up," He snarled to the mutilated figure laid out before him.

The man – Dean saw his face as a brief flash of lightning illuminated the space – surprisingly stopped screaming, but he began whimpering pitifully. It was almost more annoying than the shrieks of pain.

Dean raised his knife to continue, but a hand stopped him, holding his wrist in an iron grip. He felt as though the sun had materialized behind him: the normally icy darkness of Hell was filled with a warm and bright light. Around him, he heard sounds of conflict and looked up to see something he never thought he would see.

Angels.

Bright and fierce and vengeful, they swooped upon the demons with feathery wings and silver swords. Dean had never been much of a believer, but there was no doubting what his eyes saw. Angels were real...and they were burning the demons' eyes out.

"Dean Winchester," The angel holding Dean's wrist let go as he spoke in a clear, commanding voice. The Winchester whirled around to face the heavenly creature, knife at the ready...

...And was shocked to see a face that he knew, vaguely. It was one that he had seen in a few old photographs his father kept tucked away in the glove compartment of the Impala. There was no mistaking it.

A young John Winchester stared back at him, yet the aloofness in his eyes and the neatly pressed suit was nothing like his father. Dean's muscles went numb, and the knife slipped through nerveless fingers.

"How...?" Dean managed to choke out around his shock. He was suddenly aware that he was covered in blood, while the younger version of his father was immaculately pristine.

"I'm not John Winchester," Not-Dean's-father spoke in a vaguely conversational tone, as though they weren't in the middle of a battle between angels and demons. "I can explain, but here is not the place and now is not the time."

Before Dean could even react, the fake John Winchester stepped forward and placed a hand against Dean's shoulder. He winced as the angel's power burned its way through his tattered shirt and onto the skin. That was going to leave a mark.

The angel spread magnificent white wings, far larger than any of the other angels', and began to fly upwards, hauling Dean by the shoulder. As they continued to rise and the rest of the heavenly soldiers followed them, Dean could feel exhaustion taking its toll. The darkness of unconsciousness was inviting, and he easily gave in.