One-shots

"All I know is pain."

Warning: This oneshot may contain spoilers for seasons 4 through 8, definitely season 4. Don't continue reading if you don't want accidental spoilers. (Also, it's been a while since I've watched seasons 4 through 8, so my apologies if somethings are incorrect, I'm relying on Google and memory.)

Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural

Summary: Dean was sent to Hell, and he spent most of his days in agony on racks, with what seemed to be hooks digging into his skin. When he got off the racks, he was still in constant agony. After spending nearly forty years in Hell (in Earth time it was only four months), he was raised. But, after years in constant agony without a break, he learned that he couldn't live without it.

Notes: Whaddup, it's me, Unknown. Coolio texted me what she wanted to read, and I loved it, so I'm writing it. This is my fuckin' strong suit, man. I wish I was kidding.

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Dean scratched at the surface, his hand coming out of the dirt, the dried up and dead grass around him scratching at it. His second hand emerged, and he slid himself out of the grave. Setting his hands on the ground, he lifted himself, his head popping out and he gasped for air, his chest rising and falling quickly. He struggled with getting himself out of the grave, grunting as he clawed his way out. He finally made it, and he lied down to rest for a second, he was out of breath and he was tired.

After years of no blue sky, no sun, and no fresh breeze on his skin, it felt nice; he just wished there wasn't dirt and sweat clinging to him like glue. He would always remember what it felt like, the sun on his skin for the first time in years. Dean stood up, and what he saw confused him. The trees around him had fallen, not just the first row of trees; no, it was a couple rows, maybe a hundred yards or so, give or take. It brought curiosity to him, he would find out what the hell happened. What he remembered before all of this was Hell, he was covered in blood, demons screeching around him, pain; his own pain. There was just... so much.

"Dean?"

Dean snapped his head up, finding his little Brother staring at him with worry. "Sorry, what?"

"You zoned out."

Dean forced a smile, "I'm good, man. I'm good."

"Really?" Sam continued to stare, the worried look not disappearing from his face, from his eyes that held even more emotion.

"Really." Dean stood up, his boots creating a small thump as he walked across Bobby's floor. He walked to the bathroom, and he shut the door, locking it. He closed his eyes, leaning his hands against the sink. Dean exhaled sharply, thinking about the first time he realized he couldn't survive without it; it felt like he couldn't breathe without it. It's all he's known since that first night.

Dean stared at himself in the mirror, lifting his shirt. He saw nothing, his stomach and chest were clear of claw marks and teeth marks; but he still felt it, he felt everything, he even remembers the screaming he did. He dropped his shirt, a weird look settling on his face. He turned to the side, lifting his T-shirt's sleeve up, and he gasped lightly at the hand mark that had been burned into his flesh. He didn't know who did it, but he wanted to know.

Then of course, there was the eardrum destroying screeching that had happened, but he never craved that again. If he was being honest, he absoloutly hated it. He wanted the physical pain, he wanted the stinging and the burning. That's why he always dug his nails into his arm when Sam or Bobby weren't paying attention, it burned and stung. Eventually, he got used to the pain and had to move on to other things.