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The Immortal Writings of Nara Kagerou

Dean's Hell, [R] - post S3 finale



Dean's Hell, [R] - post S3 finale

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Title: Hell
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Warnings: This story is about Dean in Hell, and Hell is NOT a nice place. Adult concepts. Mention of rape, murder, and torture being inflicted on Dean and others. Evil!Sam.
Characters: Dean. Hints of Sam.

Notes: I wanted to do a very psychological take on Hell. Psychological pain can be much, much worse than physical pain, especially for Dean. The whole story takes place inside Dean's head, a sadistic delusion just to make Dean suffer. Very dark, not for the faint of heart, please.

This is Dean's Hell.

The only thing he remembers--and therefore, the only thing that he doesn't know for sure--is that once, a very long time ago, Dean Winchester had a dream.

He doesn't remember the dream, doesn't remember what was in it, or where it came from. He only remembers that there was a dream. He remembers that once upon a time, he dreamt that he was happy. He remembers remembering the dream, and he thinks he remembers that Sam laughed. He thinks he remembers that he laughed, that he was someone that mattered--to Sam, and to strangers that he helped, people he saved. He thinks he remembers that his mother loved them, and that his father was proud. He thinks he remembers being proud of his little brother, remembers the feeling of knowing what it feels like to have someone to protect, someone you'd give the whole damn world--and maybe your soul--if only to see them smile.

He knows that none of that was ever real, none of that was even possible. It never happened. Only a dream, and one he doesn't remember. All the same, he likes to think that once, he had a dream where he knew what it meant to be happy.

He doesn't dream anymore. Sam doesn't let him dream.

This makes him cling all the fiercer to the memory of dreaming. Sam doesn't know that he remembers scraps of a distant dream, which is strange, because Sam knows everything else. He thinks Sam knows everything, except about his dream. That's one thing that's his alone, his faulty memory of a dream that never happened.

The things that he knows for sure, he does not remember, but he knows that they happened. He does not remember anything at all, and he does not know how he recognizes the things that he knows, but he knows with absolute certainty that they are real.


Every day begins with Sam coming to him with a smile.

Dean knows that it is day because the light comes with Sam, because Sam is the light, an angel of light, and he comes to where Dean is left in the darkness: cold, aching and terrified of the darkness. Each night is an eternity of empty pain, the void that remains in the absence of Sam, the absence of everything. But in the presence of Sam, there is only blind light and utter fear.

I'm sorry I was away so long, says the Sam-angel, the angel-of-light with his brother's face, the brother he doesn't recognize or remember. I was very busy. You know how much work I have, now. How much work you've given me.

"No," Dean says, and his voice breaks--lips raw, throat cracked.

You don't remember? You still don't remember. The angel looks distressed, dark eyes closing as if in pain. Dean still does not believe that this creature can feel pain. This creature who might once have been his brother. I need you to remember, Dean. I need you by my side. I'll show you one more time, Dean. This time, try to remember.

And it all starts over again.


Dean's life begins with his brother's death. If there was anything before that, Dean doesn't remember, and the angel doesn't wish to show him.

Dean relives seeing his brother die, relives catching him as he falls, relives dropping to his knees in the mud and feeling the cold rain wash away the warm blood that contained his brother's life. He sees Sam's eyes close, feels his pulse stop, despite all Dean's efforts.

So he does the only thing he can do, and he sells his soul to bring his brother back.

Are you sure that what you brought back is one hundred percent pure Sam?

Sam laughs, but it's not the way Sam laughed in the dream. He doesn't remember how Sam laughed in the dream. He only knows it's not like this.

Sam kills a demon, and laughs.

Sam kills a man, and laughs.

Sam kills a child, and laughs.

He makes Dean watch. And he laughs. Laughs, with blood on his hands, blood which he wipes on Dean's mouth, blood that he kisses away.

At first, he ties Dean down.

He ties Dean, hands and feet, and makes him watch while he kills. Makes him watch as he draws out their deaths, slow and painful, and every time Dean closes his eyes, he does something horrible, and threatens to do worse, if he doesn't watch. Dean watches, because he knows that Sam will let them die easier, quicker, as long as he keeps his eyes open. But it's still not pretty.

While Dean's tied, Sam covers him in blood, covers him in pieces of his victims, like little love-tokens to Dean that he takes off of their bodies and lays in Dean's lap, or inside of Dean's mouth, and then tapes his mouth closed so he can't spit it out. And when he's done, and the poor child has bled out, he keeps Dean tied as he rapes him.


One year, the demon gave him, but Sam smiles and tells him not to worry. Dean doesn't worry. He's past worry. Sam unties him, when they're alone. It's Sam's way of mocking him, because he knows that sooner or later, Dean will make a grab for one of the weapons, will make yet another effort to kill this thing that is no longer his brother.

He holds Dean's wrists as he chants in Latin, pins Dean against the wall and smirks, letting him finish the whole exorcism, his whole arsenal of exorcisms, and laughs when none of them work.

When Dean tries shooting him, Sam spends the entire day pouting about the bullet hole through his heart. Then he pins Dean against the Impala and rapes him, again, still bleeding from the wound. By the next day, it's gone, not even a scar.

Dean doses him with holy water, and he drinks it like it's fine wine. Then he steals one of Dean's crosses, sands it down until it's smooth, and rapes Dean with that, instead.

By the end of the year, Dean doesn't even bother fighting. He has no power to stand in Sam's way, no longer even has the will to try.

Sam laughs, and tells him that he's so very proud.


Sam brings him to hell as his own personal trophy, his brother, his bitch. The brother who sold his soul to hell for him, sold the whole world to hell for him, even sold Sam to hell, without ever realizing it.

Sam jokes that Dean really should learn to read the fine print.

And then, Sam, his brother, the angel of light, the lord of all Hell--Sam makes him watch as he drags everyone he's ever loved down to hell, and makes him watch as he tortures them, tortures them until they're so broken they cannot scream, cannot whimper, cannot even cringe. Then he wipes it from their memory, refreshes their body, and begins again.

Sam makes him watch as he tears the world apart. Sam makes him watch as he slaughters, then tortures, everyone he's ever saved. Everyone he's ever known.

When at last he's done, when there's no one left in Hell or on Earth, and even Heaven has been stripped bare and bled raw, he leaves Dean alone in the darkness, and that's the worst of all, to be alone in the darkness, without even the cruel, inhuman echo that is Sam.

He weeps, alone in the darkness, praying for only a scrap of light, praying for Sam to return, even though he knows that it will only begin the cycle again, yet again.


Sometimes, when he's alone in the darkness, he thinks he almost hears a whisper, almost dreams that he hears Sam's voice.

I'm coming, Dean. I won't leave you there alone. I'll get you out. I'm coming, Dean. I'm coming.

He knows it's not real, knows it's only the desperate gleams of his soul, the scraps of humanity in him struggling to believe in lies so that he can survive. He knows that believing in that shimmer of hope will only prolong his pain, only make it all the worse to suffer the cycle again. He knows that it's part of his torment, the false gem of hope.

Yet all the same, he likes to listen for it, when he's alone in the dark. He likes to strain his ears, hoping that he might just be able to make out words, that the silence might just stretch enough for him to hear Sam's voice. He likes to believe that maybe somewhere out there, there's another Sam, a Sam who knew what it meant to be happy. It's not real, but he likes it because it belongs to him. It's his whispers, just like it's his dream, even though they're not real, even though he can't remember.

He likes the whispers. They remind him that once, long ago, he knew how to dream.
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