WARNING - this chapter contains depictions of torture. If you're on the fence about reading it, you can always skim through that part ;) The rest of the story will more than make up for it. Be sure to let me know what you think!

Dean was right. It isn't easy or perfect between you two. But it's still worth it. Gotta be willing to put up with some major bad when the good with Dean is just so... sooooooo very good.

Seriously.

Like your-body-taking-over-the-top-position-on-Dean's-list-of-favorite-meals type good (though he assures you it still falls under the heading of 'pie'). Like blows-your-mind, rocks-your-world, makes-you-a-firm-believer-that-there-is-a-God-and-she-is-most-definitely-a-woman type GOOD.

The first major bad, though, comes courtesy of - not the divine-feminine responsible for Dean's flawless creation - but rather, a witch. Yeah, Dean's favorite, as he may have mentioned once or twice.

That evil bitch put the whammy on him right before you put a bullet in her brain (human or not, had to be done). And before you punched that hole in her third eye? She'd been rambling about how she saw a great darkness in Dean's heart.

Well, no shit, honey. Thanks for the news flash. The man's been to Hell and back - literally. As in, capital H, Hell. He's woken up buried 6 feet underground and had to claw his way to the surface. He's been through things out of the worst nightmares of even the most disturbed mind. He's got the sense memory of his mother burning alive when he was only four years old (the first time he'd done a salt and burn, he'd thrown up for an hour straight after realizing why he recognized the smell). He's felt his demon-possessed father tear him apart from the inside. He's lived his dream life, courtesy of a djinn, only to have to willingly give it up (by stabbing himself in the gut). He's seen his baby brother free-fall into the pit with Lucifer riding shotgun. He's seen his own monster of a daughter gunned down by his brother. He's recently spent a year fighting for his life 24/7 in Purgatory. If all of that (and so much more) won't put a black tinge on a person's heart, you don't know what will.

What the witch had seen, however, had been a tad bit more specific than a 'tinge.'

She saw a particular point in Dean's life. A walled-up and locked-down part of his personality that you had never dared to as much as take into consideration. And her last words, before some majorly ominous chanting, had been to tell you that she was going to set that dark part free.

Fast forward ten minutes or so, and here you are, crouching behind a shelf inside of this dilapidated, abandoned building with your gun clutched tightly in your trembling hands. Your eyes are wide and unblinking as you struggle to keep your labored breathing quiet. Your heart is hammering in your ears. Your adrenaline is pumping as you hide, desperately praying that you'll live to get away...

From Dean.

That's right. Dean. The same man you've spent the past 4 months attached to during sleep, sex, showering, and hunting. The man who'll undoubtedly star in 90% of your greatest memories if you ever get to Heaven (which just might happen here shortly). The man you can legitimately say you already love more than life itself, because Dean and the rest of Team Winchester are the only bright spots you have in a typical hunter's world of pain, horror, and fighting.

But the cheeseburger-loving, pie/'pie'-addicted, blanket-hogging, hair-nuzzling, lingerie-aficionado of a sex-God you fell in love with has evidently left the building. That is, if the freshly busted lip, black eye, broken wrist, and stab wound you're currently sporting are any indications.

Dean is... well... He's sort of stuck in Hell in his mind at the moment. And he's sort of a freaking psychopath. And he's sort of convinced that you're next up on his rack.

You have precisely ZERO interest in finding out what's supposed to happen on said rack.

But whatever it is, Dean seems pretty jazzed about it. He's all kinds of eager to get started, too, like someone just handed him a nice, shiny, new toy to play with.

It's surreal. I mean, yeah, you knew about his 40 year stint in Hell. You did. You even knew that 10 of those years were spent as Alistair's star pupil. But knowing and seeing are two different things. To actually meet the guy he was back then? To be the one he's planning on torturing? So not doing wonders for your current mental state.

You wince and press your non-injured hand to the deep, burning, stinging, throbbing wound on your side. You suppose you deserved it for stupidity. You'd thought you might be able to snap him out of it. To - you don't know - maybe talk him out of wanting to carve you up like a Thanksgiving turkey? No such luck. But hey, at least he didn't puncture any vital organs.

You shudder and try not to think too much about that being intentional. About the fact that he could probably make the torture he has planned last for days.

That thought has you moving again, despite the fact that you really need to tend to your wound. He hasn't let up long enough for you to do anything to stop the bleeding. You're not sure how much longer you're gonna be able to keep this up.

To make matters worse, whatever spell was cast, it's starting to effect you, too. The cold interior of the building has started shifting in your perception to reveal the Hell that Dean is recalling. You can hear the echo of agonized screams and smell the stench of sulfur, blood, and burning flesh. You refuse to look up whenever Hell flickers into view. You do NOT want to know what's dripping on you or who it's coming from.

You wonder whether Sam and Castiel are having any luck getting in. That bitch's demon buddies activated wards and spells all around the exterior of the building after you and Dean crossed the threshold. You know Sam's gotta be losing it by now. You wouldn't want to be the one standing in his way, that's for damned sure.

A wave of dizziness makes you pause and grip the wall for support. You're nauseous and sweating. You're shaking like a leaf and have to fight just to keep your eyes open.

You don't even hear him coming.

"There you are!" He says way too cheerfully as he snatches you by the ponytail. Even as a psycho, he can't keep his hands off your hair. "Thought you were gonna stand me up," he teases before dragging you violently backwards across the floor.

You grit your teeth, trying in vain to hold back pained screams. You claw at his arms behind your head. You spread your feet out in either direction, desperately trying to hook them onto something.

"Ooh, got a lot of fight in you, huh?" He laughs. "Good. It'll make things more fun."

He brings a fist down and it's lights out.

-SPN-

When you come to, you realize - much to your horror - that you're officially in Dean's Hell. It's not flickering in and out anymore. It's taken firm hold. And when you try to move, you're terrified to find yourself expertly strapped down to some nightmare of a torture table.

You whimper when you look over and see Dean's back. He doesn't turn to acknowledge you, he's too focused on his impressively stocked sidebar'o'tools. You don't want to think about the purpose for a single one of the metallic instruments.

"Dean, babe, you've gotta snap out of this. You've gotta stop."

"Babe?" He repeats in amusement. "Let's see if I'm still 'babe' here in a minute," he comments as the corner of his mouth turns upward in a faint, dangerous smirk.

He goes on about his business, setting up for the day's work like it's Tuesday morning at the office.

"You're under some kind of spell. This isn't you. None of this is real. You got out of Hell. Don't you remember? It's me. You know me."

"Sorry, darling. I don't. And I'd damned sure remember being between these thighs," he assures with a wink as he turns towards you.

He bites his bottom lip, gazing down at you in a deadlier version of his usual aroused interest, and slowly slides his hand up between your legs. You struggle against the restraints, trying in vain to evade his touch. Strange, just a matter of hours ago, you'd been rather enthusiastically pressing down against that very same hand.

Dean chuckles at your attempts to shake him off and pats your thigh. "Shy, huh? Well, don't worry. By the time I'm done here, you're gonna open up for me in ways you never have for anyone else. I'm gonna know you inside and out. See parts of you that nobody else has ever seen..."

He brings a large blade up beneath your shirt, using it to slice away the fabric. His face is a complete blank slate as he works, devoid of any hint of feeling. And even his eyes, his normally expressive eyes, are cold and empty apart from traces of twisted pleasure.

"Dean, please," you whimper.

You're more than a little frantic at his lack of recognition, the uncaring feel of his hands brushing your skin. It's a stark and jarring contrast to his usual usual tenderness and passion.

"You have to remember me," you plead. "That scar, right where your hand is. I got it a month after we met. Pissed off poltergeist tossing knives. You stitched it up, remember? Just freaking look at it! You have to recognize it."

He gives the old injury a disinterested look in response... Then proceeds to slowly, carefully slide the knife in his hand through your scar, reopening the long-since healed wound.

Your eyes open wide in shock as you cry out. The astonishment you're feeling is equally as intense as the pain. Despite already having a stab wound on your other side from earlier, your mind is still struggling to come to grips with the fact that he's actually hurting you.

His eyes show just a hint of the sadistic amusement he's apparently feeling as he twists the blade slightly, just enough to send the pain soaring to a new level.

You gasp and pant, trying to find the strength to scream at him, "Dean! Stop it! This isn't you anymore!"

He slides the knife back out, now slick with your blood, and you fight to hold back tears as he tosses it onto the table. He reaches for something else, but you can't bring yourself to look at whatever's coming next.

Resorting to hard-learned pain management techniques in preparation for what's about to happen, your eyes hurriedly find a focal point on the ceiling and lock onto it. You try to block everything else out. Your voice is trembling and breaking as you force yourself to speak.

"Listen. To. Me. A witch hit you with something. This is a spell. It's not real!"

Dean doesn't even seem to hear you (not that he ever really has since this whole thing started.) He's far too intent and focused on what he's doing. He runs something metallic down the center of your stomach, then across, just below your navel. You can feel the pain building in response to what he's doing, but your mind refuses to try and identify the sensation. As if, somehow, knowing what's happening will make it hurt even worse. The pain grows gradually sharper, and you whimper as you feel warmth and wetness pooling on your stomach, spreading outward and running down your sides.

A quick jerk of his hand, and your entire body seizes in agony. You're in too much pain to even scream.

"See? Knew you'd open right up for me," he taunts breathily and you can hear the sadistic smile in his voice.

You fight the urge to throw up. You try to find a happy place. You cling to the memory of the first night Dean slept in your bed. You replay all of the sensations of warmth and comfort and safety, but the pain of your current reality is just too intense. It's too hard to reconcile the Dean of your memory against the Dean currently carving you up.

Your vision blurs and head spins as you fight to remain conscious. Just when you think you're going to black out, as if sensing your limit, he stops.

"Don't you go passing out on me yet, girl," he breathes against your ear. You shudder at the familiar roughness of his tone, at the sheer wrongness of hearing such a normally-thrilling sound in this nightmarish situation. "We're just getting started," he promises.

Please, Castiel, you pray desperately. Please! You have to get in here right now. I don't know how much longer I'm gonna be able to take this. Dean is... He's...

You can't even put words to it. You instead focus all of your will on sharing what's happening to you.

Unbeknownst to you, outside the building, Castiel instantly goes stone still.

Now that the demons have all been dispatched, Sam is in the process of hurriedly destroying wards and spray-painting Xs through unfamiliar spell runes. Noting that the angel is no longer helping, he looks over at Cas in disbelief.

"Cas, come on, man! Hurry up!" Sam yells.

When Castiel looks over at him with a deeply troubled expression, Sam stops, too. He fights off a wave of panic as cold dread coils in his gut.

"What is it?" Sam asks fearfully. "Are they praying? Is Dean...?" He trails off as his voice breaks on his brother's name, afraid to even finish that sentence.

"We need to reach them. Now," Castiel declares and returns to the task of breaking the wards with renewed urgency. "He is killing her."

Sam's eyes widen, and he's already back to the task at hand before he demands, "Who's killing her?"

Castiel looks over at Sam, his brow furrowed and eyes filled with sadness and worry as he answers, "Dean."