Author's Note: This story takes place in the same universe as my previous story, "The Shadow Proclamation", and is a sequel to it. It makes a lot more sense if you've read "The Shadow Proclamation" first. To my "Shadow" readers, I just couldn't wait to post this one, so here's an early treat, if you can call it that.

I'm going to warn you now: the angst is strong with this one. This is depths-of-Hell Dean, and the Doctor at his lowest. (Points to the reviewers who can spot the clues to where this story sits in the Doctor's personal timeline.)

And as usual, the standard disclaimers apply. I own neither show but love both dearly. Credit to Neil Gaiman for the quote in the summary, from "Sandman".

Dean sat in the corner, shaking. Alastair had left for a moment, but he wouldn't be gone long. He couldn't take any more, not now, not today, whatever that word meant anymore. He wanted it to stop. It had to stop. Didn't it? Nothing could last forever.

He felt tears threaten, and gave in to them. There was no point in holding back. His tough-guy routine hadn't served him so well up to now. Nothing could last forever, he thought. But that was exactly what he had signed up for to bring Sammy back. Forever, here.

It was worth it.

But sometimes it was hard to remember that it was. Sometimes the pain made him forget everything else. He was beginning to forget himself, forget his life outside of this place. Sometimes even Sammy's face was hard to remember.

The thing's shadow fell on him, and he shuddered. He didn't look up. He didn't want to know; it didn't help to know in advance. He kept his head in his hands, hiding his tear-stained face. It also wouldn't help to let it see his weakness.

"Dean."

Dean froze. No. No, no, no. He knew that voice. This was worse than the pain, worse than the torture, worse than the loneliness. He buried his head in his arms, and realized that he was speaking: "No, no, no, no..."

A cold hand rested lightly, hesitantly on his arm. Its chill soaked through his sleeve, cooling his fevered skin. He shook his head desperately. "Dean, look at me. I'm real. I'm here."

"Stop it," Dean whispered. "Leave him out of this. He has nothing to do with this. You've got everything else, leave him alone. He's not a part of this."

It chuckled using his voice. The sound was one of grief. "Oh, Dean Winchester. Always worried about someone else. They haven't hurt me. I'm here of my own will."

Another hand touched his face, and Dean flinched away. The hand withdrew, but Dean could feel the hurt in the gesture. Against his better judgment he looked up, and instantly regretted it.

A perfect recreation. The angular face, the thin body, the shock of brown hair above dark, piercing eyes. The pinstripe suit—the brown one—under the long brown coat, even the dirty white Chuck Taylors. The thick, rectangular turtle shell glasses. The sorrow in his voice as he murmured, "I'm so sorry." (It murmured. It.)

"Please stop," Dean whispered, his energy spent, his voice breaking just the smallest bit. "Please leave him alone."

The thing was still for a moment, and then sat back on the ground in front of him. One hand still rested on his arm. "When you met me—well, as an adult, the first thing you did was shoot me," it said, casually, like it was telling a funny story by the water cooler. "Right in the shoulder. Glad you hadn't brought the Colt that morning, or we might not be having this conversation at all."

Dean laughed, a hollow sound. "You bastards have everything I am," he spat. "My soul. My mind. My memories. You think I'd be fooled because you know something I know?"

The Doctor-thing said nothing for a long moment, and Dean could feel its eyes on him. "I wish I'd come sooner, Dean, I do," it said finally. "It took some doing to get here. The TARDIS isn't fond of inter-dimensional travel, not when she's not being forced into it."

Dean shrugged the hand off of his arm and stumbled to his feet, glaring down at the thing wearing the Doctor's image. "Hurt me!" he cried, spreading his arms, providing a wide-open target.

The thing watched him with that careful impassivity that the Doctor would have watched him with.

"Just get it over with! Just hurt me! I know it's coming!" Dean shouted, the end of his words turning into hysterical laughter. "I'm tired of talking. I don't want to talk anymore. Let's get it going!"

The thing stood slowly, with a weary sigh. "That is so like you, Dean Winchester," it said. "You're always tired of talking. Nothing I ever showed you changed that about you."

"Stop talking like him," Dean spat.

"You want me to hurt you, Dean?" the thing asked. Dean nodded tightly. It shook its head. "I won't."

"Then I'll start," said Dean, pulling his arm back and letting loose with a wild punch.

He connected with the thing's jaw, and it went down to one knee. It grabbed his fist on the way down as though to balance, but jerked down on his wrist, placing Dean's hand on its face, his fingers touching its temples.

"Forgive me," it said.

Dean felt himself sucked in to...somewhere. A field of stars, stretching out around him in all directions. Vast, infinitely vast, with no markers. He didn't hurt. For the first time in...well, as far as he could remember, for the first time ever, he didn't hurt.

He was alone. He looked around, and realized that while he didn't hurt, he was afraid. He was alone but he felt something around him, something always behind him. Something huge, powerful, something that owned this place. Not like those cut-rate demons who tortured him in Hell, not even like Alastair; not a lackey. Whatever he was feeling, it was the boss here. It knew he was here, too. There was no way it couldn't know he was. He looked around warily, his heart beginning to race. What was this?

Suddenly that feeling became comforting, reassuring. Like a warm blanket. Or at least, he knew it was supposed to. But he knew, by this point, a little about psychic manipulation. Whatever was holding him here wanted him to feel safe. Which meant he probably wasn't.

He whirled around, eyes wide and panicked, to see it there. Just standing in those stupid sneakers, like it wasn't weird. Suddenly the stars disappeared, and they were in the TARDIS.

The Doctor-thing didn't move any closer to Dean, but stayed by the console while Dean pressed his back to the door. "Where are we?" Dean rasped.

It tapped its head with a finger. "My mind," the thing said. The Doctor said. Dean shook his head to clear it. He found it harder to doubt in here, harder to keep himself from believing, from hoping. The Doctor-thing ran its hand over the console of the TARDIS, just the way the Doctor would. "I know it's hard for you to believe, Dean," it continued. "Reality must seem...tenuous, just now."

"There is nothing you can say to me that will make me believe you're him," Dean said dully.

"I'm not here to hurt you," the Doctor-thing said with a sigh. "I wasn't even sure...I didn't know whether or not you were here, now."

"Then how did you find me?" asked Dean, humoring it.

The Doctor-thing rested a hand on the TARDIS, and its face was overcome with the tenderest of smiles. "She knew where you were," it said, and its voice was so warm. "She always liked you, even before I did. Something to do with your car."

"Well, she has good taste," Dean replied. A feeling rose in his chest, and he gripped the railing to steady himself. Pride. Happiness. Amusement. Things he hadn't felt in what he knew must be lifetimes. He stared at the Doctor-thing. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything."

Dean scoffed. "You said we're in your mind. You expect me to believe that there's anything in here that isn't controlled by you? You expect me to believe you can't make me feel whatever you want?"

The Doctor-thing raised an eyebrow. "No, I didn't say I can't, I said I'm not." It cocked its head to the side. "But what exactly is it that you're feeling?"

"You know," Dean snapped.

It narrowed its eyes, then turned away for a moment in frustration. When it turned back its face was carefully controlled. "I don't, Dean. I'm not in your head, you're in mine."

Dean paused. He was in its head. He was able to feel, in almost a physical sense, its emotions and thoughts. He could use that to test this thing. There wasn't anything that the demons wouldn't know about him, but they wouldn't know much about the Doctor—probably not much more than he did. And if Dean was anything, it was perceptive. Maybe the Doctor's unpredictable nature itself could tell him what was going on here. "Tell me about Rose," he said suddenly.

The Doctor-thing's eyes widened, and Dean felt its shock all around him. Shock, and hurt, and grief. "Why?" it asked, its voice quiet.

"Prove you're the Doc. Talk to me about Rose."

Anger. Hot, swirling, rising amid the smothering grief and the stinging shock. Dean looked nervously around himself as though it were a thing that could attack him. It was pressed down violently, and seemed to disappear. He met the thing's eyes, which were hard. "When was I, when you last saw me?" it asked, and Dean saw that it was gripping the TARDIS' console with white-knuckled hands. "Who was I with?"

Dean frowned. "You were with Rose," he said. "The last time I saw you was after the whole Shadow Proclamation deal."

The Doctor-thing leaned heavily on the console. "That was a long time ago, for me," it whispered. "I should have known. You wouldn't have asked, otherwise."

Nothing was said for a long moment, and then, despite his trepidation, Dean said, "What happened to her?"

"She's...gone." The rushing wave of grief, accompanied by flames of self-loathing, almost brought Dean to his knees. "Alive. But somewhere I can't find her, can't reach her. Ever."

Dean took a few steps towards the console before catching himself. But the creature in front of him was so broken, so endlessly unhappy, that he found himself believing. No one could do unhappiness like the Doctor. No one else could hate himself that much. "Doctor?" he whispered.

The Time Lord turned to him, a bitter smile on his face breaking through the grief. "And there it is," he said. "I only had to open a vein."

Dean stumbled up to the console, stopping just before reaching the Doctor, who didn't move. "I'm...I didn't...I couldn't just trust that..."

The Doctor shook his head. "You don't have anything to apologize for," he said. He said. Thank God. The alien held his arms out, and, against every instinct he'd once had, Dean embraced him desperately.

The grip that held him was stronger than he expected. Perhaps he was weakened by his time in Hell. No...his body here was only a construction of the Doctor's mind. Maybe it was a projection of how strong the Doctor thought he was. That wasn't a flattering idea.

"Have you seen Sammy? Bobby?" Dean asked, pulling out of the embrace with some effort. The Doctor, realizing what was happening, released him. He nodded with an apologetic smile.

"He's fine, Dean. They're both fine," the Doctor reassured him. "Well. I say fine. Devastated. But physically, fine."

Dean nodded, leaning against the railing around the console. "Then it's worth it," he said quietly. He felt the Doctor's eyes on him, felt the studying, felt the pity and the sadness. He looked up at the Doctor. "You gonna put a muffler on that? Because you're makin' me depressed."

The Doctor frowned and confusion fogged around the TARDIS. "On what?" he asked.

Dean fixed him with his best 'bitch, please' look. "The emotions. The Very Big Feelings. I can barely tell what I'm feeling past what you're feeling."

The Doctor's eyebrows raised. Alarm. "What am I feeling, Dean?"

Dean frowned. "Alarmed."

"And now?"

"You're, uh, suspicious. Of something. But starting to understand. And now you're pretty freaked out, Doc, and that's freakin' me out, so mind sharing?"

The Doctor approached him quickly, placing his fingertips on Dean's temples. "You should not be able to do that," he said quietly.

Dean watched the hands warily as they brushed his temples. "What? I mean, we're in your head, right? Should be pretty loud in here with what you're thinking."

The Doctor shook his head absently. "Right, yes, but the psychic defenses of an adult Time Lord are all but impenetrable. I didn't want you to feel all of that. So why did you?"

Dean shrugged, uncomfortable. "I'm dead, Doc. Maybe it's because I'm a spirit."

The Doctor snorted, and Dean looked at him, stunned. "Don't be absurd if you can help it," the alien said dismissively. Then he saw the gaping surprise on Dean's face, and faltered. "Oh. You...really think you're dead."

Dean took a step away, and the Doctor's hands fell to his sides. "No, Doc, I don't think I'm dead. I know I'm dead. I remember getting torn up by the Hell hounds. I died. I am dead and I'm in Hell. It doesn't get more real than that."

The Doctor shook his head. Irritation. Fondness. An almost paternal fondness. "You humans really are capable of convincing yourselves of anything," he said, his tone wondering.

Dean could feel his hands begin to shake with rage. But at the same time came the thought: this is absolutely the Doctor. The grief and the self-hatred made him pretty sure, but the infuriating condescension sealed the deal. "You don't know a god damn thing about what happened to me," he shouted, and the Doctor looked surprised. "Don't you dare pretend that you do."

"Dean—" the Doctor began, but Dean gestured for him to be quiet. And amazingly, he was.

"I don't need you comin' in here with all your BS about how you know everything in the universe, and I should just sit down and take it," Dean snapped. "Because I'm dead, and I'm in Hell, so maybe that means it's not aliens the whole way down."

The Doctor's face was studiously still, and the air around Dean reflected that careful neutrality. "Okay," he said.

Dean paused. "Okay?" he echoed.

The Doctor smiled. Sadness. Regret. "I told you I didn't come here to hurt you," he said. "I meant it."

Dean wasn't going to fight it. He slid down the railing and sat on the floor of the console. After a moment's consideration, the Doctor joined him. "Do you—" Dean hesitated, not sure if it was a question that could be asked, much less answered. Patience. Kindness. He smiled grimly. "Doctor, do you know what's going to happen to me?"

Surprise. Sadness. "Dean, you know I can't tell you that," the Doctor said gently. "And you know the answer. There's not another fixed point ahead of you, if that's what you mean."

Dean sighed. "I know. I guess...I just hoped...I don't know. Warning would be...different. Not better, maybe. But different, at least." He felt his eyes sting again. "The god damn monotony gets to you."

Sympathy. "Our personal timelines don't give us warning, usually," the Doctor said unhelpfully. "Dean-"

"Do I give in?" Dean interrupted. The Doctor was taken aback. "To Alastair. Doc, I don't know how long I can hold out. Do I give in? I can't. I don't. Do I?"

Such careful neutrality that Dean felt his stomach sink. "I don't know," the Doctor replied firmly. "Dean, your timeline isn't fixed. I don't know what you do. I know the possibilities. But you will make your choice, as you have been doing."

Dean lowered his head, fighting tears. "Doc, don't let me. Please. I don't want to hurt anybody. I don't want to deserve this."

He felt the Doctor's cold hands on his face as the alien forced him to look up. He didn't need the freaky emotion miasma to see exactly what the Doctor was feeling now. His dark eyes bore into Dean's, his face set. "Dean Winchester, what do you think of me?" he asked.

Dean stared at him. "What?"

"Am I a bad man? Am I evil? If I were to die today, really die, and you were to choose my reward or punishment, would you send me here?" he demanded.

"You?" Dean exclaimed, shocked. "No. Never. You're...you're a hero. You saved me and my brother. You saved our planet."

"I destroyed mine," the Doctor said in a voice that was terrifying in its lack of emotion. Dean froze. He'd never heard the Doctor say it out loud. "I destroyed Gallifrey. I destroyed Skaro. I killed billions of people and committed genocide. I brought genocide upon my own people. On other planets in the universe they call me the Evil One and He Whose Name Dare Not Be Mentioned. I've condemned people to fates worse than death. Who am I to do that, Dean? Why don't I deserve to take your place here?"

All this said without inflection, without any feeling. Dean felt the void around him like being packed in ice. "Doctor—"

"Don't. Don't try to justify what I've done. But tell me now, if you were my judge, would you send me here?" the Doctor asked again.

Dean shook his head. "No."

The Doctor's expression softened. Love. And the smallest, heartbreaking bit of surprise. "Then what could you possibly do to deserve this, Dean Winchester?" he whispered. "In less than thirty years of life, what evils could you possibly have done or do to deserve this, if you don't think I deserve it?"

Dean didn't know how to reply. He couldn't. So instead he changed the subject. "How did you get Alastair to let you in here with me?" he asked. "Doctor, it's been...non-stop since I got here. I don't even know how long it's been. I think it's been almost twenty years. It feels like it has. Maybe that's just Hell screwing with my head. How did you get him to stop?"

"I told him I would see you," the Doctor said simply.

Dean shook his head. "And?"

"And I saw you," the Doctor replied.

"You just told Alastair that you were gonna come in and have visiting hours with his most favorite chew toy, and he just said okay?" Dean asked, staggered. "What the hell are you?"

Hurt. Confusion. "What?" said the Doctor, his voice cautious. "Dean, I thought you believed me. I am the Doctor. I don't know what more I can do to—"

"No, I believe you're the Doctor," Dean interrupted. "Not who are you. What are you? You can just waltz into Hell and boss around one of the baddest ass demons I've met in all my years here?"

The Doctor took a moment to reply to that. He studied Dean's face as he was silent. Dean could all but hear the thought: how much do I tell him? Finally he said, "They remember me. From last time." Dean waited for him to continue, but he didn't seem likely to.

So the question rose uninvited to Dean's lips, as uninvited as the tears that threatened to join the question. "Can you get me out?" A whisper. A breath.

The Doctor looked down.

Dean nodded, laughing so that he didn't start to sob. "It's okay. I didn't think so."

"Permission is a...delicate, almost tangible thing with this race," the Doctor said. "The fact that you agreed to this makes it almost impossible for me to do anything about it. I don't have the collateral that Samuel had, when you saved me."

"No. No. I understand," Dean said dully. "I got myself into this. You don't have any obligation to get me out of it."

"Dean, I would if I could," the Doctor said. Desperation. Guilt. GUILT. The guilt fell off of the Doctor in waves. It was his favorite emotion, after all. He was good at it.

Dean turned to tell the Doctor that it was all right. That he would bear up. That he had chosen this, and that he still thought it was worth it, and to protect Sammy in his absence. But when he turned, the Doctor was staring at him in something that looked like horror. "I tell you," he said, so softly Dean almost couldn't hear him. "This is why. This is why you're so angry, the next time. Because I'm selfish, a sentimental old fool, and I can't stop myself."

"Tell me what? What do you mean, next time?" Dean asked, his heart racing.

The Doctor looked at Dean, and his eyes were blazing with fear and guilt. Fear of what? "Dean, what did you say was the last time you saw me?"

Dean frowned. "After the Shadow Proclamation," he said. "Why?"

The Doctor shut his eyes, shaking his head. "Oh Dean," he breathed. Before Dean could protest again, he gripped Dean's arms and looked directly into his eyes. "I've seen you again," he said.

It didn't take a moment for Dean to understand what he meant. "After?" he whispered. The Doctor nodded. "I...I get out?"

The Doctor nodded again. "Don't ask me to tell you anymore, Dean, please. I've done enough damage already. But I've seen you again. More than once. It's why I didn't understand why you asked about Rose. You've met my next two Companions. Well. You meet my next Companions."

"Are they hot?" Dean asked, grasping at the opportunity to lessen the tension.

The Doctor narrowed his eyes, but relief filled the room. "Hands off the Companions," he said severely. "I'm supposed to be protecting them." He paused, and then his face split into a grin. "But they're gorgeous. And by the way," he added, his grin fading, "don't tell me that I tell you any of this. When you see me next."

Dean laughed, and the sound surprised him so much that he jumped. He stared at the Doctor with wide eyes, whose expression was warring between delight and what looked like grief, and started to laugh again. The fact that he was also crying didn't stop his laughter.

"I'm not saying it's today," the Doctor said gently, breaking through Dean's laughter. "Or soon. I can't stop what's going to happen to you, Dean, and I don't envy you the duration. But I want you to remember two things. Can you do that for me?"

"Doc, at this point, anything," Dean promised.

The Doctor held up a finger solemnly. "One. Remember that this, too, shall pass. It is a trial. We all have our trials to bear." He lifted a second finger, and his focus on Dean was so intense that Dean felt himself shrink back, just a hair. "And two. This is the most important. I need you to remember this, Dean. No matter what happens, no matter what you do or don't do, feel or don't feel, remember this: you are a good man."

Dean sobered instantly, unnerved by all the qualifiers in the Doctor's statement. "A good man?" he echoed doubtfully.

The Doctor nodded. "You are a good man, Dean Winchester. No matter what happens." He paused, and if Dean didn't know better, he'd say the Time Lord was composing himself. "And Dean," he whispered, "I have been privileged to know you."

He stood up and offered a hand to Dean, who took it. The TARDIS began to fade, replaced again by the field of stars.

Terror overtook Dean. "I'm going back now, aren't I?" he asked.

The grief was almost as strong as when he'd asked about Rose. "I'm sorry, Dean," the Doctor said. "I have to get back to my mission."

"Just...take care of Sammy for me, okay? While I'm gone."

"Of course," the Doctor said. "I have been."

Dean realized that they were back in his cell. The pain returned, but it didn't overwhelm him like he thought it would. Being free from it for a while, he thought, would make it worse. It didn't. "Where are you going?" Dean asked, and his voice, coming from his real throat, was hoarse and painful.

The Doctor paused, then met his eyes. Dean noticed the bruise blossoming on the Time Lord's jaw from where he'd punched him earlier, and winced. "I have...someone to visit, a favor to ask, and an ultimatum to make, before..." He trailed off. His expression shifted, and Dean suddenly found it weird to not know what the alien was feeling. "Be strong, Dean Winchester." He turned to go, his duster flowing behind him.

"Hey." The Doctor turned at Dean's voice, and Dean smiled at him. "Be seein' you."

The Doctor looked pained, but then returned Dean's smile, though a sadder version. Then he stiffened, putting a hand to his stomach, and through his lips a wisp of golden vapor slipped out. Before Dean could ask, the smile returned. "Yes, you will," he replied, and turned and walked out of the cell.

Dean watched him until he could no longer see him.

When Alastair returned, Dean found himself not caring as much. He couldn't even keep the grin off of his face, not even when Alastair promised to flay it off—a promise he delivered on. It didn't matter. Dean was getting out, eventually.

The Doctor hadn't abandoned him, or Sammy.

He wasn't going to turn into a monster.

Things would be okay.

Twenty years later, he realized that hope made it so much worse.

Fin.