Part 2: Martyr for a Freak

One foot in front of the other was such a crock of an old saying, and yet somehow with every step Dean managed to be steadier. The layout of the Roadhouse came back to him easily even after seven long years, and he found his way through the corridors to the main stairs, taking each step slowly as he moved his still stiff body down to the bar area. He could hear the chorus of voices he knew so well. If there had been any other hunter patrons, Ellen must have shooed them away in honor of Dean's revival.

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt nervous like this. To see them all again—Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Sarah, even Shiarra—it all seemed so surreal. Dean could remember so vividly how each of them had died.

Pushing those thoughts aside as best he could, Dean stepped into the bar. The many voices quickly stilled. It was always only for show that Dean Winchester liked the limelight. He preferred anonymity most of the time. Having everyone he knew and loved staring at him like he was some second coming was more than a little unnerving.

He thought of saying something witty to break the tension, maybe get the serious crew to crack smiles instead of wearing those drawn and relieved faces. Like, "If you want a hug you better get in line coz nobody's dog-piling me," or something. Instead he managed barely a small shrug and a too quiet, "Hey," that sounded nothing like him and really he was going to have to get over this and soon because the others should not be looking at him like he was too fragile to touch.

He needed to touch. He needed to know this world was real and that the other one was the nightmare.

Sam and Sasha were standing next to Bobby not far from Dean at all, Ellen and Jo were behind the bar, and Sarah and Shiarra were sitting on stools. Somehow Dean found the strength to walk in amongst them. He accepted the hugs that were offered, the pats on his shoulder and arm, the nods and loving looks, even though every glance at one of them brought with it an image of their corpse—or what had been left of it when Dean saw them in their last minutes. Ellen and Jo were the hardest to touch for that reason. Their charred and melted bodies…

Dean went rigid against Jo as he hugged her, just what he hadn't wanted to do, he hadn't wanted them to know what Sam and Sasha knew. Maybe his brother and friend had told them all anyway, that he had been a dribbling, screaming wreck when he first got back, but if they hadn't then he didn't want any extra reason for pity.

"Dean…?" Jo asked gently, her long blonde hair pressing to the side of his face.

"Man…pretty stiff," Dean grabbed at an excuse as he pulled from her embrace, "Guess it sorta goes with being a corpse for a week, huh?" he grinned.

And bless Jo for holding back a smile and shaking her head at him instead of looking on with more sympathy. That was the annoyed but happy expression he was used to from the huntress, starting way back when she first punched him in the face and swiped back her rifle.

Thankfully, the heavy feeling of sentiment died down fairly fast, none of the gathered mass much for sappy stuff to begin with. Dean did get the distinct impression that Shiarra—who hadn't been there to see the end happen—wanted to speak to him. But right now Dean wanted to be immersed in the group, surrounded. He wanted to remember what living his life was supposed to feel like.

There was food and conversation, Dean being somewhat quiet like he had been last night since he enjoyed hearing everyone else's voices. He let those varied timbers carry his visions of a false reality away for awhile as they ate at the bar tables. The food tasted even better than the pizza had last night, which was frickin' incredible in Dean's book. He hadn't at all lost his appetite and he could tell that that simple fact seemed to soothe the others.

Dean knew one thing for certain even though the conversation seemed to steer so much away from it—he wanted to get back to work. If anything could help him get back into the groove, it was hunting.

Something struck Dean then when he looked up and saw Ellen's muscle car calendar. It was a week too late but he remembered. He had deliberately not mentioned anything to Sam those few days before the end of the deal because he knew his brother wouldn't want to hear about it.

"Well, shame on me," Dean announced loud enough for everyone to hear, "I missed your birthday, bro. Guess I got to see the first couple minutes of it, but…things went a little south from there," he tried to snark, "Don't suppose you were able to pull your heads out of your asses long enough to enjoy turning twenty-five?"

Twenty-five. That felt like ages ago to Dean.

He looked around the table and over at the other one with Ellen, Bobby, Jo, and Shiarra. The few who actually met his gaze looked disconcerted to say the least. May 2nd. How cruelly ironic that Sam's birthday was the same day the kid had risen from the dead when Dean made his deal, and then of course it had to be the day Dean died a year later too.

"Right…" Dean hated himself for making them all look at him like that—like they were wind-up toys without any wind, "Guess that means you didn't get much of a haul then, eh, Sammy?" Just the burden of having to haul around Dean's dead but not dead body. Or maybe that wasn't it at all that was making everyone so silent. Dean looked up at Sasha who was staring at his mostly uneaten food. "Made that deal right away…" Dean said carefully, "Didn't you?"

Persistent as the incubus had been the night before to tell Dean what had been traded for his life, now Sasha kept his eyes turned down and didn't say anything. Dean knew it had to be something terrible to make everyone hold reverently still and silent, but now he needed to know. Postponing the inevitable on this one would only make things worse.

"Sasha…"

There was a terrible sound like a half-strangled howl or cry from a wounded animal. They all turned startled to look where the noise was coming from, and there standing right in the doorway of the bar area was a large grey tabby cat with all its hair standing on end—Wally.

Ellen had mentioned that the chimera was too comfortably situated on her favorite living room couch cushion be bothered but that she would probably join them later. Dean had also been prepared for the cat form as it was safer for her to stay that way when hunters so often came in and out of the Roadhouse. But the arched back and extended fur, the wild eyes, the strange noises growling out of her were nothing like he had ever seen from the creature before.

Worried now, Dean rose from his seat at the small barroom table and made towards the frightened cat-shaped chimera. "What's up, girl? Don't tell me there's something to hunt here again? Not that you count of course," he grinned, holding out a hand as he walked swiftly to her.

Something about his approach only agitated her more, and the sudden hiss she threw at him had Dean stopping in his tracks. Wally wasn't terrified and on guard over some foreign object or creature to hunt; she was focused entirely on him—afraid of him.

"Hey…Wally," Dean tried again, voice soothing and hands held up as he took another small step forward.

She immediately started spitting at him like a cat on the attack, frozen to her spot in the doorway as if to ward him off. Did she not recognize him, he wondered at first. But he had never seen her react like this to strangers before. It had to be something else.

Then the awful truth struck Dean; she knew what the others didn't. That had to be it. She knew what he had become while he was gone, the terrible things he had done…

"Wally, stop that, it's just Dean," Sasha said sternly, right behind Dean suddenly and then breezing past him to scoop the animal into his arms. She allowed him to pick her up but she did not relax, hair still sticking up, eyes on Dean, a low growl ever in her throat. "Wally," Sasha said again, "It's Dean. You know Dean."

But not this Dean, Dean thought. Dean barely knew this Dean.

Animals understood things differently. Dean thought of how wary normal domestic animals could be of Sasha and Sam, which was understandable since it was hard for them to accept that something could look one way and smell like something else.

Vaguely, he remembered Meagan's dog Abbott from Prior Lake—it seemed so long ago now—and how the dog had whined and stayed out of Sam's path. Miriam's cat Helga had reacted too, sniffing Sam curiously, not disliking him quite the same way but knowing that something was off.

Wally, however—not anything near normally domestic—had never done anything like that around Sam or Sasha. She had shied from Sam once but realized her mistake and even snuggled up with him later. She always knew she could trust Sam and Sasha because she was a supernatural thing herself and knew that the smell of demon blood didn't have to mean evil. What did that say about Dean then if she no longer counted him among the good and safe? She didn't trust him.

She knew. She knew…

"Dean?" Dean wasn't sure who was saying his name but he had to get away. He turned abruptly, no destination in mind just the thought of escape, something he was used to seeking these past few years though he seldom ever got what he wanted.

That held true again because as soon as he turned and tried to move anywhere but where he was, Sarah was in his path, reaching her hands out to grab his arms, her face concerned, her voice plaintive.

"Dean?"

No. Dean knew that look, a look that begged, that pleaded, that didn't understand.

Sam had shredded it from her face.

He was allowed to wonder the house though he seldom did, afraid of what he might find. He still wasn't sure what the place was, where it was, where he was, but it was a house, and every room seemed to hold something terrible. Only his own room was safe and it was never safe for long.

When he did venture out it was always for the same purpose—he had to find Sasha. He knew the incubus was alive, had to be alive or Sam would have taunted him with Sasha's corpse. But the silence, the not knowing made him fear so deeply for his love. The things he had seen Sam do to others…he didn't want to think of that happening to Sasha.

Walking down the upstairs corridor, he could hear screams, growls, voices he knew belonged to demons and creatures under Sam's control. He was safe from them. Only them. So he walked freely until he came to a door that was quiet. Before he could dare try the knob Sam suddenly stepped out of it into the hallway in front of him.

Sam was dressed simply, just a T-shirt and jeans, sneakers, his hair and face so like how Dean knew it, but Sam's eyes were never hazel anymore and his face was never kind. Something else shook Dean as he looked at his brother.

He was covered in blood.

"What…what did you do?" Dean feared this was the room he meant to find after all and that something awful had befallen Sasha.

Slowly, Sam looked at Dean, unconcerned as he wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand as though it were as simple a thing as dirt and grime. "She wouldn't choose me either," he said resentful, "I had really hoped she would, that she would be with us. I thought she understood. I guess I lost my temper." He shrugged and walked on past Dean without a glance back.

It was rare that Sam would leave him so easily, but then the torture this time was in knowing that Dean would have to look inside the room. He did. What was left of the body inside was a mangled mess, only recognizable to Dean because of the long dark hair and the shirt he remembered her wearing the night everything ended.

Sarah…

Dean was shaking again, so cold, always shaking and cold. Small gentle hands were holding his shoulders, trying to keep him upright, but he stumbled, falling to his knees and bringing his helper down with him.

"Dean!"

It was Sarah but how could it be Sarah when she was dead, dead, so horrible dead.

"Help me get him up," she was saying to someone else, someone whose arms were stronger and Dean knew by the way they grasped him that it was Sam. Sam, who had done those awful things, made him do awful things, who wouldn't leave him alone, God, why wouldn't he leave him alone?

"No…" Dean choked out as he shivered, brought to his feet weakly with all his weight against the solid form of Sam that he knew didn't mean him any harm. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine…" he chanted low enough that he hoped it didn't sound as much like crazed ranting to the others as it did to him, "I'm okay," he said more strongly, looking up at Sam who he knew was his brother and would never hurt him, "Just…got a little…turned around."

The look on Sam's face did not agree with the words that left him. "I know, Dean. Don't worry, it'll be okay. I mean…" he strained to smile, "It'll get easier. I promise."

Dean offered another lie to match Sam's, nodding as he said, "I know."

He couldn't face the others after that, and not just because he'd have to see their worried and pitying looks. He apologized, said he just needed to rest a little, and made scarce fast, avoiding getting too close to Sasha who stared after him still holding a spooked and growling Wally.

She knew what they didn't, what Dean knew too. Easy wasn't going to happen because Dean didn't deserve it. All those years, all those images and horrors. None of it had been real. And he hadn't been able to tell.

What was wrong with him, what kind of brother or lover was he if he couldn't tell that the thing wearing Sam's face wasn't Sam? Or Sasha…

Dean shook his head, knees pulled up into his chest as he stared at the TV in the back living room of the Roadhouse like an angsty teenager. He hadn't even turned the damn thing on. He couldn't think of anything worth watching. But if he kept this up he wouldn't ever get over what had happened. Apparently, telling himself that it wasn't real and that he was safe in the land of the living again wasn't cutting it.

It was just so ingrained in his head, every visual, every sound. Malak had certainly planned things out well if he wanted to break Dean and then send him back as a useless shell incapable of feeling or doing anything constructive. Dean didn't want to do anything anyway. Hunt. He could hunt. But did he have the right? Even Wally sensed the darkness Malak had so easily—too easily—stirred up inside of Dean.

How could he have given in…?

"Hey…you, uhh…absorbed in your program there?"

Bobby. The humored but still sad voice of their last living patriarch. It sounded weird to say it like that, old-school demon hunter kind of talk—patriarch. Dean supposed that was fitting though since they were in the middle of a war with impossible odds they didn't even know how to fight. Or who. They didn't even know who they were supposed to be fighting.

The bad guys. Right. What the Hell did that mean?

He looked over his shoulder and tried to smile. "Next up is watching paint dry," he joked, "I'm sure it'll be just as riveting."

There was that knowing smile on Bobby's face as he walked into the room, ball cap on his head like always, T-shirt and open flannel with the sleeves rolled up. "Got the lot of 'em pretty well worried now, I'm sure you know," he said, "Not to mention me. Gotta admit I didn't think you'd wanna be alone after…" he trailed, a weak hand-gesture failing at articulating what he meant. Of course Dean knew anyway.

"Yeah…don't wanna be alone," he admitted, shifting to put his feet back on the floor as Bobby came around to join him on the couch, "But it doesn't seem I do much better with everybody around either, so…" he shrugged.

Something Bobby was so good at that Sam and Sasha just couldn't get no matter how much time might pass was that sometimes silence did the job better than a speech. Dean could keep staring at the shiny black screen of the turned-off TV with Bobby sitting there beside him, and after a few minutes, damn it if he didn't want to spill everything as if Bobby had been goading him the entire time.

He didn't need to say that he was messed up. That was implied. He didn't need to tell Bobby any details about Hell, because the elder hunter wouldn't push for it and probably knew that Hell was special for each man, something too dark to imagine for anyone else.

"You think…this is what all those Vietnam vets felt like when they came home?" Dean half-grinned, leaning forward now with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together like he was praying. He wasn't. Who the hell would he pray to?

Bobby didn't say anything at first. He had never served any of the armed forces, Dean was fairly certain of that, though Bobby sure did seem the soldier type being such a hardened old hunter. Still, he knew Bobby would understand what he meant. If getting out of war was like getting out of Hell, then getting out of Hell had to be like…

Something. Dean should know. But he didn't. Part of him was still there.

"I don't expect you to talk about it," Bobby said after some time, voice steady and calm, "But Sam and that boy of yours…they do. Yeah, I know he's your boy," Bobby grinned, "No other way to see things, strange as it is to me sometimes having known both your fathers." That thought almost had the hunter blushing. It would be an ordeal indeed if John Winchester and Deklin Kelly were alive to see what their first-born sons got up to.

Namely, each other.

"I'm not usually one to give advice about something I don't got no chance of understanding," Bobby went on, "But, Dean…I think you need to tell them whatever you can manage about what happened while you were…gone. Otherwise you'll just keep getting lost back into it and they'll keep floundering around not knowing how to help."

"They can't help, Bobby," Dean deadpanned, certain of that with every fiber in him. Only he could crawl out of this. "And what happened…" he looked up, looked over and saw his friend and pseudo-father gazing back at him with every bit of understanding a father should have. It almost broke him to instantly remember what that same figure had looked like blowing his own brains out with the Colt. Dean shuddered. "I…I can't," Dean breathed like he was choking, like he was fighting a sob he refused to allow.

Bobby didn't press. Didn't counter. But he stayed. Dean was grateful for that.

One on one was easier, Dean thought, then just being alone or being surrounded. He had thought immersion would be best; now he knew better. His senses were on constant overload, wanting to remind him of the past seven years at any given chance. Maybe it was a good thing that in Dean's Hell Bobby had died so early. It meant there were less of those memories to haunt him.

Later, when Dean had had enough brooding, alone or in Bobby's company, he ventured out again to see what the others were up to. He just had to keep telling himself that he could do this. He could. Of course he could. This was his life. He had to live it if he was ever going to make up for the last one.

Dean hung back a little in the hallway, peering around inside the bar area where most of the others were still gathered. Bobby had left Dean to join them a little earlier and was talking amiably with Shiarra at the bar. No one had anything harder than soda to drink of course since it wasn't even lunch time yet. Ellen wasn't there, so maybe that's exactly what she was doing—making something for lunch. Sarah, Jo, and Sasha were hovered around Sarah's laptop on top of one of the small tables.

They didn't look particularly serious as they chatted and gestured at the screen, so Dean wondered if they were looking at something other than possible cases. Wally was curled up still in cat form right there on the table behind the laptop, dozing contentedly in the path of the machine's heat.

Dean saw Sasha glance several times towards the main entrance, probably assuming that Dean would come from there should he rejoin them. Dean really had to hand it to the incubus; he would have thought it impossible for Sasha to actually give him space. It was clearly weighting heavily on Sasha that he hadn't yet rushed off gallantly to Dean's side. Dean was surprised Sam hadn't done the same either.

Sam. Where was Sam…?

"Dean?"

That voice suddenly behind him jolted Dean and he had to grip the nearby doorframe to keep from plummeting immediately into convulsions. He wasn't cold, he wasn't really cold, so why did he feel like shaking?

A firm hand accompanied the voice, "Dean," Sam said again. The mere insistency, the soft tone that was right there, right there behind him, pulled Dean back into the fold he was struggling so hard to escape.

"Dean," Sam said with something that might have been love once but was too perverted now, "Why do you do this? Sit in here all day, barely eating, barely talking. You can always talk to me." It was like some awful parody that was never funny. Sam that wasn't Sam. But it was Sam. It was Sam now. The Sam that Dean had known and loved was gone.

Stuck in this house, this strange place, Dean had lost track of time. It was filled with monsters and horrors around every corner. He wished he knew why. He could imagine though. Sam was slowly building his army. He wanted willing servants but when someone—human or otherwise—refused him, he would simply force them with his powers or make them wish they had chosen him on their own.

Why did Sam need an army? Why did he need Dean? Dean was the only one Sam didn't force or attack physically. He coerced, he taunted, he tortured in other ways. Dean would have preferred something physical to be perfectly honest, something he could understand.

"I need you, Dean," Sam was saying, crouched down with him where Dean was leaning back against the wall below the window of his bedroom—his, like anything belonged to him anymore, "I need you to choose me, Dean. You I can wait for to be willing."

Dean looked up, met Sam's yellow eyes, full on mottled yellow instead of white. Sometimes he wished it was the white. "And what about Sasha?" he asked hoarsely, "Did you wait for him? Or is he another puppet? Or dead? Tell me what you did with him?" The demand was weak but still a demand. Dean didn't fear his brother for his own sake.

Today Sam surprised him. He stood, offered Dean a hand. "I'll take you to him," he said.

No matter the amount of time that may have passed, Dean should have known better than to accept anything from Sam. He had to take that hand though; he had to know what had become of Sasha.

They walked through the house, Dean keeping close to Sam because he didn't want to have to look at the other things in the house or see any of the people he knew acting as mindless slaves. Once he was almost certain he caught a glimpse of Missouri.

Finally, they slipped down into the basement which Dean almost had the sense of humor left to muse seemed cliché of Sam. Maybe the other rooms were full. Maybe Sam just liked having the extra space for Sasha. The incubus certainly took up a lot of room.

Dean should have expected it. He wasn't certain of time but it had been at least a month, at least, which meant the Sasha he saw, full incubus and tied with chains to an upright table crudely designed to hold him, was frenzied.

"He wouldn't give in no matter what I did to him or what I threatened," Sam said, maybe a little fondly even as he walked over to where Sasha was bound and reached up to stroke a wing, "Kept talking about you."

The irrational part of Dean wanted to scream at Sam to not dare touch his incubus like that when Sasha was snarling and snapping like a beast, hungry for whatever source of sexual energy was closest. But Dean couldn't say anything. Nothing he might say could reverse this, only feeding, and feeding when Sasha was like this would mean someone would have to die.

"I'll tell you what, Dean?" Sam said, standing casually between Sasha and a table of bloodied weapons that were probably iron used on Sasha earlier, leaving wounds that were curried with the empty bottles of antidote, "Do one simple thing for me and I promise…I won't force him to serve me like the others. I know how you'd hate that," he nearly smirked.

There was never a good bargain where it came to what this Sam wanted. Dean warily asked, "What?" unable to keep his eyes from watching his love struggle to free himself from his bonds.

If movement on Sam's part hadn't caught Dean's attention he might have missed when his brother tossed him one of the weapons from the table. He caught it clumsily. It was a large knife almost like a machete. "Cut off his wings," Sam said plainly.

"What!" Dean threw the knife to the cement floor, the metal clanking loudly as it wavered before settling, "Fuck you. Fuck you. You want this to end bloody? You do it."

"Your choice," Sam shrugged as if Dean's defiance was a trifling thing, "But you may want to listen. Cut off his wings. He'll die of course. For an incubus I hear it's one of the worst ways to go. Painful. Starts an infection that pollutes their body slowly until it finally kills them. Do it. You know what I'll do to him if you don't." Sam's voice lowered with that threat and then returned to cruel brevity. "I'd prefer to keep him. You at my right hand, him at my left, that's what I really want. But I want to give you the chance to choose. As a gift."

Nice gift. Dean thought he was going to be sick. He had long since given up hope that trying to talk Sam out of all this would ever be enough. And there was a part of Dean that saw some sense in doing what Sam wanted of him.

Sasha was tortured already, frenzied and starving. Who knew what Sam had done to him before his energy ran out? And if Dean refused, Sam would merely use the incubus as another puppet. Wasn't that worse than dying? Dean knew he would rather die.

He spared a glance at Sasha, chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles to hold him spread eagle, his wings the only things stretching beyond the table's edge. Sasha had given up lunging for Sam and was now growling and fighting to break his way free and reach Dean. Right now he was mindless. It would be mercy really. Mercy…

Dean picked up the long knife from the floor. It was like a machete, large enough that if Dean aimed at the base of Sasha's wings he could do it in one or two strokes. He stepped towards the table. Sam was smiling at him as he raised his shaking hand…

The clatter was louder this time when the knife fell. What was he thinking? "I can't," he said, backing away, "I…I can't." It wasn't mercy. It was murder, murder of his best friend to please Sam. He couldn't do that. He couldn't give in to Sam like that.

A deep sigh left Sam's lips. "Well…if it has to be this way," he said.

Like Dean had, Sam took a step back, but since he was facing Dean it brought him slightly behind Sasha's table and into the shadows. Dean couldn't see if Sam used his hands or TK but suddenly the chains were unwrapping from around Sasha's limbs.

"He is starving, you know? Better to feed him first."

No.

Dean couldn't move, but even if he had it wouldn't have been fast enough. Sasha was on him in moments, harsh and feral as he tackled Dean and pinned him to the cold floor. The weight of him, the intent behind his crazed red eyes, the feel of claws ripping at Dean's clothing and hips pressing mindlessly down against him all crashed down on Dean with a wave of the worst kind of panic. This wasn't like that day when Lust had set Sasha after Dean and there was the small glimmer of hope that he could reach Sasha or that somehow Sam would save him. This was real frenzy; Sasha couldn't be reached. And Sam wouldn't be doing any saving.

The one thought that comforted Dean as fresh wounds opened on his chest and thighs with the tearing of his clothes was that if this was how he was going to die, taken hard and left bleeding by the one he loved most, then he just hoped Sam killed Sasha swiftly afterwards.

"Oh no, Dean," echoed Sam's voice from above him, "I won't let him take enough to kill you. No. You? You get to live."

Dean's hands were gripping the doorframe and wall so tightly, his knuckles were bone white. He wasn't surprised to be shaking harder, wasn't surprised that Sam's hand had turned into both hands holding his shoulders steady. At first he could only hear whispering, but as he came back to himself he began to make out Sam's hushed words.

"Come on, Dean, stay with me. Be here. You're here now, you're safe. Be here. I'm going to make that bastard pay for what he did to you." And so on with similar threats and comforts. Sam didn't even know the details and he hated Malak with a hardened viciousness. Maybe it made it worse that Sam didn't know because his imagination could invent so many terrible things.

It couldn't invent the truth though. The truth was worse than anything Sam might conjure up, Dean was sure of that.

"I wish you'd tell me what happened, Dean," Sam said, maybe half in Dean's head but not enough to see what Dean was hiding. Sam was at least respecting Dean's wishes enough not to cheat with his powers. "It's the trauma. You can't beat it unless you face it, and the first step can be telling us what you went through. We can handle it, Dean."

No. You can't.

"I just want to know what's making you like this." He rubbed up and down Dean's shoulders is if Dean were a freezing cold kid coming in from playing outside in the snow. It was ridiculously maternal and Dean wished he had it in him to make a crack about that.

But he was thinking of Wally, still able to see the chimera asleep on the table with Sasha and the girls. "Whatever happened to me there, Sammy…I guess I'm not the same me anymore," he said.

"That's not true," Sam shot back with anger coloring his words, his grip on Dean's shoulders growing tight, almost painful. He was behind Dean, holding him in an awkward kind of hug. "It hasn't even been a whole day, Dean. You were in Hell. No one expects you to be perfect and fine in a day. It'll just take time."

Deep down Dean knew that. With time it would have to get easier. All the clichés said so, after all. He didn't know how to respond to Sam, he could only look at Sasha who was unaware of being watched. "What did he do to bring me back?" he asked, almost to himself. What did Sasha give up to bring back this mangled mess of a man?

Sam didn't answer, his presence still so close that it made the silence feel like a blow.

"That bad, huh? Wonderful…" Dean pushed from the wall, his trembling under control again, and shook Sam away from holding him. Even if Wally knew better and ran when the others wouldn't, hissing and growling and able to see that he wasn't the same, Dean couldn't give up.

When Dean joined the group again the others tried so hard to act like everything was fine and back to normal that it felt staged, fake. Dean knew they were just trying to be stronger for his sake, so he allowed every forced smile, every awkward joke, and smiled in kind. He was pleased when they turned to talk of potential cases in the area. There wasn't much but the thought of working relaxed Dean.

No one seemed to want to go anywhere quite yet so the talks were mostly about what they could do 'after a few days', something Dean knew was a fluid term. A few days could mean a few weeks if they didn't think he was 'fit' for hunting. He'd half to squash that idea right away.

Shiarra was still giving him looks as if to say she wanted to get him alone. Dean would avoid that for as long as possible. But after lunch when everyone started to variously disperse as if they had things they could be doing elsewhere, Dean didn't mind that he seemed to have been left rather obviously alone…with Sasha.

One on one was easier, he reminded himself, and Sasha looked so beautifully whole and healthy and loving. Dean still wanted to ask what the price had been for his resurrection, but when Sasha smiled warmly at him and walked to the jukebox, he couldn't bear the thought of ruining the moment.

My funny valentine
Sweet comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart

"Jo downloaded a bunch of Frank for me. Don't laugh, but…my favorite version of this song," Sasha said, smiling sideways at Dean as he leaned against the jukebox, "Was from this movie—"

"Matt Damon in The Talented Mr. Ripley," Dean broke in, smiling crookedly too.

Sasha looked surprised. "I already told you that? I don't remember."

"Eh, you might have been a little tipsy at the time," Dean shrugged, moving across the floor to join Sasha, "But I remember. Said the same thing too—don't laugh. Like I can not laugh when a punk actor like Matt Damon's your favorite version of this." Dean barked out something that might have been a laugh. Close enough to one to make Sasha's smile widen.

"It's a good version. All melancholy but hopeful," Sasha said wistfully.

"Yeah," Dean huffed, hand on the jukebox right next to Sasha's, "Unrequited love."

"I hate that kind," the incubus breathed. They were close now, so close. Dean moved his hand a little so that his fingers bumped into Sasha's skin. They leaned in at the same time, a clear path to each other's lips. That was easy. Somehow that was still easy—touching lips, moving lips, slipping his tongue passed Sasha's teeth to get at that familiar taste. It was easy…and made his heart race just like he remembered.

But dont change a hair for me
Not if you care for me
Stay little valentine stay

As they kissed, soft presses of their lips and strokes of their tongues, Sasha pulled Dean close against him and away from the jukebox, hips swaying gently to the music.

"A little early for a slow-dance," Dean teased, lips damp and still so close to Sasha's as he spoke.

But instead of playing along, Sasha had to ruin the moment by asking almost tearfully, "Are you really okay, Dean?" His hold was as tight as Sam's had been, only this was face to face so it was harder for Dean to keep his real response hidden.

"I'm okay right now."

"Dean."

"I'm adjusting. But this…this is good," he slid his arms around Sasha's waist and held firm, "This is okay. This is me being okay." It was the truth even if it was fleeting.

Sasha smiled, melancholy like the song. "Okay." And they danced, sort of, more like swayed and held onto each other as the music played and switched to another song in Frank's smooth voice.

There's a saying old says that love is blind
Still were often told, seek and ye shall find

Dean looked up at Sasha's face. There was that blue, cobalt brilliance glittering at him. It was early afternoon, the sun was coming in from every window to light up the bar, and they were alone. Dean couldn't even hear signs that the others were anywhere around. He knew they had left them alone on purpose, subtle really for them since it almost would have seemed natural if it hadn't been all of them that mysteriously needed to be elsewhere. Maybe they thought Sasha would be the key to reminding Dean that he was grounded, he was here, he was okay—and not just in words.

Leaning up further, Dean kissed Sasha again just to feel it. Sasha. He was a large part of Dean's world, that's why Sam had used him—Malak had used him to make the torture worse. Dean kissed Sasha deeper as soon as his mind began to wander there. He didn't want to think about that. He was home now.

Dancing like this, kissing Sasha, hands about each others' waists, Dean immediately though of the last time they had slow-danced alone in the Roadhouse bar.

"We are so dead if Ellen comes down here."

"Want to stop?"

"Hell no."

They hadn't. They had writhed and stroked each other and fumbled their way over to the bar, leaving their sleep pants to settle on the floor. Dean could almost see it like real-time played in front of his eyes as he kissed Sasha with newfound fervor, their swaying half-dance faltering as they gripped each other harder. Yes, he could see it—Sasha braced against the bar top, Dean thrusting behind him, the music playing…

All of me

why not take all of me
Can't you see

I'm no good without you

Dean shuddered. That wasn't one of the songs that had played that night. The jukebox in this time, this place had switched to another song of Frank's. Dean had danced with Malak to this song, not Sasha. He tried to push Sasha away.

"Dean?"

It was too clear, too vivid now, those images of Sasha being fucked against the bar, Dean's hands running up his back and down again with just the tips of his fingers. Sasha shivering back against him. Their pace fast, faster. Sasha reaching for him. Sasha's…claws digging into his skin.

Dean tried to shake the vision off but it was too late, he had conjured it himself and now the image was marred, changed, taken from him as the Sasha in his mind turned from the bar and fell upon him, forcing on Dean what he wanted without preparation or care and thrusting until it burned.

"Dean!"

He had passed out at some point, maybe from the blood loss, maybe just from the pain, he didn't know, but pain stung him now at every pore of his body as he came to. He couldn't move but he was shivering, his body in shock. He used what strength he had to look down his body, laid out on the cold floor, and all he saw were jagged cuts and ruby red.

The sobbing beside him told him why it was over. Sasha had gotten what he needed, enough to pull him from frenzy, and he was whole, human, back to his senses, sitting naked beside Dean. His pale skin was smudged with red though it otherwise remained unmarred and perfect. Sasha's legs were pulled in tight to his chest and he was sobbing into his knees.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…I'm sorry…I'm sorry…" the incubus chanted in a heart-wrenching voice.

Dean wanted to reach for him, tried, but his hand only gave a slight twitch at his side. The incubus had certainly done a number on him but it hadn't been his fault. Sasha needed to know that. Dean needed to tell him.

But another voice broke into their bloody little world before Dean could find his first.

"I told you this would happen," said Sam, walking up to them so coolly and crouching down in front of where Sasha was shivering and rocking with his chanted 'sorrys', "And it can happen as many times as is necessary. Do you understand?"

Slowly, Sasha's head tilted up from his knees to look at Sam. His eyes, although blue, were reddened around the edges from crying.

"Will you choose me now?" Sam asked.

It was a trick. Dean knew now. Sam had known all along the choice Dean would make, that he wouldn't be able to kill Sasha and that Sasha, after this, would see no other way out.

Dean couldn't let Sasha give in. He couldn't allow this to go the way Sam wanted. But he couldn't do anything, couldn't move or speak for all the pain.

He saw Sasha nod, unable to look at Dean beside him and see the damage he had inflicted. Sam stood and reached out to Sasha then. And damn everything…because Sasha accepted.

"Dean, stop!"

"Dean!"

"Hold him!"

There was no here, there was only there, Dean could see it when he closed his eyes, when he opened them—everywhere. This was the illusion, this far worse torture that promised peace but never gave him more than the meagerest taste of it.

Sasha had called for the others and others were there, but Dean could only see Sam, startled and frightened in front of him. There were hands grabbing him everywhere, hands holding back his arms, hands around his waste, hands waving in front of his face to bring him back to his senses. Dean had no sense. Sam had taken everything. Everything.

"You promised me!" he screamed as he leapt from the many hands holding him towards his brother's form, only to be lurched back by their collective grip, "You said…it wouldn't hurt anymore…you said you'd take it away! But I still feel it. I feel it…and its worse. Worse. Why won't you stop, Sammy, why won't you stop…?" he trailed, his knees going weak. He fell and the hands holding him loosened.

The voices of the others were a chorus around him and finally he started to hear them again. "Dean, it's okay!"

"You're okay!"

"You're here! You're safe!"

"No one's hurting you!"

"Come back, Dean."

"Dean."

"It's over."

"No, it's not…" Dean shook his head, looking up to again see Sam standing a ways away in front of him, looking confused now and saddened. "I'm still there…" Dean could feel panic creeping ever closer and he couldn't stop it, couldn't fight it. A feral sound left him as he threw the loosened hands from his body and jumped to his feet. He rushed Sam, knocking his brother back against the bar, hands gripped in the front of his shirt. "You promised!" Dean screamed in his face

Sam's eyes were swimming. They were damp and swimming. And they were hazel. "Dean…" Sam shook his head.

Again, hands tried to grab for him, coming from behind and Dean swung an arm to knock them away, releasing Sam so he could turn and yell, "Leave me alone!"

Silence fell instantly. Dean could see them all now, those whose hands had held him. Everyone was in the room—Sasha, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Sarah, Shiarra—and all of them were staring at him with horrified expressions. Bobby even had a hand on the gun in his belt.

Reality struck Dean hard. Sam's eyes were hazel. The others were here. Their words were true. He was safe here, it was over, he was home now, but when the visions of the past took him he couldn't remember that. God, what had he said, the things he had said. He had lost it and there hadn't been any real reason for it.

"I…damn it," he tried to get steady on his feet, scraped his nails back through his hair. He looked at Bobby, the elder hunter still wide-eyed, hand on his gun. "So…figure you…might as well put me out of my misery, huh, Bobby?" he tried to say offhandedly, maybe even jokingly, but no one laughed.

The looks everyone was giving him were strange, Dean realized. It wasn't the right kind of fear. He looked to each of them, seeking out an answer. Then Bobby, still gripping his gun said, "Dean…"

"Your eyes…" Sasha finished in a breath.

His eyes? Dean didn't know what they were talking about, and maybe it was his honest uncertainty that kept any of them from acting. There was a mirror in the bar, large and covering most of one wall. It stood above the jukebox. Dean was even facing it. All he had to do was look up.

He instantly back-peddled, ramming hard into Sam behind him who was still against the bar. Strong arms came up to hold him. Dean had to be seeing things. It couldn't be real.

Black. His eyes were demon black.

Turning wildly in Sam's arms to avoid that awful image, Dean came face to face with Sam's white. Not the yellow of his Hell, but white. As if Sam were trying to tell him something. "You knew…" Dean realized with a sick shock to his stomach.

"It's not what you think, Dean," Sam said.

"I'm possessing my own fucking body!"

"You're not. You're something else." Sam sounded too calm, ready for this. How could the bastard have kept this from Dean if he knew? "I don't know what Malak did to you, Dean, but you're not a demon. There aren't any walls holding me back anymore, I'd know if you were a demon. Somehow…you're closer to what I am than one of them." Sam released his hold on Dean but only with one arm so that his free hand could tug on the front of Dean's shirt and show the black tattoo that rested over his heart.

Dean's body was still his own, and his body was protected against possession. He wasn't a demon. But then what in Hell was he?

No matter the fallout, no matter the consequences, Dean needed to know now. He whirled around again and advanced on Sasha, who was by far the most startled with pain and confusion splashed across his face. Some of the others backed away, maybe on instinct because they didn't understand what was happening, but Sasha stood still. Had he known too?

"What did you give up?" Dean demanded, "What did you trade to bring me back like this?"

Sasha's mouth quivered, his eyes looking damp again like they hadn't been dry in a week. "Dean…please…"

"Tell me what you gave him!" Dean screamed.

Eyes downcast for a moment, Sasha finally looked up again and when he held Dean's gaze he didn't waver. "When you fell that night, after Malak touched you, you were gone. I knew that. But I…I just couldn't accept it. Malak didn't vanish right away, he was still standing there, and…and I rushed up to him, I begged, I pleaded with him that there had to be something he would take in exchange for getting you back. I said I'd give him anything. He liked the sound of that. He tried to make the deal for a year at first, but that wasn't good enough. I said that wasn't good enough. So he…he said…he'd be willing to take you only for a week…if I gave him one thing."

At the back of his mind Dean came to realize what that one thing had to be even before Sasha said it.

"I can't initiate you, Dean. Ever. I can't initiate anyone. I gave up the ability to keep someone else with me forever…so I could have you back for even one day longer." Sasha's gaze was melancholy but also full of so much love that it wounded Dean to see those emotions so bare. "I'd do it again. It was worth it, Dean. I don't know why your eyes…" he stared into them but he couldn't say it, "I don't know. All I know is that you're here. He said I could have you back, he didn't…" Sasha trailed again.

The fight had drained from Dean but he could still finish bitterly what Sasha hadn't said, "He didn't say what shape I'd be in. Course not. Why would you have made a deal for some half-breed demon shell." Dean turned away before Sasha could protest that. He looked back at Sam whose eyes were still white. "He wins. He still wins. It didn't matter how long I was in Hell just as long as I was there long enough. Sammy's perfect little General," Dean laughed sullenly, arms spread wide, "He's giving you your army, Sammy, whether you want it or not. And I'm the one who told you to put on the damn crown."

Dean had given Sam permission, played his part beautifully. Was he destined to lead Sam into damnation next? Was that why he had been allowed to come back? If that was the answer to this riddle then Dean would rather go back to the pit.

He turned to leave the bar.

"Dean!" Sam called after him.

"Dean, please!" Sasha cried, his voice choking on unshed tears, "You know it's not cut and dry! It doesn't have to be! You still get to choose!"

That stopped Dean. He glared over his shoulder. "I made my choice," he said. He had made it that night at the crossroads, and he made his choice again when he gave into Sam, even if it was really Malak, even if it was Hell. "And you made yours."

Dean could still see his black eyes reflected in the mirror above the jukebox playing Frank's songs. He didn't bother figuring out how to get his green eyes back. He just turned and left the room.

tbc...

A/N: These are short but difficult chapters. The arc itself will be short too. Not that that means a fast recovery. :-)

My apologies to anyone who does not like my Hell as you will be seeing more of it in the chapters to come.

It is so interesting to get differing viewpoints from different readers. I have some of you saying that Dean's 30 years of physical torture would be just as mentally awful too, and that it is surprising he is still sane in the show. While others say even 30 years shouldn't have been enough to turn our beloved hero into a villain that enjoyed torturing others. Well, my version is indeed different. I hope I have a nice balance then of torture, how Dean is handling it, and that Dean will always be our hero.

Sorry, Dianna, that Wally's appearance wasn't a nice one. There may not be a good place to fit in a for fun chapter for her in a while.

Did people notice my "My Bloody Valentine" and "Friday the 13th" odes in this chapter? Couldn't help myself. Jensen was awesome in his movie and I can't wait for Jared's. Not to mention Daddy Winchester in "Watchmen". Oh! What a year of movies we have before us.

If you haven't checked out Dianna Wickam's work here or through the website, do now! She has another "Incubus" fic up that is shaping up just wonderfully. Yay for fanfiction of fanfiction!

I'm a bit ill but I'm hoping I'll get around to the things I keep forgetting, reviews and replies and whatnot. Like, Blueeyesgreen, my dear, but of course I'm going to include your idea. It works so wonderfully.

Crim