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Part 3: I Saw The End

Dean sat huddled beneath the lone window by the bed in his room, the room he had slept in almost soundly the night before until both Sam and Sasha cocooned around him to ease inevitable nightmares. It was ironic that he was doing this, what he had done so often in the house Sam kept him in while he was…in Hell. He would never tell the others, but when he was very young during the year he wouldn't speak after the death of their mother, he would huddle just like this under the window of little Sammy's room in whatever place they stayed, just to make sure nothing got inside to get him. Most nights he would end up in Sammy's crib like it said in their father's journal, curled around him to keep Sam safe. Now Dean was the one who didn't feel safe.

It was foolish to isolate himself, to think it could help. It couldn't help. But how could he face them now? He had already known he wasn't the same Dean as the one that left them, now he knew for certain. Things with demon eyes didn't have to be evil—Sasha and Sam proved that. But did they, or was that just inevitability too?

Knock. Knock.

Dean expected the sound when it came. He had expected it sooner, but again they had surprised him by offering him a few minutes peace. Now, however, the door opened without waiting for his leave. The first image Dean saw when he looked up from his low position was a cruelly grinning, red-eyed and monstrous Sasha. But the Sasha that entered, the Sasha that was really there was just a man—more or less—in a black T-shirt and jeans with kind blue eyes, and slow, fluid steps.

"Dean…?" Sasha looked around the room, unable to spot him at first.

"Here," Dean said weakly, not moving.

Sasha's eyes fell on him and instantly filled with further pain. He approached slowly, cautious, like everyone had been acting around Dean but even more pronounced now. "What are you doing down there? Are you alright? I know…I know this is all a lot to deal with, Dean, but—"

"Did you know about this?" Dean gestured feebly at his eyes. He had willed them back to green, somehow instinctively knowing how to do it, but his meaning was obvious enough.

The brief flash of anger that passed over Sasha's features told Dean the answer before Sasha spoke. "Sam…failed to mention that. He probably didn't want to worry me—worry you. It obviously doesn't mean anything as awful as you're thinking, Dean. I know you're still you." Sasha said that so plainly, as if it was the most obvious thing. Dean didn't know how the incubus could believe that so blindly.

Since Dean wasn't moving from the floor, Sasha came over to sit near him on the bed, maybe choosing not to join him completely for fear of invading too much of Dean's space. They all thought he needed space. Space wasn't going to cure this. But then proximity wasn't helping much either. "Guess it doesn't really matter. Can't change any of it now, can we?" Dean dead-panned. He often tried to be less of a pessimist but he was too practical to ever really believe things could go the way he wanted.

"Dean," Sasha started right in again with his blue eyes drooping at their edges and his shoulders hunched, "We'll figure it out. We have all the time in the world now. No rush. As long as I can still look at you, and Sam for that matter too, and see the men I know then it still comes down to choice. Malak can't take choice away from you."

But he can. He already did.

'We have all the time in the world now.'

What a lie. Sasha knew it was a lie too. The time they might have had together, that might have lasted longer than a human lifetime even, was just a passing dream now. Once again their love had a time limit. And even if it didn't Dean would still feel too out of place to enjoy being back. He was something of Malak's making now, and it was because of choice. They had made so many choices that lead them right here.

"Dean, I know you don't want to talk about it," Sasha began more carefully, eyes on the floor and hands fidgeting, "But I…I don't understand. Down there before, you…" he trailed, shaking his head. When he looked up to meet Dean's gaze again, his eyes were almost fearful. "When you were still lost, still thinking you were in Hell…why did you say for Sam to stop?"

Oh no.

'Why won't you stop, Sammy, why won't you stop?'

What had Dean done, revealing that?

"I was wondering that myself," came Sam's voice from the open doorway. He was peering into the room with eyes too haunted for Dean to look at. They weren't supposed to know. He couldn't let them know.

Dean struggled for something to say that might banish any traitorous thoughts from entering their minds. "I…I was just…confused, and…Sam was the one I was looking at. I didn't mean—"

"Yes you did," Sam cut him off, coming into the room and shutting the door behind him, "I saw the way you were looking at me, Dean. You were saying that to me. You weren't confused. You knew you were saying it to me. Malak…used us. Didn't he? Like your dreams. The bastard was giving you a preview."

"What?" Sasha gaped, full realization striking him too.

"No," Dean tried to halt their train of thought, even started scrambling up from the floor.

"Malak used us?" Sasha repeated, "Oh god…Dean."

"No," Dean said again, frantic now, "That's not…that's not how it was. You don't know. It wasn't…it wasn't like that." Even he knew his words sounded false, and he could tell Sam and Sasha weren't listening.

Sam remained standing off the foot of the bed. "When you came back, you said you hadn't gone to Hell. You didn't think you had been there, Dean. Malak…he made you think you were still alive."

"And that…we…" Sasha finished, shuddering, looking up at Dean from where he was slouched so bonelessly now on the bed, "He made you think it was us? Made you think we were torturing you? And you thought it was all real…" Horror was in every word. They weren't listening to his continued ranting and dissention; they knew the truth. They knew.

"No!" But they couldn't know. They couldn't. They were never supposed to know. Dean stared wildly at both of them, Sasha on the bed, Sam standing there, both of them filled with pity. Fuck their pity!

When Dean saw them, even when he was seeing them, he was still seeing the Sam and Sasha he had lived with for seven excruciating years. For him it wasn't Malak to blame, it was them, just them. If only they had never found out the truth then he might have been able to stop believing that.

So filled with blind rage now, Dean was shaking. Sam and Sasha's voices drifted around him with soothing words and concern but he didn't want to hear it. He flinched when Sasha reached out to him, his skin burning at the contact when the incubus managed to grab his arm anyway. That touch, that fierce and insistent touch nearly brought Dean back into his visions again. He saw it in flashes that overlapped the real Sam and Sasha that were with him.

The dead land. Barren. Burnt. Buildings and streets in shambles as if bombs had decimated everything. Sam would make him go along. He didn't want to. Never wanted to. He'd plead. He'd beg. He'd scream and curse. No tactic ever saved him. Sasha, monstrous and large like he had been in the cave was always there too. Smiling. Laughing with Sam. Laughing when they brought people before Dean and made him choose who died. How they died. It was always worse if he stayed silent. Worse yet when it was people he knew.

Save one. Kill the other. Choose, Dean. Choose. Choose or they both die. Choose how or it will be slow. It made him active even when he wanted to stay out of it. It made him an accomplice even if he never said a word.

'Dean! Help! Please!'

Even…Leven. The bastards had even brought Leven. Dean couldn't save him. He could only make the pain a little less. So he had told them to slit the boy's throat, thinking it would be quicker that way. But Sam had made sure it lasted.

Dean howled at the ceiling as the memories flickered over the truth before his eyes. Rage. Hatred. None of it was as strong as his grief, his guilt. Those emotions were powerful enough to rival any fury. Powerful enough that even though he saw Sam, his real brother before him, he saw the monster too. Dean rushed Sam like he had downstairs, slamming him back into the wall beside the door.

"Why can't I hate you?" he cried, voice cracking on the final word, "I…wanted to. I tried everyday. But I never could. So I gave in. Do you understand me, I gave in! I gave in…so you'd stop. You promised you'd take the pain away if I just did what you wanted…"

Sam wasn't even attempting to struggle as Dean held him firmly to the wall. "It wasn't me, Dean, it was Malak," he said painfully.

"Malak," Dean huffed, grimacing at that mentioned name, "I barely even remembered Malak." He hadn't. He hadn't remembered Malak at all until Sam and Sasha mentioned him after he woke up.

"How could you forget Malak?" Sasha asked breathless from behind Dean.

The grounding of their voices, their calm tones and patience, stilled the overlaps little by little until finally it was Sam in front of him again. Just Sam. Just Sasha. The ones he wished he could forget wanting to hate. Dean released Sam and stepped back. Turned, saw Sasha so close, his eyes gone liquid blue. He looked back and forth between them and softly admitted, "Because. You were worse."

Dean stumbled away from them then, once more a failure because he had failed to keep this awful secret from them. What did it mean that Malak had used them as his Hell? What did his demon eyes mean? Even Sasha's sacrifice, somewhere it was all connected, but whenever he tried to think of the reasoning behind it he found himself drowning again in those terrible visions.

"I can't…shake it," Dean said, eyes clenched tight as he backed right into the closet door, seeing the cruel versions of Sam and Sasha in the darkness behind his eyes. He opened them but like before that false image overlapped the true Sam and Sasha before him. "Everywhere I look…even seeing things how they're supposed to be…it just makes me remember how it was."

He might have been crying, or maybe it was just that he was shaking so hard his vision seemed blurred. It nearly broke him when Sasha swooped in to gather him in his arms. Dean choked, felt the dam about to burst, but he couldn't let it. He tried to push Sasha away.

"Don't…treat me like I'm…" he shook his head fiercely.

"Hurt?" Sasha finished, refusing to let go and instead holding tighter, enveloping him.

Dean shook his head again, straining against the embrace. "Like I'm…w-weak," he stuttered, hating the word, hating that that's exactly what he was.

"You're hurt, Dean," Sasha said, "You're hurt and pained and…and everyone deserves to be a little weak sometimes. It doesn't change anything about you. Not to me. I still love you. I want to figure this out with you and…and make it better. We can make it better."

It was like a mother comforting a child that would die too young and the lie was worse than soothing words. Dean couldn't hate Sasha for it, but he still resented it. "Don't…" Don't try to save me, don't try to fix me, don't hold me like I'm breaking even though I am. "Don't tell the others," he said instead. If he denied anymore that he could be helped they'd only worry more and insist even harder that he could be.

"Dean," filtered over Sam's voice around Sasha's large encompassing body, "Whatever Malak did to you, I swear, you're still the same Dean you've always been. I feel it. There's just something else there too. Like me. If you still have faith in me, Dean, than you have to believe you'll be okay too. Do you…still have faith in me?"

It was a question already knowing the answer. Sam knew Dean couldn't say yes. He had seen what Sam was capable of—what he believed for seven years Sam was capable of. He couldn't just turn that off, and that was the problem. He couldn't think of either of them separate from the way things had been.

He suddenly felt sick having Sasha hold him. He tried harder to push from Sasha's arms.

"Dean…" Sasha tried even though he finally relinquished his grip.

"Not right now. Okay? Can we…not do the group therapy thing, please?" Dean moved swiftly out of reaching distance, sidestepping around Sasha to return to the bed. He almost sat right back down on the floor beneath the window before he thought better of it. He sat on the bed, raked his hands through his hair. His eyes were dry. "Now you know. Okay, you know, and you get why I keep…freaking. But this isn't a 'let's make Dean better with hugs and optimism' kinda thing, okay? I don't know…how to get…better. What Malak did to me, even if I'm me, I'm…I'm not. I don't feel like…" Anything. He felt like he was still dead because he had been the walking dead the entire time he existed in that other world.

The dynamic duo just couldn't leave him alone, couldn't let a sentence hang like that or just leave well enough be. They advanced on him together and Dean had to hold back another flinch. "It will get better, Dean," Sam said, "And we will figure this out. You're home now. What happened, whatever Malak made you believe about us or see, it wasn't real. This is. You'll remember that. You will."

He remembered now. It just didn't help.

"And we won't tell the others," Sasha promised, "They don't need to know about this. But Dean," and just like Dean didn't want, Sasha dropped to his knees in front of him, hands wanting so badly to rest on Dean's thighs though he resisted, "You have to believe us that you're home, you're safe. This is us, the real us, Dean, and you're you. I love you."

Those words were a knife to Dean's chest. He couldn't say them back. He couldn't remember the last time he had said them and meant it. So he didn't say anything. He just looked up, saw those blue eyes glittering at him, and tried to remember the relief and joy he had felt when he first woke up and realized he was back where he belonged, tried to remember the feelings that had swelled in his chest when he kissed his incubus again for the first time, tried to remember that their dancing downstairs had felt so right before it all went wrong again.

But he couldn't hold onto it all. Because it couldn't be the way it was. Sasha wasn't fully his anymore. Part of Sasha belonged to Malak now and part of Dean would always belong to that bastard too.

Again and again Sam and Sasha tried to tell him that it would be okay, it would get better, they would help him get better. But as Dean listened to their words he could tell too easily that even they didn't believe that.

Somehow, Dean made it to the next day. He stayed in his room, they brought him food, he managed to join the others for a bit in the evening without falling apart, and when he returned to his room Sasha stayed with him. Sam wanted to too but Dean mustered a smile, saying, "That's just a little too kinky for me, bro."

So he slept in Sasha's arms again and as hard as it was at first to curl up and relax, he found a little of the peace he had felt last night and settled in. Sasha didn't even try to kiss him goodnight, just held him close. Dean dreamt of Hell, his choreographed and personal Hell, and once again woke up shivering against Sasha's warm skin. He wouldn't admit it, but he did sort of miss that Sam wasn't there too.

He could cling, he could pretend and force himself to relax, but when he looked up and met Sasha's eyes the overlaps still got to him.

When that next day struck it was even tenser than his first day had been, everyone tiptoeing so lightly around him as if even the smallest thing might set him off. Okay, so some fairly small things had set him off before but he hated their pity. He hated that they kept shooing Wally away so she wouldn't hiss and spit at him again. He hated that he was tiptoeing too, terrified that his eyes would flash black and never go back again if he lost his temper.

No one tried to do anything substantial, no research or talks of hunts like yesterday. Instead they hung around trying to make him feel like life could be normal. They even tried to get Dean to sit down and watch a movie in the living room but he didn't want that. It was too pathetic, too easy, too much a mask that didn't even fit his old, forgotten life. So he helped with what minor things needed to be done around the Roadhouse. A little manual labor was good for keeping his mind occupied on simpler things. Of course he still had flashes, visions that shook him, but he held himself together, bringing himself back each time before anyone could ask if he was okay.

The flask he had snuck some whiskey into helped.

How was he supposed to be anything like normal when he didn't even know what he was? Thinking that made him feel a bit like a hypocrite after all the times he had told Sam that he was still just Sammy, but it was different when it was him and the hand of the Devil himself was involved.

Dean knew that no matter what Malak's plans were, somehow Sasha's deal was the clincher. Becoming an incubus could have undid the deal—at the price of Sam's life, but still—so maybe it could have undone whatever happened to Dean in Hell too. With Sasha having given up his ability to turn Dean that option was out of the question forever now.

Sasha sensed Dean's turmoil over what had been sacrificed, Dean could see it in the incubus' sad eyes. But what would Dean rather have? Would he rather be in Hell still, with Sasha left alone until he either starved to death like an idiot or found somebody else to feed from? Dean didn't know. He should want what he had, that Sasha had brought him back so they could spend their lives together even for a short time, but he just couldn't be happy. He couldn't.

Every time Sasha touched him—and the incubus touched him so much, gently, lovingly—Dean wanted to melt into it, to go back to that bliss that used to come so easily, but even the smallest touches made him think of touching and being touched more deeply. And those thoughts brought with them something else.

That first dream Dean had back when they met Sasha and he never could have guessed he would fall in love with the incubus some day was what Dean had lived through every night for those seven years.

Sasha always looked so beautiful before the scene turned horrifying.

Sam would hold Dean down, always grinning at him with those damn yellow eyes, and Sasha would take him, deep and unforgiving, all fangs and claws and brutal touches—the very opposite of everything Sasha had ever been with Dean. Eventually, Sam didn't even need to hold Dean down because Dean stopped fighting. But that could be terrible too. If Sam's hands weren't holding him then they would travel other places and Dean couldn't stomach that, couldn't handle all that unwanted skin, or the sound of Sasha and Sam's laughter reminding him that he had no power. The power was theirs.

Of course Dean knew that wasn't the way Sasha and Sam really were or…or damn it, ever could be. He just wanted to forget all that so he could think of Sasha's touches the way he used to. Even though now he couldn't be with Sasha forever. Oh he hadn't been ready for that anyway, not yet, but one day…he might have been.

After the things Dean had seen and done and been—was—maybe this was what he deserved.

The day was too long and everyone's looks too lingering. Dean snuck outside to the Impala as soon as he had the chance. His baby. Sam hadn't taken the Impala from him in Hell, but he hadn't let him drive it either. Talk about torture. It soothed him more than other things had just sitting in it, though maybe that was because he had refilled his flask a third time and was stealing sips while he blared some trusty Metallica on his stereo.

If Dean had been paying a little more attention, he might have noticed a certain succubus come out of the Roadhouse, walk up to the Impala, and open the passenger side door. Since he wasn't paying attention, he merely stared at Shiarra when she was suddenly sitting beside him.

"Well this is healthy," she eyed him with that judgmental air. Granted, Miss High Society was grunged up a bit, even wearing jeans and a simple teal sweater that hugged all the right places. Young as she looked, Dean could always see the age in her eyes.

"Just got back from Hell. Figured I should celebrate," Dean shrugged, tipping the flask.

She snatched it from him just as a few more drops were about to pleasantly burn his tongue. But although he turned a ready glare on her, Shiarra didn't tuck the alcohol away. She tipped a good amount down her own throat and licked her lips appreciatively before handing the flask back. "At least you snatched the good stuff," she said, "Nice to actually hear you answer a question too. Almost thought Old Scratch had taken your tongue before sending you back."

Dean certainly wouldn't put that past Malak. "Always appreciate your sarcasm, Shi. Now what do you want? And if you say some shit about wanting to talk," he took the drink she had denied him earlier, "I'm not in the mood."

"If you hadn't noticed, everyone's been trying to get you to talk, Dean," she went right on, "But I'm not here to try and weasel out of you what horrors befell you in Hell. Having to relive any of that wouldn't help you overcome it, that much I'm sure of. But as much as I would like to stay a bit longer at these lovely accommodations, I think perhaps you're a bit overwhelmed and suffocated right now, and I do have things to get back to."

"Flashy billionaires to seduce?" Dean snarked.

Of course Shiarra didn't even bat an eyelash at his whiskey-induced rudeness. "Actually, I've been a bit more into the working class man lately. They're so much more creative." She valiantly reached over to the radio and flicked it off, leaving the Impala to a strange silence Dean didn't like at all, something that even the engine's sweet purr couldn't dull. "Dean, you proved me wrong, just like I knew you could. Maybe it was because my nephew decided to give up everything in order to bring you back…but still, here you are, breathing and alive and drowning your damn sorrows in drink and loud music like a good ol' boy."

"And you have a problem with that," Dean snapped at first. But even a little drunk he didn't want to be cruel. He couldn't let himself be cruel. He looked over at Shiarra and her blue eyes resembled Sasha's so much that he almost couldn't stand it. "I'm trying. I just want a little oblivion before I have to face this shit again, you understand? If it's not pity it's worry, or even god damn fear on their faces. I have enough trouble dealing with bad memories. I don't need to see that when I finally get a hold of myself enough to see what's actually there in front of me."

"No. You're right," Shiarra said in too calm a voice, too steady a stare, "You shouldn't have to deal with picking up their pieces when you have plenty of your own. But sadly, we don't get those kind of luxuries. I had thought from what I had learned of you over the months that you were one of the few who could always beat the odds and come out ahead, no matter how trying or terrible the disaster. It's only your second day, Dean, and already you're playing the part of the failure. Give yourself more credit. And don't disappoint me."

For a moment Dean truly hated Shiarra for sounding so eerily and perfectly like his father. Then he just sank into himself again and took another swift drink, scrunched down in the driver's seat with his head resting back on the leather. "You're already set up for disappointment, Shi. You have faith in me."

"For good reason, Dean," she countered him, "I don't suppose you'd like to offer that flask to an old woman about to hit the road. I really should be going." She looked at him patiently.

He considered her offer but oblivion was too sweet a prospect right now.

"Well then. For your own sake, Dean, if not for mine, head inside soon. They miss you."

After Shiarra had left, her blue Bentley kicking up dust along the lone road that led from the Roadhouse, Dean sat for a long time just holding the flask, not drinking, and sitting there in the silence of the car. Why did everyone believe so much in him, believe so whole-heartedly that he could beat anything so therefore he had to be able to beat this?

Dean knew what he really wanted right now. He wanted anything but the lazy wanderings the others were pulling, trying to coax him out of his half-faked, half-frazzled shell. Whenever he couldn't force a smile or joke, he just walked away. He wanted a hunt, something to get his mind off being. But maybe the only reason he wanted a job right now was for some sick release, so he'd have something to kill.

All the people he had killed, all those years, trying to thwart Sam when all he was doing was playing into his hands. That boy, the first one Dean had…saved…had looked so much like Sammy at that age. And the way he had pleaded as Dean held him, the knife that usually stayed beneath Dean's pillow finding an unyielding sheath in soft skin, his free hand covering the boy's mouth to muffle that pleading, those cries…

Sam and Sasha weren't the only twisted things in Dean's Hell. They had twisted him.

"You think you're going against me, but this is all I ever wanted from you, Dean. You make me so proud."

Dean could hear Sam's cruel voice as clearly as he could hear his baby purring. He had given in and just hadn't known it long before he ever said, "Okay, Sammy. Okay…I'll choose you. I'll do whatever you ask me to."

"Dean!" called a voice from outside the car, muffled around the engine and steel cage Dean had chosen for sanctuary. He looked up and saw Sam and Sasha standing in the doorway of the Roadhouse, looking out at him. They had found him and were staring with worried expressions like they thought he might gun it suddenly and be gone. That option had a nice ring to it to be honest.

Dean waved mutely to say he was coming back in and they reluctantly nodded and left him be, returning inside. He had to wonder, knowing what they were dealing with, what had been given up for him, and what consequences it still might have, if it had really been worth it to save him.

Looking into the rearview mirror, it took barely a thought to summon his full-on black eyes, and deep in his gut he knew what he considered the answer to that question.

Dean pushed himself to make it through another day, but his flask never left him, stolen in small sips he hid from the others whenever the visions threatened to take him again. He tried to act more like the Dean they missed, and sometimes it was almost easy like it had been that first night when he had listened to Sam and Sasha talk, or that first hour amongst the others when they were eating and chatting about nothing. But it was still just an act. The harder he tried to feel like himself the less he could. The less he could feel anything.

Wally still wouldn't go near him. He started asking for menial tasks just so his hands would always be busy. He begged Sam for them to find a hunt, something, even if the only leads they had were meager. Sam was a fucking demon Jesus, after all, he had to be able to sense something, right?

Sam hadn't found that reference funny.

When Dean wasn't thinking on anything specific, when he was just lost in his head or struggling to maintain control, he would do pretty much anything Sam asked him to. He didn't mean to be so obliging, it just came naturally. Sam always asked so kindly too.

"Dean, would you grab me that?"

"Dean, can you help me with this?"

"Dean, you should eat more, you haven't touched your food."

"Dean, what's in that flask, let me see it?"

"Dean, stop scratching that, you're bleeding."

"Dean…"

"Dean."

"Dean?"

With anyone else Dean wasn't nearly as obliging. If Ellen or Bobby asked him to do something, he'd always pause a minute, look at them like he hadn't heard what they said, and they would have to repeat themselves. But with Sam it was instinct. With Sasha it was similar but nowhere near as prominent as the power Dean's brother held over him without even trying.

Eventually, Sam started to notice. He tried to test it and Dean didn't even realize he was being used as an experiment.

Sam was watching him pick at his food again—the healthy appetite he had had when he first got back had vanished—and he suddenly asked if Dean would please bring his plate to the kitchen if he wasn't going to eat anymore. Dean had gotten up and done so without thought.

When he got back, Sam watched him walk across the bar and asked if Dean would grab him a drink. A Pepsi. Dean did. Sam accepted and asked if Dean could get him water instead. Again Dean listened and replaced the soda for water. Sam accepted it again, his eyes downturned in a way Dean didn't understand. Then Sam asked Dean to give him the keys to the Impala, something Dean had kept habitually in his pants pocket almost as soon as he got back. Dean didn't even hesitate to reach into that pocket, pull the keys out, and hand over his baby.

Sam didn't take the keys. "Dean…what is wrong with you?" he said plainly, "Do you even know what you're doing? I've been ordering you around for ten minutes and you've done everything I asked like a god damn drone. No snide remark or 'go do it yourself, you lazy ass', nothing. I never asked you to be my General, Dean. Malak can't make you be that so stop acting like this. Stop following orders." There was venom in the words much as Sam tried so hard not to sound angry with Dean.

Dean stood for a minute processing what Sam had said, going over in his mind all the things he had done. He put the keys back in his own pocket. "Geez, Sammy, I'm finally not complaining that you're a whiney little bitch and you're reaming me for it?" The words sounded like him but the tone was flat.

"Dean, you're walking around like a robot. It's been three days and instead of starting to wake up it's like you're falling further asleep. Like we're losing you all over again. You're not in Hell. This isn't Hell. Stop looking at me like you have to do everything I say or I'll…" Sam just shook his head, he couldn't think up something that would befit the Sam Dean had dealt with in Hell.

Dean could think up plenty. "Well, excuse me, sorry I got so used to guarding my own ass by behaving instead of taking your shit that I'm having a hard time shaking the reflex. Oh, of course I mean Malak's shit. So sorry I keep screwing that up." Dean turned sharply back towards the bar.

"Dean," Sam called after him with a twinge of regret and sorrow to replace his own sharpness.

Sasha and Sarah were in the bar with them, but the others kept finding more and more excuses not to be around. Even Bobby. It had to be hurting the guy something awful that Dean was taking his advice and shitting all over it. "Sorry," Dean choked, even though he wasn't sorry, not like he should be, "I'm just…gonna go up to my room." He continued his trek to the bar, reached over the top to snag a bottle of Jack and didn't look back. It's not like they didn't know how he had been coping the last few days.

Three days. Three fucking days and he didn't feel better, he felt worse. He felt dead.

When Dean got up to his room, he thought this time would be like all the others, and that even if someone followed after him they would at least give him some time alone first. It was late. They had eaten late because Dean kept forgetting to eat at all. But this time he wasn't given any reprieve. He had chucked the cap to the bottle of Jack and was lying back against the headboard taking a long pull when Sasha came in without knocking.

"You know it's usually better if you mix that with something," Sasha said with a blank expression, shutting the door and walking in like he meant to stay. So much for a little peace.

Dean took another pull. "It's not fucking Everclear," he said.

Pain danced through Sasha's eyes, marring his vain attempt at feigning apathy. "The way you're drinking it, it'll probably do the same damage," he snapped. Snippy. Angry. Hurt. Well, why not? Dean was getting pretty good at hurting the people he loved. And he almost felt justified in it too since as far as his senses had been able to tell they had been hurting him for years.

Then he caught the incubus' stare again, caught the look in those eyes that had dropped all pretense of being strong, and he had to pull the bottle from his lips for fear of the tears he saw building there drowning him. He set the bottle of Jack on the nightstand. His body was warm from drinking, buzzing, but he wasn't gone enough that he wasn't in control. Sweet oblivion was still far off. Of course there were other ways to achieve that.

Sasha came right up to the bed as if he meant to fall upon Dean, but he merely sat on the edge, far enough away that Dean would have to sit up further if he wanted to touch him. "I don't know what to say anymore, Dean. I've said it all. So you're either not listening or it's so bad…you can't. And if it is that bad…then I don't know what to do." He spoke the truth Sam couldn't, that Sam would never accept, and the tears Dean had feared would fall began a steady, slow stream down Sasha's pale cheeks.

There was a part of Dean that still felt the instinctive urge to brush those tears away, so he clung to that passing feeling, hung on as tight as he could. "Stop trying to do things then," Dean said, scooting forward so he could wipe at those tears like he wanted, "Stop talking at me about how it'll get better and thinking you need to remind me every two seconds that you're the good guys and I'm safe here. You're the ones who said I didn't have to get over this in a day." Even though he was getting worse instead of better now on day three, which didn't make the future look too bright.

"I know, Dean, but when you look at me…" Sasha closed his eyes and further tears fell, his face pressing into Dean's touch, something Dean hadn't offered much since he'd been back, "When you look at me…sometimes I can see it. I can see you remembering and seeing me as something…someone that would hurt you. Dean, I'd never…I'd never hurt you," he said as his eyes opened again and he grasped the hand touching his face.

The part of Dean that still wanted to soothe Sasha knew the incubus' words were true. But the feelings in Dean were fleeting, so that he had to hang on so damn tight it almost hurt.

"I love you, Dean," Sasha said again, like he kept saying even though Dean had yet to say it back. The incubus was waiting to hear those words on Dean's lips, it was so clearly written across his anguished face and in the way his hand clung to Dean's and held it to his skin. Sasha needed Dean to feel that love in return. Dean knew the love was still there, that he still possessed it somewhere, but he couldn't find it. He wanted to. He wanted to want and need and feel.

Yes, there were other ways to seek oblivion, and Dean would have felt guilty for wanting to seek it in Sasha, but he told himself that if it helped, if it dulled the pain enough for even a short time then maybe he could finally start remembering how to be okay as more than just an act.

Dean scooted closer to Sasha on the bed until their hips touched, turned the hand that was pressed to Sasha's face into a hold, and drew that face and those full soft lips towards his own.

"Show me," he whispered, alcohol and the haze of bad memories making anything justifiable now, "Remind me what it's s'pposed to be like…"

The first brush of lips was filled with static, shocking Dean back to the last time he had kissed Sasha, a day ago on the dance floor downstairs. They never went so long between kisses when things were normal.

Dean pressed forward, deeper, and sought at that tongue that knew him so well, that knew his mouth and his skin better than he knew himself. Sasha did taste so wonderful, and it almost felt right kissing him, almost.

"Dean…" Sasha's voice shook, his eyes still damp as he looked at Dean. But Dean didn't want to talk. Talking wasn't helping. Drinking was only helping a little. Action would have to do. Action would help him feel again.

"Show me," he repeated, kissing Sasha once more, both hands holding the incubus' face so Sasha couldn't pull away. He kissed with fierceness, forgetting tenderness completely. The darkness behind Dean's eyes that beckoned images of a different Sasha was not going to win this time. Dean fought back by kissing Sasha harder, his hands sliding down Sasha's face to his shoulders so he could push the redhead back onto the bed.

His intentions were clear and it made Sasha gasp and twist his head away. "Dean…we…we shouldn't. You're drunk and frustrated and your emotions are all over the place. I…I wouldn't feel right…"

"What?" Dean scoffed, "Taking advantage of me? You can't take advantage of me…if I'm taking advantage of you." Dean tried to grin, tried to make it curve in a way that would resemble how he used to be so that Sasha would listen and leave things alone.

No further dissention rose so Dean took the silence for permission. He tugged on Sasha's shirt until he had it pulled over the incubus' head and let it fall. There was the tattoo. And the scar. And a peak of incubus markings at Sasha's waistline. It was all familiar. But Sasha being wanton and willing beneath him, that was new—something he hadn't known in so long.

Leaning down low, Dean let his weight hold Sasha to the bed, their legs both hanging off the side since they were on it sideways. Dean tried tender this time with his kiss but tender stirred voices in the back of his head, Sasha calling him 'weak' and other demeaning things whenever Dean talked of love. So Dean threw tender aside again, prodding insistently with his tongue for that wonderful warmth and wetness that let their mouths connect and meet so perfectly.

He felt Sasha's hands go for the hem of his shirt, but the feeling of warm skin touching him low on his waist made him flinch. He yanked his shirt free himself, returning for another fierce kiss that he moved down Sasha's neck, latching on hotly. Sasha gasped, probably feeling the sting of teeth because Dean wasn't being gentle. What did he know of gentle anymore?

"Dean…" Sasha breathed, back arching as Dean moved further down his neck, biting and sucking hard, his hands smoothing roughly down Sasha's sides, "God, Dean…I missed you so much." Sasha grasped Dean's head and pulled him up for another hungry kiss that Dean heightened with a nip at Sasha's lips. Within his grasp, tight and demanding, Dean felt Sasha shiver.

There was something so satisfying about that, causing a growl to build in Dean's throat—Dean's not Sasha's—as he pulled away and roughly started shifting Sasha further up the bed. The bed was still made but they didn't need covers for this. Dean thought of stealing one last pull from the bottle of Jack, but he knew that if the broke away from this rush for even a moment he'df lose it.

Sasha was mewling nonsensical words of devotion as Dean pinned him down and claimed patches of skin with sharp kisses. Dean really didn't want to hear that right now. He kissed Sasha's mouth again just to silence the incubus and reached down between their bodies for the clasp of Sasha's jeans. They were tossed aside so easily, Dean's too, leaving only thin cotton that teased their erections when they pressed together through the thin barrier.

Actually, Dean was still getting revved up, his own erection only halfway there. It had become so difficult to get hard when the attentions he had been given in Hell were always unwanted. Now that he was seeking it himself, free from that horror, he had to will his body to believe it really wanted this as much as he did. He needed the moments of blank nothingness that orgasm and the sweet sticky crescendo up to it could give him.

"Dean…slow down, you're shaking," he heard vaguely and breathless from Sasha. Dean was shaking, overly anxious, desperate for this. He paused to take a breath and still his tremors. Sasha looked so gloriously flush beneath him.

"Yeah…s-sorry, just…just…fuck. Need you so bad…" Need this. Need this. It didn't really matter if it was Sasha. That should have set off alarm bells for Dean but he wasn't paying attention, focused only on what he wanted and how he could get it.

Grinding down against Sasha through their matching cotton, Dean finally felt the blood pumping hot the way it should be. He was burning up and still a little shaky when he fell upon Sasha again with a claiming kiss, his nails raking down Sasha's smooth thighs, grasping somewhere below Sasha's knee to hoist a leg up. He hadn't even pulled down Sasha's shorts yet.

"You always feel so good, Dean…even when you fight me."

Dean's eyes snapped open and he nearly bit down on Sasha's tongue. Sasha hadn't said that. It was just in Dean's head, just his traitorous imagination. Dean banished those thoughts by kissing harder, gripping Sasha tighter. He pulled away and raked his hands up Sasha's thighs beneath his boxers clear to his waistline and down again, making the incubus tremble visibly.

No one had claim over Dean. He was in control. He had the power. He grasped Sasha through his shorts tightly and gave a firm pull. Sasha cried out from the unexpected harshness and Dean felt the sick twist of satisfaction grow in his gut. He had the power. He had the power…

A few more pulls, firm and unyielding, and Sasha was whimpering, his head tossed back. Dean needed this now, needed the release, the blinding oblivion. He pulled on Sasha's shorts until they were down his hips, enough that he could get at what he wanted. Pushing up Sasha's legs, Dean slid forward, his hands feverish over Sasha's skin and gripping hard again. He had barely pressed digits to Sasha's entrance before he was angling to sheath himself.

"Dean," Sasha said in a startled voice, shifting away from him, "What are you doing? I said slow down, you're going too fast. You're not thinking." What had made Sasha so wantonly submissive before still had his voice coming in ragged pants but his eyes were no longer clouded. They were narrowed.

Dean's annoyance fueled quickly into frustration. "Just going at it a little rough," he defended, "Thought you liked that. What, can't take a few aches and pains?" Dean just wanted to get Sasha back in position, back in the moment, but the incubus's legs were pulled together and his hips were turned away from Dean to the side.

Sasha's narrowed eyes softened with something like sadness and Dean would almost say the incubus looked…disturbed. "I thought I wanted this too. Thought…I don't know what," Sasha shook his head, "But this isn't right, Dean. I can feel your emotions as easily as I ever could, and they aren't what they should be. You're not thinking of me, you're not in the moment because…because you love me. You're using me to prove something to yourself, and…I can't be that. I should be more than that to you. I should be more than…convenient."

That should have been a blow to Dean's pride, a knock to his senses, but Sasha's unwillingness and albeit accurate assessment of the situation only made frustration turn to anger. Dean pulled up onto his knees. "Convenient?" he repeated with a sneer, "Yeah…you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? Making that deal to save my ass sure was convenient, after all."

Sasha looked up at him in shock. "What are you talking about? I did what I had to so I could bring you back, Dean. So we could be together even if it's—"

"Even if it's for a short time, right?" Dean broke in, glaring at Sasha now as the incubus pulled away from him and sat up, shimmying back into his shorts, "You get to save me and free your guilty conscience without any of the burden. Making that deal…you made sure that even though you knew I'd come back broken, at least you wouldn't have to deal with me for long. That's convenient."

Sorrow vanished in favor of narrowed offence once again as Dean's words struck Sasha hard.

"Now when you leave me, you won't even have to feel guilty," Dean went on venomously, "Coz hey, you saved me from Hell. That's gotta count for something."

Red flared to life in Sasha's eyes, his body going rigid and flinching forward like he was one harmful word away from clocking Dean hard across the jaw. Dean wanted him to. The pain would be a relief, something physical he knew how to grit his teeth through and survive.

So he goaded Sasha. "You wanna hit me? Hit me. At least then I'd actually feel something. If it wasn't for being rough with you, I wouldn't have even had the energy to get it up."

Red flashed in Sasha's eyes again and his body gave a telling jolt, but this time his momentum took him right off the bed, avoiding Dean. "Stop saying things like that," the incubus nearly growled, "I know you're frustrated. I know you're angry. But you…you don't mean this."

Maybe Dean did. Maybe he meant all of it. One thing he knew for certain was that the most alive he had felt since his return was right now, heated and arguing. "Are you really that delusional?" he said without pity, "You and Sam, looking at me like I haven't changed when you know I have. You can't live seven years of one life and then just go back to your old one like nothing happened!"

"I don't expect you to!" Sasha countered, standing defensibly before Dean, who was still on the bed, "I just want to help you get back what you can so we can have something. Do you hate me that much for what I did to bring you back? Do you hate me enough because of what Malak made of me that you really don't want this anymore…?" His eyes shimmered back to blue, filling with sudden tears.

Dean hated Sasha for those tears and almost answered with a vehement 'yes' just to spite him. "Are you even listening? I don't feel anything. I thought I did, thought I could again, but I shut down a long time ago and every day I'm reminded a little more that there is nothing left. They only left me with fear, and anger, and a whole lotta hatred." So much hatred. He hated himself so damn much. "I don't even know if I love you anymore."

Those words might as well have been a knife to Sasha's gut for all the devastation they left in their wake. The tears dried in Sasha's eyes, too overwhelmed to fall as he stumbled back. "You don't mean that."

Standing slowly from the bed, Dean kept his expression like stone. "You so sure?"

"I know you, Dean," Sasha shook his head, "I know what you're doing. You can't deal with this so you figure better to suffer alone. But you can't push me away. I'm not going anywhere."

Christ, how that stubbornness riled Dean even more. "I. Don't. Love. You," he said deliberately as he stepped closer into Sasha's space, "Dean's not home right now. Dean's an empty meat sack. Dean's still in Hell!" Only this was worse. This was worse because it should be right, it should be okay, but it wasn't. "Thanks so much for your help getting me out," he finished bitterly.

Sasha stumbled in place like he no longer had the strength to stand. His mouth quivered, his hands shook, but still he wouldn't give up. "You're wrong. You're wrong, Dean. I know you're still in there. And I know it's hard, I know I can't ever understand what it was like, what you're going through, but we can find our way back to the way things were, we can. You want that as much as I do, I know you do, or you wouldn't have tried so hard to be with me tonight."

The cruelty building so sharply within Dean almost had him laughing. "I thought you could show me, remind me what I should feel," he said, "You out of everyone should be able to do that, I thought. Then you know what I thought? I thought who the Hell cares, I just wanna fuck and forget for awhile. There is nothing to stir up and dig out of me. This isn't something you can magically fix with a little time and TLC. The harder you try, the harder I try to fake this into working, the more I want nothing to do with you."

And it was true. It filled Dean with despair he wouldn't let Sasha see, but it was true.

He turned to walk away.

"Dean!"

"Shut up."

"Dean," Sasha said more insistently.

"Just leave me the fuck alone."

"Damn it, Dean!" Sasha grabbed Dean's wrist tightly.

Dean whirled on him, wrenching his arm back. "I said leave me alone!"

Startled, Sasha instantly backed off. Dean knew why too. It was almost the exact same catalyst. His eyes were demon black again and Sasha looked downright terrified.

"Are you afraid of me?" Dean asked mockingly, lessening the gap between them again with a few quick strides, "I don't even have any powers like Sam, none I can figure out. You could tear me apart. And you're afraid of me."

"I couldn't tear you apart, Dean," Sasha said, back to his simpering, sad tone.

"Right," Dean scoffed. He understood. That was Sasha's major problem, the reason he had given into Sam so easily in Dean's Hell. The damn bleeding heart couldn't accept that sometimes other people needed to hurt. Dean needed to hurt. "Yeah, course you wouldn't. You'd just lie there and take it, wouldn't you?" Dean taunted, "And why not? It's in your blood."

There was nothing but heartache in Sasha's eyes. And yet, "I know you love me, Dean," he maintained stubbornly. Then finally he gave Dean what he wanted. He punched Dean so fast and so hard, Dean's head cracked to the side and the room spun around him. "That's why you deserve that." Sasha turned and began scrounging for his clothes. He put them on without saying another word.

It took Dean a moment to realize that the room's spinning had ended with him half-sprawled on the bed, his jaw aching painfully. It felt good. It felt real.

"You can't get rid of me, Dean," Sasha said when he was dressed and a little less flush from anger and dwindling arousal, "I'm sleeping somewhere else tonight. But I'm still going to be here in the morning."

After Sasha had left Dean just stayed there on the bed for awhile, lying back on it with his jaw pulsing. He didn't really feel any physically different than he had when he was last in this world. He could feel when his eyes were black if he really thought about it. But that was it. Whatever had changed in him went deeper than his body. He was sure of that now.

Eventually, he got up, found his own clothes, dressed. All of his things were in this room. Even shoes. His leather. His pendant had never left his body. Dean still had the Impala's keys in his jean pocket. It was easy to pack up what he would need.

"You'll still be here in the morning…" he mumbled to no one, "Then I won't be."

They were still connected, still joined, Dean was still marked. Sasha hadn't told him that but since Dean's body never really died the link between them hadn't been severed. Weeding through all those dark emotions within Dean was difficult, the fear and anger and hatred, but Sasha could still feel love buried beneath it even if Dean couldn't.

But his connection to Dean wasn't enough. It wasn't until Sasha's supernaturally sharp hearing picked up on the rumble of the Impala's engine that he understood what a fool he was.

Did I disappoint you or let you down?
Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown?
'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun,
Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won.

Sasha had taken a room down the hall. It hadn't been more than half an hour since he left Dean. He tore out of that room the moment he heard the Impala, realizing with a sick shock what must be happening. Suddenly, there was Sam in the hallway too, asking him question he didn't have time to answer.

So I took what's mine by eternal right.
Took your soul out into the night.
It may be over but it won't stop there,
I am here for you if you'd only care.

Racing down the stairs, Sasha could feel Sam right behind him. They were through the bar and to the main doors in moments. Things of his and Sam's were scattered about the entrance, emptied from the Impala's trunk.

You touched my heart, you touched my soul.
You changed my life and all my goals.
And love is blind and that I knew when,
My heart was blinded by you.
I've kissed your lips and held your head.
Shared your dreams and shared your bed.
I know you well, I know your smell.
I've been addicted to you.

Sasha threw open the doors, Sam right beside him. Dirt was flying, stirred up in the Impala's wake. Dean was already halfway down the road.

Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.

Sasha dropped to his knees, too much weight, more weight than he could ever bear alone forcing him down. Sam was yelling, running out the door. Then Sam had his phone out as he paced frantically through the tracks Dean had left behind. But Sasha already knew Dean wasn't going to answer. This wasn't a give me space, give me time goodbye. This was forever.

This was goodbye, I'm never coming home.

I am a dreamer but when I wake,
You can't break my spirit - it's my dreams you take.
And as you move on, remember me,
Remember us and all we used to be
I've seen you cry, I've seen you smile.
I've watched you sleeping for a while.
I'd be the father of your child.
I'd spend a lifetime with you.
I know your fears and you know mine.
We've had our doubts and we're not fine,
But I love you, I swear that's true.
I cannot live without you.

Goodbye my lover…

THE END!

Just kidding. tbc...because the arc isn't over!

A/N: There will be one more chapter in this arc. Yep, one. I said it was short. There you have the James Blunt song, Winterheart, with a little Sasha POV. "Goodbye my Lover". I hate that guy's voice, really, but the song is great. Did I rip your hearts out, because I think my own is actually twitching on the carpet right now. Phew. That was a crazy one all right. Can't wait for the next chapter.

Thoughts? Man, have there been a bunch of lurkers finally coming out of their shells to review, and tons of new readers too. Welcome! And thank you kindly for your wonderful comments. I suppose that makes me feel a bit better about the reader I lost due to this arc, but I guess I can't please everyone. I hope you are enjoying the uber-angst, or rather...see that it is necessary to the story. As for how things go from here...well. Oh Malak...! ;-)

Crim