Disclaimer: I own nothing…

Summary: When all of Hell's fury is focused on one soul, very few could resist for more than moments… But Dean holds on. For six years… Only to be unleashed on earth, with no memory of his life, and just one mission: destroy Mercy and Justice.

Rating: R

Author's Note: So, first Supernatural fic… I've got a good chunk of it finished (though not in order, unfortunately). This one's short, I know, but I really felt like it needed to be ended here… Next chapter should be up soon. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

The title for this chapter and inspiration for this fic came from Flyleaf's "Justice And Mercy"...

Prologue: Mercy Screams Its Violent Love

There are some souls that simply refuse to crack. For decades, centuries, millennia… they hold on. Refuse to break.

And it's all the more fun that way. To watch a soul, desperate to regain humanity, struggle tirelessly against the torments of hell.

These tend to be those who have made the deals. The hunters. The witches. Those desperate to save someone they love, whatever the cost.

They hold on.

The Winchester? He's no different. He's a hunter. A dealmaker. A man so damn willing to sacrifice himself, his soul would have to be strong…

But they had never imagined exactly how strong.

It's more fun to watch the suffering. There's a sense of sick satisfaction that comes from it, knowing that the more humanity remains, the more pain comes out of it all…

But there are times, times just like these, that require the breaking of a soul for the sake of survival… Times when all the focus, all the horrors and torments of hell are forced upon that one. When blood and tears and hurt crush and squeeze and force their way into the soul, painting it black, usually in a matter of days, sometimes weeks…

But never years. Never.

Except for the Winchester.

He holds on. He's strong. Too strong.

They force and they shred and they peel away everything he's ever been and strip him dry, and still, he clings. Like a mother to a dying child.

He holds tight, refusing to give, refusing to break.

For years.

Six years.

But even the strongest of souls cannot withstand the torments of hell for a lifetime…

He stands, every muscle in his body flexing against this new, awkward weight. He feels heavy; feels the strain of skin holding him captive in this shell he has been forced into. His shoulders shift back as he feels the sharp, hot pain of the mark that holds him here, in this skin. It burns a vibrant, fiery orange for only moments, before fizzling to a cold, dull black.

But the burning doesn't stop. He feels it still, deeper now. Holding him, sinking into rage. Into hate.

Into images…