"All you have to do is get off the rack. That's all you have to do. The restraints aren't there. Just get up. Come to me. Help me with the new arrivals. There is a new one, a mother that made a deal with my associate, her life for her child's. She needs to be initiated into hell. She needs to see, just like you, that sacrificing your soul for someone else's isn't worth anything."

"Go fuck yourself." Dean said shakily. Even though his body had been reformed, and was perfect, his mind was damaged and he shook, every day, all day. He wanted the shaking to stop. "It was worth it." He ground out thinking about his brother, thinking about Sam with Bobby, safe and alive. That was what made what was about to happen worth it--worth the torture, worth the pain, worth the despair.

"If you think so." Alistair looked over to his assistant. "Stretch him. Let's see if we can make him as tall that brother he felt was so important to save." Alistair waved the command on as if he were ordering a baked potato with his steak. Alistair was gone for what seemed like hours, but Dean knew it was only moments. He was waiting for them to start the torture. Waiting was worse than the actual pain. The pain would stop when there was nothing left to cut up, stretch, carve or dismember. The waiting could last forever. It made him twitch, it made him shake harder almost to the point of convulsing, when the meat hooks in his sides, arms and legs, started to pull, slowly, slowly so they could maximize the pain. Couldn't have the pain end to quickly now. Demons like to listen to the great Dean Winchester scream, and scream he did as he felt his skin stretch and split, and his joints pop and separate and finally his arms come away from his torso, then his legs, one at a time, just so the pain and screaming would last. Dean's head and torso fell to the filthy ground, his arms and legs hanging from the chains above. He cried, and screamed when the demon came closer, dull knife in one hand, and hot poker in another. He didn't see anything after his eyeballs popped like a grape….

"All you have to do is get off the rack. That's all you have to do. The restraints aren't there. Just get up. Come to me. Help me with the new arrivals. There is a guy whose wife had cancer, her brain was becoming jelly, and he couldn't stand to watch her suffer, so he made a deal, a deal to save her. Come on Dean. Come on and help me show him the ropes."

"Never." Dean said. "Go…"

"Fuck myself. Yes yes yes, you've been saying that for years Dean. But you know that what you sacrificed yourself for is no longer living." Dean stilled.

"What?"

"It's been over 30 years. Sam died. There is no reason for you to resist anymore Dean. But, oh well, one more day of hearing your screams is like a precious stone that you can't throw away or be disappointed in receiving. Carry on." He said and disappeared like usual.

Today, today, they pulled each of his teeth out, one by one, making sure to dig deep into his gums when the roots broke because of their pulling. Once he was toothless, they reached in his mouth and cut out his tongue. What an exquisite pain that was, blinding, white hot, and his blood flowed down his throat and he choked, and then while he was choking they pulled out one of his fingernails nice and slow, and he took a deep breath and he couldn't breath, couldn't yell, and he was in such pain and agony that he passed out.

"All you have to do is get off the rack. That's all you have to do. The restraints aren't there. Just get up. Come to me. Help me with the new arrivals."

"I'll do it." He said and stood, he got off that rack….

Sam stopped reading and looked up at his brother. "That's what happened?" his voice was soft and cracking. Tears rolled down his face and hit the leather bound journal he had bought for his brother. After Dean told him that little piece of hell, Sam bought the journal, encouraged him to write in it, encouraged him to get it out of his system, and he did, and Sam asked if he could read it. Dean had said no for days. Finally, giving in when Sam said he needed to understand the nightmares that were plaguing his brother, needed to understand, needed to know how to help. He gave the eyes, those blasted puppy dog eyes, and Dean relented.

He licked his lips and braved a look at his brother. "You read what I did?"

"No. I read what they did to you. Dean. I'm---"

"Don't say you're sorry, you haven't read what I did to them."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"Dean."

"Stop Sam. You wanted me to write in the freaking journal. I did. You wanted to read it. So you read it. Please don't make me talk about it too." Dean's eyes pleaded. He looked down at his lap and the knee that had been bouncing since Sam took the journal. "I gotta get out of here. I'll be back." He said and grabbed his car keys and was out of the motel room faster than you could say his name.

Sam looked back down at the writing on the page, and he started to cry, now that Dean wasn't in the room. His poor brother. 30 years of pain and torture for what? For his life? No. It wasn't worth it.