Sam realized, as he eagerly waited for his brother's departure to the bathroom, that he was addicted to Dean's journal. Every second his brother was out of the room he spent pouring over it, trying to understand, to know this new person that Dean had become in the months since his return from hell.
When Dean came back he was his normal self—all wise cracks and bravado. But the longer they spent fighting demons, fighting anything really, Dean's brash bravado seemed to tarnish around the edges, and now, almost seven months later, Dean was a tense shell of the man he used to be. Dean had always been so exuberant, so full of life and every single little thing that was good in his life, from a home cooked meal, to a good old movie on television, made him smile and he acted like it was God's gift to him. Now, Dean's exuberance was replaced with quiet tension, and his lust for life was replaced with a lust for alcohol and escape.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Sam was off of the chair in front of the computer and digging through his brother's duffel and he grabbed the treasure, the only key to unlocking his brother.
He flipped past the angry scribbles that he read several days ago, the ones that were crinkled from water damage, that had occurred when Dean's tears had covered the pages, and were further ruined when Sam's tears joined his brother's on the pages. He finally found the pages his brother had written the night before.
The water turned on in the shower and Sam sighed in relief that his brother would be at least a half an hour, and that would allow Sam to read and process the six pages his brother had covered with frantic handwriting.
The rack. I keep talking about what happened while I was on it. While I was being tortured, how they tortured me and what the demons looked like and the smells, the sights and the sounds of all of that, but I always stop right before I talk about what it is like to torture others. And that is what tortures me most. That is what I dream about. I dream about the faces that I made contort with pain, the bodies I made writhe under my care, the sounds of their screams and their cries of remorse and their pleading, pleading with me to stop, calling to my humanity.
One of them went, "Dean Winchester? I was told that you help people." The face looked at me with relief as if I was the savior, and I ordered that that man be strapped down, and I started the carving, I called for the blood to be wiped away so I could make more precise incision in tender skin, dig my finger into the hole I just made.
The voices would scream, and scream, and I wanted to say that I was sorry, wanted to tell them I didn't have a choice, but when I apologized I was put on the rack and forced to endure pain, pain that is incomprehensible to the normal person. Mortal bodies blissfully go unconscious when the pain becomes too much, but in hell, you never go unconscious, even when the last part of your body has been ripped to shreds, you simply continue to exist, continue to feel the pain, continue all of it. So I wouldn't apologize to the soul I was torturing, I wouldn't say anything, I would just cut, slice, cut some more, pull out nails, stretch,---everything that was done to me. Everything. Sometimes I cried. But most times I did it with a numbness inside of me that only stopped when I stopped, and then I would feel the pain, a new kind of pain a pain that I wasn't used to feeling, a pain that was so deep in my chest and stomach that it burned, sizzled up my throat and then came out in vomit and dry heaves.
There were so many of them. SO many of them that I hurt, that I destroyed, that I helped along on the path to demonhood, some that deserved it, some that didn't deserve it. And now, they haunt my dreams. People I have never met. I hurt them, I selfishly saved myself from torment and destroyed them in the process, Alistair was right, I had promise. I had such promise that it was disgusting. I was becoming one of them. My eyes weren't turning black, but they were close. I was getting good at my job, I was even starting to take some sort of pride in my work towards the end. I was becoming them.
My dreams are filled with their faces, their blood, their guts, their everything all over my hands and face, my eyes stay the same, they stay that same green that I always have known, and that is what makes this whole thing worse. Me, Dean Winchester, son of John and Mary, brother and protector of Sam, hunter and friend of Bobby, became a monster in the pit. I became the destroyer of people. I destroyed who I was. I will never be Dean ever again. I am merely borrowing his name and face. I have destroyed myself.
Sam put the book down, looked up tears streaming down his face and was confronted with his brother, clad in jeans and no shirt, hand print scar standing out on his pale skin, green eyes, that had looked at him and protected him for years, and saw their fear, their sadness, and their hatred.
"What in the hell Sammy?"
"I had to know."
"I didn't want you to know. If I wanted you to know I would have told you."
"But I had to know."
"So, you know. What good is it doing you?"
"I'm getting to know you again."
"You don't want to know this me."
"I'm your brother."
"I'm a monster."
"You did what you had to."
"I did what would save my ass."
"Sometimes that is what you have to do."
"That's crap and you know it. I broke."
"You broke because I wasn't there to save your ass."
"Whatever Sammy." He said and went to his duffel and found the shirt he had forgotten to take into the bathroom.
"I'm here Dean."
"I don't want you here for this Sammy." He said roughly and started towards the bathroom and closed the door before Sam could say anything else. Sam looked back down at the journal and went to the desk and got a pen.
Hell is relative. I had sex with a demon. I had sex with a demon not because if I didn't, I would face incomprehensible pain, but because I was weak and needed something, anything, so I could feel again. I bled and didn't feel it, I hurt people I loved because I was hurting, and I gave away a piece of my soul, willingly to a demon, because I wanted revenge. I became what I hated….my dad. I broke a promise and I gave into demonic forces, and I deserve what the angels say. I have become something that I'm not. Hell comes in many forms, but we all suffer, and we all dream about the people we've hurt.
Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil…