Title: Taking Down the Devil (at a Bargain Price)

Author: MiruKail (Formerly Heyuwithaface)

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Summary: Dean's in Hell and Sam is about to bust his ass out. Hell's got it coming.

Warnings: AU, Wincest, violence, Hell angst, mentions of graphic torture, language, extreme imagery, misplaced humor, dubcon, graphic sex, H/C, bottom!Dean, possessive! Badass! Sam, schmoop

Disclaimer: I know a man who knows this guy who used to date this girl who totally got whay-layed by a parrot who played on a show that was directed by a guy who saw the director of Supernatural through a window at a coffee shop. Other than that, I don't own Supernatural.

A/N: I moved this story from my other account (Heyuwithaface) to this one. Don't be alarmed if it looks familiar.


Hell Herald Newspaper

Hotspots in Hell:

Things to See and Do When Vacationing in Hades

July 5, 2008

Here in Hell, there is a room called Tandora that quarters the eternally damned. It is a miniscule crawlspace, tucked in between the Elysian Fields and Gehenna, and housed somewhere on the sixth dimension. It's reserved-quite exclusively- for the mass murderers, pedophiles, and truly corrupt of the Earth realm. If you reside in this humble hideaway, God has turned His back on you; there is no redemption… ever. But only the truly lucky can stay here. Invitation only. (Sorry to all of you not-quite-up-to-par serial rapists! Better luck in the next life!)

It is lamented that the room is so drenched in evil that only the Fallen themselves can enter. Any demon or damned soul that attempts to step foot in this hellish cubby hole will disintegrate under the weight of the depravity. The Fallen claim it's a horrifying ordeal to experience. "Molted flesh falls off of bone which peels back from muscle which spills blood all over the place. Demon blood is a bitch to get out of beige carpeting." (Quoted from Astaroth, Unholy Fallen Secretary.)

When asked why the Damned upholstered in beige, all the Hell Herald received was a tentative smile and a rather undignified shrug.

Digressing, Tandora claims to house the infamous madman, Jeremiah Sandara-the first known human cannibal. Sandara was credited with the first recorded slaughtering of a stereotypical, American Dream household; complete with a husband, a wife, their 2.5 children, and a non-descript dog. Sandara allegedly held the family hostage for eight weeks and force-fed them Mexican rice, free-range chicken breasts, and whole milk until they were plump enough for him to fire up his good ole' bonfire pit and roast them with a side of baked potato. Sandara lived in England until his eminent death in 1783, after which his soul was Purg-EXed (to the newbies of Hell, "Purgatory Expressed") directly to Hell's own board panel and sentenced to 5,930, 041, 255 Earth realm years in Tandora.

An unnamed official states that Tandora is "very excited to have Mr. Sandara's soul in house as it will draw in many potential souls during tourist season". The Hell Herald certainly agrees, unnamed source. We can only hope that one of the souls it draws in comes bearing recipes for Sandara's eclectic taste buds!

And speaking of drawn-in souls, Tandora has yet another soul they can credit toward their bragging rights. Dean Winchester, of the infamous Winchester brothers' duo, is reportedly being held in Tandora until Hell's own demon-torturer extraordinaire, Alastair, can attend his inauguration. Although Alastair is a demon, he is so skilled at his art form that Fallen execs have agreed to bypass Tandora's no demons! rule for sixty Earth realm years just to get a piece of the Winchester pie. We're all rooting for you here at the Hell Herald, Alastair!

So, if you ever find yourself vacationing near Gehenna, definitely add Tandora on your list of local hotspots. According to the Unholy Campaign Ad for Tandora, it's "an educational experience for the entire family." This scriber's just got to wonder… what family are they talking about?


Hell Herald Scriber

Sam's fingers tightened around the newspaper cutout until his fingertips turned white from the pressure. The words blurred, becoming a jumble of words and phrases, a tangle of shadows that all suddenly sharp-focused on three words.

Dean Winchester… Tandora.

Sam crumpled up the paper in his fist, suddenly sure of himself for the first time since his brother's death almost three months ago. He knew what he had to do, and by Ruby's knowing frown, she agreed.

Sam was going to Tandora to get his brother back.

"Do it," he growled, pulling up his hooded sweatshirt to expose the smooth expansion of his chest. His tan skin gleamed and beckoned at Ruby, tempting the darkest depths of her until she could do no more than pick up her knife and drag it teasingly across his skin. A thin, red line formed where her knife drew its trail. It glistened wetly, dark red and delicious against his broad chest.

Ruby licked her lips once before drawing her eyes away from the tempting sight. She met Sam's calculated gaze with a level one of her own. "Are you sure?" She had to positive that this was all done willingly. Anything less and the plan would fall to pieces before it even began.

Sam nodded once, mouth set into a thin line. "Do it."

And that was all she needed.

Ruby shoved the demon blade through Sam's chest, watching as the gleaming silver cut through flesh, muscle and bone to pierce his heart. His eyes widened and mouth worked, soundless words falling on deaf ears. He rolled his eyes toward her, their hazel depths glazed over with pain, and fell to his knees.

"I know," she crooned. She brushed the hair out of his face to get a better view of the life fading from his eyes. Almost there… She thrust the blade in a little deeper before ripping it down into his lungs.

Sam died kneeling before a demon.

Ruby tenderly wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his lips and brought the smear almost thoughtlessly to her lips. It was acrid, tainted through and through with copious amounts of demon blood. There was very little human left in Sam. Perfect.

This would work. Everything was falling into place; the puzzle was almost complete. Once Sam rescued Dean- and Ruby knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn't fail- certain events would be set into motion that could never be undone.

Ruby touched Sam's chest and watched as the stab wounded faded into nothing. She smirked down at the tall hunter's crumpled form.

"Hurry back, Sam. You wouldn't want to miss your killer surprise."

Dean's eyes were on fire. Literally. Thousands of tiny flames licked and burned at his retinas, scalding and imprinting on the whites of his eyes, leaving behind charred remnants. Dean would scream himself hoarse but his throat was filled with sand. Also literal. He was trapped. He was scared. He was ashamed. He had long since learned that fear and embarrassment went hand and hand. He might have learned that lesson after a faceless entity poured scalding hot matter—it might have been blood- into his mouth and he pissed himself from the pain and fear. Or it might have been when his hands and feet were nailed to something reminiscent of a train track and he cried the first time he saw the 6 ton freighter coming toward him.

Dean had tried to trap himself in his own mind, to block out the pain of it all, but Hell knew all of the tricks. The moment he closed his eyes to escape, he was bombarded with thousands of images; they were tiny pixilations of all the deaths he had caused, all the lives he had failed to save. His greatest fears were broadcasted with surround sound.

Dean had tried the whole false bravado/sarcasm scenario. The moment he opened his mouth to respond with a sarcastic retort, thousands upon thousands of fire ants procured his tongue.

Dean wanted Sam. He wasn't too ashamed to admit it anymore. Hell had taken away his tough exterior, his many facades and left him bare for anyone- anything- to poke and prod at. He couldn't lie to himself in Hell. He knew what he wanted, more than anything, was for Sam to find a way to break Dean's deal and save him. The deepest, darkest parts of him knew that what he was wanted, more than anything was for Sam to wrap him up in his strong, long arms and hide him away from the entire world.

Dean was tired of it all. He was tired of the pain, the fear, the constant need to be strong enough to be reliable. He wanted to rest, just for a little bit, while somebody else took over the responsibility of keeping him safe. Sam was the only person he trusted enough to do that. Sam was the only person that could do that. Sam got Dean. Sam understood everything that Dean was made up of. He saw past the criticism and sarcasm to the raw terror that was etched upon Dean's very soul. He saw it and was still around; still in for the long haul with Dean.

So, yeah, Dean wanted Sam. Especially now. Dean didn't even care that he was covered in his own bodily fluids—and God, not just his own—and that Sam would see him crying like some menopausal woman; didn't even care that his arm was shredded and that he probably looked like some road kill's inbred cousin. He'd take undignified over Hell, any day. He wanted to be clingy, damn it! And he wanted to cling to Sam.

'Sammy… Sam…'

"Won't be coming to rescue you, my dear." A voice sounded somewhere over by Dean's left. It was a nasally voice; the type of voice meant for those irritating British Public Service Announcements that Dean used to make fun of; the type of voice that now sent a sharp spike of fear up his bent and shattered spine.

Dean could tell, even without his eyesight, what entity came attached to that voice. Alastair.

"Oh my. Have we been doing this so long that you know me just by my vocal cords? Tsk, tsk, Deano. That is a sign that you've been in the pit for too long."

Light suddenly cataloged in Dean's mind as the flames died down from his eyes and his eyesight was restored. He could breathe properly, too. The sand must have been cleared away along with the flames… He took a few deep breaths, struggling not to gag on the rotten egg stench of sulfur, but was still relieved he could breathe without suffering damage to his lungs. He hocked up a bloody loogie and spit it near Alastair's feet before allowing his gaze to trail up toward the demon's face.

To be fair, it was inherently obvious that Alastair used to be human. He had the figure, height, and features of a man. Albeit a bit more… warped. With the height came an additional foot and a half of height that allowed him to tower over Dean. Dean hated being towered over. It made him feel defenseless and weak. Sometimes even Sam's height could set his teeth on edge. Other times, it brought with it a sense of deeply buried security but that was another story altogether.

With the figure came a crooked spine, giving Alastair a hunched over, Igor-esque appearance. His shoulders jutted up somewhere around where his jaw line should be and it would have been funny but… Hell and all that.

With the features came the slight broadening of an already wide forehead, the lowered ridge of the brow, and the stained, jagged teeth of bad orthodontistry.

Alastair wasn't winning any pageant awards, Dean had confirmed a while back

While Dean studied his tormentor's features, Alastair studied Dean. The boy looked absolutely terrible, chained like he was to the iron spiked chair. His once-beautiful fair skin was covered in lesions and bruises, with a few shredded strips of flesh hanging off where Alastair had gotten truly creative with his surgeon's knife.

Sweat dripped from the boy's dark blond head, down his severally dehydrated body and into the parched earth beneath their feet. The sharp scent of it rankled the air, making Alastair more than a little hard. He had completely broken Dean.

He was honestly proud of himself for the destruction he had caused to the once proud hunter. It was more than physical, although- admittedly- he was rather proud of the work he did on Dean's legs. It was also mental, emotional, and sexual. Alastair had pulled every trick he knew in the book to not just crack the boy's exterior but to utterly destroy it.

Alastair could still remember with a fond clarity the first time he met Dean. He had started off by making him an offer, the same one he made to thousands of souls for thousands of years: He would put down his blade if Dean picked one up and started the torturing. Obviously, the boy had declined none too graciously and told him to take a long walk off of a short pier. That had been the false bravado speaking, undoubtedly; the type of foul mouth that could practically peel the paint off of a wall. But hidden beneath the unpolished, crash exterior was a soul made of purity and innocence. Badass Dean tried so hard to act the part but his soul was the same lily-white color as that of a newborn child. It had intrigued and secretly amused him. Of course, Alastair had to punish him for it but…

Sweet Lucifer, it had been years since the heyday of Dean's foul mouth. He honestly missed the "fuck you's" growled through bloodied teeth as Alastair would inject him with paint thinner or slowly rip the fingernails off of his fingers.

The good ole days. It was the most fun Alastair had had since Lucifer went to slumber a long time ago. Now all that was left was this broken, borderline pathetic man in this broken, borderline pathetic Hell who spent his days pining for a brother that had utterly abandoned him. It was rather sad, really. So, of course, it made Alastair laugh.

And as Alastair laughed, Dean's stomach knotted itself into tight, dread-filled knots. If just the sound of the demon was enough to make Dean want to curl up and die, the sight alone was enough to make Dean want to hurt someone. Someone other than himself for a change.

'God, Sammy. Get me out of here.'

Alastair immediately stopped his chortling and strolled forward, just close enough to clamp Dean's jaw between his clammy fingers. And clamp he did… hard. Dean felt his jaw break under the pressure and he just barely stifled a gasp of pain.

"Neither God nor your Sammy are going to rescue you. The sooner you accept that fact, the sooner we can get you over this rather boring obstacle and into the truly fun stuff. So, I ask you again. Will you pick up the knife if I put mine down?"

Dean barely registered Alastair smiling at him as images of torturing another human soul flitted through his pain. He would be hurting people. Humans. He would be hurting people that deserved it more than him. He would be destroying somebody's son or daughter. He would be punishing the wicked for evil deeds. He would lose his soul in the process. He would finally be able to rest from the pain…

'Sammy, what am I supposed to do? Please. I don't know what I'm turning into… I don't think I can stop myself.'

Did Alastair really expect him to say "yes" and call it a day? Did he really expect him to say "no" and go back to being tortured?

As the fingers tightened even more on his jaw, Dean retracted his question. Of course Alastair expected an answer. He'd only been expecting an answer for the past thirty-odd years.

Alastair expected an answer…

"Please…" Dean gasped, struggling to form the first word through a sand-damaged windpipe.

Alastair frowned in irritation and with a wave of his hand, healed Dean's throat just enough for him to speak. Dean took in a few more appreciative breaths before diving head long into his own grave.

"No soul…" gasp, pant, "deserves the sight…" wheeze, cough, "of your ugly face."

That was it then.

Alastair stared blankly at Dean a moment before his mouth split into a wide grin. "I'll take that as a 'no'?"

Dean stared defiantly back at him. He plastered a cocky smirk on his face while his heart hammered in terror. "Take that as a 'hell no', you sycophantic, cock-sucking, mother-fucking- -mmph-"

Dean's throat filled up with sand and he was fairly sure the stinging sensation in his mouth wasn't just the rough grit of dirt.

"I have higher standards than to lay with my own mother, Dean. Incest is wrong… or didn't you know that?"

'Sam, please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease. Oh God, please. Sammy?'

"Is too busy fucking his demon whore to remember you." And with that said, Alastair picked up his surgical knife and plunged it into Dean's left eye.

Tandora shook with the sound of Dean's scream.

Hell wasn't what Sam had pictured.

He had just crossed the infamous river Styx a while back and even though it had permanently burned unflattering images into his mind, it still wasn't the horror fest he had pictured. There was the stereotypical visual buffet of maiming and torture, sure, but Hell still felt rather off. Not even five nymphs engaged in a little flagrant de licto over by the perfect rendition of a Stalin statuette could shake the feeling of utter wrongness.

Miles of obscurity surrounded him. In place of mile-high flames were towering buildings, surprisingly reminiscent of high raise office buildings. Their chrome surfaces gleamed against the muted light that managed to filter through serious layers of smog, dust, and car pollution. Sam had to wonder what went on those buildings. Bureaucracy? Stock marketing?

Hell seemed to consist of regions. Each region was significantly different than the last; Sam had been through enough of them to tell. Each had its own theme, of sorts, that seemed to be based off of human towns and cities.

The region he was currently occupying mimicked a metropolis very similar to New York City, sans the people.

The last region- if you could call it that- had a rather Mid-western feel to it and even boasted headless, demonic cattle and a Wal-Mart Super Center. Sam had briefly contemplated picking up supplies from the store but immediately thought better of it when the last two customers to walk out of the store were a man holding his own bloody eyes and what could have been a woman, sans her breasts and face.

It wasn't even the paradox towns that made Hell different from what Sam had imagined; it was the sheer non plus of it all. Everything was deceptively relaxed. Obviously, the people being tortured on the sidelines and the sights that greeted him at every turn weren't relaxing but the fact that nobody seemed to get in his way was definitely odd.

He kept waiting for the other shoe to fall; for someone to try and stop his rescue of Dean. He was ready for it should it come but everybody seemed to be indifferent. Even the few hardcore demons that Sam had passed just ignored him in favor of their tasks at hand. Hadn't they had a hard-on for him and his brother every time one of them escaped Hell and ventured into the human realm? What, all of a sudden that changed when Sam brought the fight to their turf? What was with the bullshit?

Hell couldn't be like this… could it? If so, it was rather unimpressive.

There were even billboards, for Christ's sake, and enough of the flashing ones to give an epileptic a grand mal. Sam was fairly certain he had seen an advertisement for Enzyte just above a man being tortured by a three-foot-tall hamster in leather. What kind of Hell advertised? Scratch that; what kind of Hell dressed household pets up in leather? This was exactly the type of ridiculous bullshit that made him want to punch something. Wasn't Hell supposed to be terrifying?

He hadn't even gotten any lip from Charon when he crossed the river Styx. He had at least expected some exchanged words followed by a few thrown punches.

It was odd.

He cleared his throat and continued trudging, hands in pockets, across the parking lot outside of what looked like a Starbucks. He would keep his guard up, despite the calm. Sam was taught better than to trust something unfamiliar and strange.

'Speaking of unfamiliar and strange...'

He watched as what looked like the upper half of a human attached to a cannon rolled out of the Starbucks, a steaming cup of something or other in its hands. Sam stilled, sure that this was the moment he had been waiting for.

His hand closed around the demon blade concealed in the pocket of his hoodie as the Human Cannon wheeled closer. The demon blood stirred with interest against Sam's spine, causing what could only be described as a wave of rage to course its way throughout his body. Dark tendril of emotion clenched once and Sam froze, eyes bleeding black. He would fight with everything that he had. He would tear, and maim, and-and friggen rip if he had to-

"Sup, homey?" The Human Cannon nodded before wheeling itself around Sam and toward a tricked out pickup truck. It juggled its coffee in one hand and used the other to reach into its shirt pocket.

Unexpected, but still…

Sam's heart rate accelerated, eyes focused on the hand as it scrambled for the odd shaped bulged in the tight fabric. This was it… This was the fight he had been waiting for; his first fight in Hell. The moment it pulled out its weapon, Sam would tear it apart. The sudden flood of demonic energy seemed to acquiesce to this idea, surging up in Sam's vein with enough force to make his fingers twitch.

'Cleave its flesh off to expose its insides. Crack its spine and dip your fingers in the gore. Feast on the suffering. Shred…slice…tear…kill. You know you want to.'

"How about no?" Sam muttered to himself, kind of disgusted at the thought of putting his fingers into any form of gore. Crack its spine? Feast on suffering? His inner demon was beginning to sound a little like Hannibal Lector. Sam reminded himself to lay off the demon blood for at least a few weeks until he could have a little talk with Ruby about the nasty side effects.

He watched as the Human Cannon successfully pulled out its car keys and maneuvered itself into its Pimpmobile, unscathed.

'Jilted again. Damned saint.'

Sam jerked out of his demon blood-induced trance and scrubbed a hand over his face. This wasn't good. He knew he needed the demon blood in order to survive in Hell but the loss of control was cause for concern. If it went against his wishes at the wrong time and an innocent got hurt, Sam wasn't sure he could forgive himself.

'Don't be such a fucking pussy. My grandmother is tougher than you and I ate her centuries ago.'

Sam started at the voice. It could talk directly to him? Did this mean it was its own separate entity?

'Wow, somebody get this kid a medal. Your sheer genius is astounding, really. I'm overwhelmed.'

He frowned at the sarcasm in the entity's tone, already feeling his patience wearing thin at the unwelcome accompaniment in his body. He supposed it was too much to ask for a mute parasite invading his body. The best he could do was ignore its existence for both his sanity and his piece of mind.

'That's what your mom said.'

"I'll fucking kill you," Sam snarled, temper snapping, and he wheeled around. A little girl with sewn-shut lips stared back at him, her black eyes wide and nervous.

A caterpillar that had been inching its way across her face, turned an accusing face toward Sam. Its body puffed out in indignation, making it appear larger in size; like some kind of growth on her face. "Yeah, I'd like t'see ya work one over on us, pal!" It hissed, rearing back dangerously.

Sam could hear the entity chuckling in his head and chose to ignore the wave of trepidation that coursed through him. He nodded at both the little girl and the caterpillar. He was just about to apologize when the entity hissed at him in warning.

'Demons are never remorseful. You ever hope of finding your pretty little brother and coming out alive, you'll learn that.'

Sam swallowed down his weariness at having to rely on a demonic presence- he had, after all, been following Ruby's advice for some months now- and turned a 100% patented Sam's-gunna-slap-a-bitch face onto the little girl's fuzzy companion. He allowed the sneer of disdain to curl his lip before he spat out, "Give me a second to find my tool belt and I'll show you just what type of work I can do."

'Fucking classy, man. Where did you come up with that? You-"

'Shut up.' Sam turned the full force of his glare- the one he wanted to shove up the entity's ass- onto the caterpillar and it shrunk down to its regular size. The little girl's eyes welled up with tears and the caterpillar turned away from him, patting her face with one awkward nub.

"Hope you enjoy making little girl's cry, asshole." He heard it mutter and never felt more like a jerk then he did in that moment. He watched both of them walk away while ignoring the jeering voice in his head.

Right now he would try not to worry about it. Too much was on his mind for him to add one more thing to the mental list. Too much was at stake if his concentration wasn't focused. And there were more important questions to answer at the moment than whether or not he'd hulk out on an innocent bystander. Sam was fairly certain the word 'innocent' didn't even exist in Hell.

And speaking of Hell… Where the hell was he?

'Okay, well. I'm just going to take a little nap while you figure your shit out. Wake me up when you're in the mood to kill a bitch.'

And Sam was perfectly fine with that. He had no idea how to deal with a foul-mouthed, crass entity on top of everything else.

Sam looked around the parking lot and found that throughout his mental anguishing, a few victims of the gore slap-down had stopped to stare at him in confusion. He nodded at them contritely before hightailing it out of the parking lot and toward a hidden side of the Starbuck's building. He wanted to put as much space between him and the others before he found his demon blood making him do something strange, like proposing marriage to some man with a boot fused to his forehead or whatever.

And as for where he was, Sam had to admit that although Hell hadn't met his expectations, it definitely one-upped them by five; including having an amazing penchant for getting him lost and hurling the unexpected at him. This really wasn't a good thing, come to think of it. If he didn't know what to expect, it would make rescuing Dean that much more difficult. He had no template, no Idiot's Guide to Surviving Hell and Rescuing Pig-headed Brothers from Eternal Damnation.

It would require smarts. It would require strength. It would require a phone call to Bobby.

He double-checked his surroundings before flipping open his Treo to dial the older hunter's number. Also an interesting side note, service in Hell was amazing.

It rang once, twice, three times before, "Hello?"

Sam sighed in relief. He wasn't entirely positive that Bobby would still take his calls after he had ignored him for over three months; he didn't realize how much had been riding on the older hunter picking up his phone until he went weak in the knees from it all. It was gratifying-and more than a little humbling- to know that he was still okay in Bobby's books. At least, okay enough to be conversed with via phone.

"Hey, Bobby. I, um, just… hey." Not awkward at all. Really.

"Sam?" The seasoned hunter's voice was gruff with age and probably more than his fair share of smoke damage but, to Sam's ears, it was like coming home.

"Yeah, it's me."

"My god. I haven't heard from you in months, boy. I was worried sick about you!"

Sam's stomach knotted with guilt. It was true that he hadn't bothered with Bobby after Dean had died. He couldn't stand to face any reminders of Dean and Bobby had been a huge reminder of what he was missing. Sam had feared what little sanity he had would snap when he heard Bobby's voice.

"I'm sorry, Bobby. I couldn't… I didn't want to-" The words trailed off into the polluted air, unable to express Sam's frustration. Sam's confusion. Sam's loneliness.

"No, I get it, son. I do. Dean's death was hard to cope with. But don't ya think that maybe you didn't have to deal with it alone?

Sam's heart lurched in misery and he felt his shoulders tense. "I'm not ready to talk about that. I'm sorry. I just can't…not yet."

Bobby heaved a world-weary sigh. Sam could practically feel his reluctant nod in his bones. It made him ache but what Sam had said was true; he wasn't ready to talk about Dean's death. He refused to acknowledge it until he had Dean wrapped up, safe and secure- bound and gagged if he had to- in the Impala.

"Alright, son. I'll let it go.' Sam could hear the "for now" loud, clear, and unspoken in Bobby's words. "So, what can I help you with?"

"For starters, you can tell me where Tandora is located."

"Tandora? As in 'Demon Museum' Tandora'? The Tandora of Hell?"

"Yeah. Do you have, like, a map or something that you can send to my phone?"

"What do you need a map of Tandora for? Boy, if you've gotten yourself into trouble-"

Sam cleared his throat, suddenly self conscious. "No, I'm not in trouble…" And here was where it was going to get interesting. "I'm kind of in Hell."

There was a long, confused pause and then, "Well, if you'd called sooner, I could have helped with some of the pain and all. I mean, I'm no psychologist but I don't think a map-"

"No, Bobby," He started, cutting the older man off. "I'm not going through hell. I'm literally in Hell. As in fire and brimstone and all that. Well, not so much the fire and brimstone but it's pretty close… Haven't seen Lucifer yet, though."

There was the sound of something being dropped and then nothing. Bobby had a long enough pause going that Sam began to become concerned. Had the man had a heart attack? He would never forgive himself if he caused the other hunter's demise.

Sam coughed questioningly. Apparently that was enough to fix whatever problem had occurred on the other end of phone because a moment later something rustled and Bobby's voice came back over the phone.

"Sorry 'bout that. I thought I heard you say you were stupid enough to get your ass sent to Hell. Had to check to make sure the phone wasn't acting up.'

Sam cringed. 'So much for understanding.' It was better to explain it all in one fell swoop. It was kind of like pulling a band-aid off; the quicker the better. "No. Yeah… Well, I kind of found a way to rescue Dean from Hell and it sort of required me to be just a little…" 'Dead,' he supplied mentally. "Involved," he said instead. "So, to summarize, I'm in Hell and I kind of need a map."

Sam waited for Bobby to release his own personal hell but nothing came. He was more than a little surprised when Bobby just sighed for the umpteenth time and papers rustled over the phone.

"Are you goin' to need the Map Quest version or just a general map of the area?"

The younger hunter suddenly felt a rush of affection for the more seasoned hunter. In that moment, he allowed himself to think a thought he hadn't thought since he was pubescent and going through an unflattering boy band phase. 'He is so cool.' Out loud, he just murmured a, "Map Quest,"followed shortly by an awkward, "please."

"If I'm going' to Map Quest this, I need to know your location. You got coordinates or somethin'?

"The most I can tell you is that I'm outside of a Starbucks in what looks like a mini New York City. It's got a lot of office buildings. Does that help?" It didn't really help Sam but if anyone was smart enough to figure out a location just from half-skewed landmarks then it was Bobby.

Bobby didn't disappoint.

"When'd ya pass across the Styx and what direction were ya goin'?"

"I crossed maybe four-five hours ago and I've been going north the entire way. Oh, and I passed through a mini Kentucky with a Wal-Mart and headless cows."

"Headless co- No, you know what? Never mind. Okay, gimme a sec while I get your fool ass a sense of direction." There was the sound of tapping and a moment later, Bobby's voice washed over the phone. "Alright. Says here that you're in a place called T'shale. It's most famous for its diverse community and… Is that tape worms? Yeah, that's tape worms. Oh sweet Christ, is that supposed to be a burger?"

"Remind me not to get anything to eat here," Sam said dryly.

"Right. Anyway, it mentions in the footnotes that all roads departing go north. Gimme a sec."

More typing. "Okay, keep going north until you hit an urban region known as Madesco. Get to Madesco and then call me from the local Wal-Mart. You got all this down or do I need to draw you a diagram?"

Sam smiled. "No, I think I'm good. North from T'shale, keep going north til the house of Madesco reaches up and slaps me with its everyday low prices. Got it."

"I should be sainted for the crap I have to put up with you Winchesters…"

Bobby's grumbling trailed off a whirring noise filled the phone- must have been Bobby's printer- and there was silence. Sam felt the now-familiar rush of self consciousness and worry rush over him. "Hey, Bobby. Are you-?"

"Boy," Bobby cut him off. "Don't you even begin to ask me if I'm alright with this. You're in Hell, Sam. What do you think the answer will be?"

Fair enough. Sam could deal with that. "So, you'll just send it to my phone and I'll keep you updated?"

"Damned right you'll keep me updated. You think I'm goin' to allow you to fly in there blind? You're going to be callin' my phone every hour, on the hour. I don't care how late it gets. I want details, coordinates if you have to, and any other information you can give. God knows I should have realized you'd be stupid enough to pull a stunt like this… just keep yourself safe."

And that was good enough for Sam.

"Bobby, this- This really means a lot to me. I know I don't deserve your help-"

"Damned right you don't, boy."

Sam stifled the emotion he was sure was in his voice and continued with, "But I appreciate it all the same. Just for the record, I really am sorry things didn't go the way we expected."

Sam heard Bobby clear his throat and dutifully ignored the slight sniffle come from the opposite end of the phone. His grip tightened on the phone as a wave of overwhelming emotion rushed over him. It was more than emotion. It was love, pure and simple.

"Well, there ain't anything we can do about it now. Just worry about getting your brother back, okay? Then we'll be squared." There was another blatantly overlooked sniffle followed by throaty laughter.

"And try not to make any deals while you're down there. Next thing you know, I'll be selling my soul to get both of you idjits back."

He finished the phone call with Bobby, reassuring the older man that he would call on the hour and anytime he got into hot water- literal or figurative.

Just like that, his self confidence came rushing back. Armed with a map, Bobby's help, and Ruby's blade, Sam knew that something-most definitely someone- was going down.

He looked around at his surroundings, taking in all of the screams, pollution, gaudy billboards, and odd passersby. He would take down all of this if he had to. Whatever it took, Hell or high-water, Dean was coming back home with him. Nothing would stop him; he'd return unaffected.

The entity deep inside of Sam lifted its head and roared its acquiescence. 'Nothing takes what belongs to you. That bitch is your pretty little mate. So pure; so strong; all yours. Tear them limb from limb, mark his softness, and claim him. Don't you want to fuck? Don't you want to kill?'

Sam swallowed and tried to ignore the steadily rising tent in his slacks. He carefully blanked out the images of fucking Dean into submission on top of a bloody battlefield, of claiming his prize in front of millions, and turned his attention to the journey ahead of him. Even if it killed him, he would return platonic and completely unaffected… Especially platonic.

"Don't talk about my brother like that. I don't- don't think of him like that." Oh yeah. That definitely sounded convincing.

'You're wondering if his ass is a tight as it looks. It'll squeeze your prick like a vice, choking the pleasure out of it until you spill deep inside of him. It'll be exactly like you image him to be in bed: hot and wet, and clingy. Find him, fuck him, mark him.'

Well, maybe not so platonic…

Sam angsted while the entity laughed.

Deep in the torrid ditches of Gehenna, an ethereal force stirred, causing ripples of awareness to jet throughout the domain.

And, just like that, all of Hell awakened.

Demons everywhere could sense the change in the Netherworld- It was as though a thick, oily blanket had been tossed on top of an almost exhausted fire just as it was about to extinguish and brought it roaring back to a terrifying holocaust. What once had been a dusty corpse became the reanimated dead; there were signs of chaos everywhere.

In Ramer, a gluttonous man was coated in salt and force-fed to his narcissistic wife.

In Trevalha, a cord of rusty barbed wire pierced the anuses of a thousand pedophiles and worked its upward, weaving in and out of their internal organs.

In Madesco, a convicted rapist was slowly crushed in a Behemoth's massive fingers until his ribcage caved into his back and blood ran from his orifices.

In Desporandum, 45 adulterers had their skeletons ripped from their flesh by enraged loved ones.

In T'shale, a woman who had drowned her two sons was being strangled by her own intestines.

And in Tandora, a man who had bargained with a demon to save his brother's life was strung up on meat hooks and dangled over a ditch of tormented souls.

Hell was back in full swing. Demons everywhere began swarming; feasting on the dark energy that coated the entire atmosphere, reveling in the fresh jolt to what had once been a tired cliché.

In the hearts of everyone everywhere, the answer to what had happened rang like a glorious litany. In the minds of the Damned, they could feel a billion year old weight being lifted off of their shoulders.

What had happened to cause this celebration? Why were demons parading in the gold-paved streets of Hell? The answer was obvious to everyone: He was back. Everything shook with the awareness that Papa Hades was back in the building. The patriarch was taking over his throne once again.

For the first time in over a billion years, Lucifer opened his eyes.

Hell was on fire.


A.N: This is my interpretation of Hell. Don't take it too seriously or I'll make you buy me a Better Homes and Gardens magazine from the Wal-Mart in Hades… And I won't give you any MapQuest directions.