Spoilers: There are minor spoilers for the end of season 3 and beginning of season 4. Other than that, we should be all good.

Author's Note: This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands and I start thinking about Dean and his Hell memories. But I'd never written a drabble, or a double drabble for that matter, so I thought I'd give it a go. Get my mind off some other things I've been working on (cough*Castiel*hack). It's not much but I hope you like it. I kinda enjoyed writing it. Well, maybe enjoyed is the wrong word…


Some days are better than others.

But sometimes when the hunts are difficult and the casualties outnumber the saved, Dean finds himself in the bathroom staring at the razor in his hand instead of shaving. Water running into the sink in a gush. Steam coating the mirror.

It's usually the screams that he remembers first. The shrill and the guttural. He doesn't remember which belonged to him. Not that it matters much. After a while they all blended together in a harmony of pain and the sticky slick feel of blood is the same all over.

There are times when he loses himself in the hacking and slashing of the fight, snarling like an animal. But he always hides his smile before Sam can see it. Because he's not an animal. Not anymore. It forms a silent litany in his head until Dean thinks he might almost believe it. And if he still dreams about the Pit with a mixture of fear and anticipation no one needs to know about it, he thinks. Because it's not the dreams that are the problem. It's the way a knife feels in his hand now. And the certainty that someday he'll use it.