A/N: Even though I love seeing where the show's going now, the best thing ever would have been Sam rescuing Dean from Hell. Sam drinking demon blood and killing things with his brain is so much more palatable if it's for Dean's sake, to rescue him. So I wrote Sam getting Dean out of Hell. Then, unsatisfied, I wrote it again. And again.

So here are three different versions of Sam rescuing Dean from Hell. Not sure which one I like best, and would love it if you decide to review and let me know which one you liked best. There's a lot of repeated material, and if y'all can help me decide on a "best" then I can transfer all the good stuff into one version.

So, obviously, very AU. Dean isn't in Hell for as long, Sam's powers are advanced in different ways, Ruby isn't even mentioned, etc.

HELL I: THROUGH THE NEVER – Dean is so tormented in Hell he forgets who he is, and Sam isn't sure what he's brought back…A bit confusing in the beginning, since it's Dean's POV and he doesn't know what's going on.

Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural. If I did, it might go something like this:

He woke. He was only he, because he had no idea who the hell he was. Hell. That was important. That was familiar. He knew that. He knew Hell. Why didn't he know who he was?

He opened his eyes when he woke: opened his eyes to see a whole lot of crap he didn't recognize. He was lying on his back, spread-eagle, wearing what might have once been clothes, but were so torn and soiled they now hardly qualified. He was lying in a circle drawn in the ground, a circle with strange shapes he didn't know, and above him were symbols he didn't want to know, and the air was thick with the smell of candles and incense. There were lines of salt in the floor—he didn't know how it he knew it was salt, it just was—and iron filings as well. The room was dark, and small, like an abandoned shed.

Pain. Mind-numbing pain. It was a wonder he could remember how to breathe, much less his name and where and who he was. The pain was so fantastic he vomited on the spot, or at least his body went through the motions of vomiting, but nothing was in his guts to come up. He had a strong desire to curl up into a ball, but his limbs obeyed only sluggishly, and any movement brought only more pain. He had achieved himself on his side, wondering what it was that hurt most on his body—but coming to no conclusions—absolutely everything hurt with equal ferocity—when he became aware of others around him.

Two shapes rushed him, not exactly threateningly, but enough to make him flinch: though he knew very well that he couldn't do a thing about it if they decided to start kicking him in the face. They were men, shouting something at him, calling a name, speaking to him, but it sounded muffled, as if their voices came through water.

"Dean! Dean!"

Dean?

Before he could think this through, the younger of the two men grabbed him, lifting him and—hugged him? Was he crying?

He didn't respond—he couldn't respond—not through the pain, not through the swimming, spinning, useless brain.

"Dean, thank God, you're back. It's all right, now, I've got you, you're safe, we're gonna take care of you…"

"You gave us one hell of a scare, boy."

He flinched at the word hell, shutting his eyes against the world.

"Dean?" The young man holding him now touched his face, and this was somehow simultaneously the most comforting and irritating touch he could imagine in his limited existence. "Dean? Can you hear me, Dean? Dean…"

He looked up at him blankly.

The young man's face fell, and he began pleading, as if knowing the answer, "A-are you in there?"

He had to say something now. After a struggle: "P-please," he managed, though why he thought begging would work was beyond him, "d-don't hurt me." His voice was less than a whisper, like his throat had been worn out screaming. Yes, he remembered the screaming.

The young man holding him looked crushed. It was hard to miss: the glazed, blank look, the lack of recognition, the brain so warped by pain and fear it had forgotten what it was. Shocked now out of his own mind, the younger man let him fall a little, but the older man, bearded, was now cradling his head.

"Dean, dontcha recognize us? Dean? What do you remember?"

This, too, was unwanted. The answer was nothing, and it read on his face. Nothing but horrible torment. He made a noise like a dying animal and shut his eyes, wanting never to open them again. Couldn't they allow him to rest? Couldn't they all just let him rest? His soul was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to be snuffed out of existence.

Now the young man holding him had rallied. "All right, Dean," he was saying, "that's all right. That's fine. You'll be okay. We're gonna look after you." The young man shifted himself, running his hands beneath his body as if to lift it up, but the older man laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"We can't move him."

"What? Bobby, look at him! He's hurt—we've got to get him somewhere where we can—"

"We'll treat him here." The man called Bobby paused, bit his lip, lowered his voice a little. "We don't know what we brought back yet. If it's Dean. If it's a demon. If it's…anything. We need to be sure."

The young man squeezed his eyes shut with impotent rage. When he nodded, the tears fell out and splashed onto the face below. The younger man looked down at him like an abandoned puppy: he would have given anything not to see that face look at him like that. Then the young man turned back to the older man and nodded. "Okay. Yeah. You're right. Bring—"

"I know what to bring, Sam," the older man said, "you just stay with him," and left.

Sam.

That word he knew. That word he remembered from his own screams. He'd screamed it long after he knew what it meant.

After he'd forgotten he was Dean Winchester.

Dean inhaled sharply and choked on the air, every muscle in his body attempting to work at the same time, so that the signals crossed and all he did was shudder. His brain suddenly hurt, hurt more than all the pain in his body. He gulped, trying to speak, he had to get it out of him if it killed him:

"S-Sam?"

"Dean? Dean, oh my God, you're back."

But Dean shut his eyes again. He was trembling violently, shaking his head back and forth, attempting to rid his mind of something. Of everything. Even as he struggled to bring it back.

"Do you remember, Dean?"

Oh, he remembered: Hellfire. Soul-shattering pain. Of the eternal persuasion. It was just burning pain forever and ever and the amen stuck in his throat. Mental, physical, psychological, metaphysical, supernatural pain. Like his soul was getting kicked in the balls, over and over and over. Remembering the pain brought it back to him as strong as ever. The worst part was that there was something on the other side, something further back in his mind that he so desperately wanted to remember, but nothing could possess him to cross that fire again to get to it.

"It's…no…please, God, no…"

"Dean, it's okay, relax—" the hand that touched his forehead jumped away. "Oh, God, Bobby, he's on fire!"

Of course he was on fire. It was consuming him, too close. He was too close. His mind was too full of it, and he wasn't strong enough to fight it.

Sam laid a hand on his brow. Pain exploded exponentially in his head as Sam charged in and stamped around in his brain, coaxing it to life, unlocking the doors, letting in memories—but with them more fire: Dean screamed. This amount of pain wasn't possible. This was a new caliber of pain, as every memory he had ever had flooded back into its customary slot in his brain, with Hellfire always licking at the gates.

"Sammy, please…"

"It's all right, Dean. You've gotta remember."

"It hurts…"

"I know, just trust me. Listen to me, focus on my voice. Um. What's your name?"

"What? Jesus Christ!"

"Answer the question! Work with me here."

"Dean Winchester." It was no more than out his lips before he cried out in agony. This wasn't working, and Sam knew it. Skip the concussion-check questions. He had to dig deeper, faster, possibly too fast:

"Tell me about your car."

This took a moment. A struggle of connecting neurons, and then: "What, the Impala?" he gasped. To his surprise and pleasure, the pain subsided a little as he said it and thought about it, as he remembered. 1967…black Chevy Impala…the only girl I ever really loved…

"Yeah," Sam said, gushing with relief to feel the release of some tension in the body in his arms. "Focus on that."

Dean shivered as Sam stepped in and poked around in his brain, shoving the customary furniture back into place. In Dean's head he appeared to be dressed, rather ridiculously, like a fireman. Dean's fucking hero.

"Sam, stop," Dean pleaded, weakly. But as the Impala faded from his mind, the fire came back. Always the fire. He whimpered as he realized another problem: Sammy wasn't allowed in here. This was his head, the only thing he had left to him—and even then, only just. "Get out. You—can't. Please."

"Shut up, Dean. This isn't the time." Now he was armed with a huge fire hose, and didn't look like he could be made to leave.

"Aww, I get all tingly when you take control," he snorted, latching on to sarcasm in his fear. The line just came to him, like he had said it before, and he thought it was worth re-using.

"Sure," Sam laughed, retaining the authoritative tone, "What's my birthday?"

"Uh…May 3rd?"

"Dude, it's the 2nd." Sam was pretty sure Dean got that wrong on purpose, which actually said more than him getting it right.

"Whatever." Sam was right: Dean had gotten that wrong on purpose, and he tried to smile to prove it, but had forgotten how to. The fire was roaring again, melting the skin from his bones. He shrieked. "Sammy! Don't let it get me, Sam!" He wanted nothing more than for his fingers to remember how to work so he could close one—just one, was that so much to ask of his body?—around the fabric of his brother's shirt, to keep him there. If he could manage it, nothing would ever part him from his brother, his rock, but his two-month-dead body wouldn't respond to his desperate commands.

Sam was focused elsewhere, abandoning him to the flames: "Bobby! Bobby, get me some morphine. We gotta put him out."

"Sammy—" Dean whined. He better not leave…not again…

Bobby was already speaking: "Sam, we don't know what that'll do to his memory—'specially like this—"

"Bobby, please. He's exhausted, and in pain."

This was more than clear: every muscle in Dean's body was wound against the pain, every limb trembled, and his head, with eyes squeezed tightly shut, jerked back and forth. He was whimpering. Sam was still crouched over him, cradling his body, laying a hand on his head and working some psychic power Bobby didn't understand. But Bobby trusted Sam, and Sam was serious.

"Okay," he said, and prepared a strong dose.

"Dean? Stay with me, Dean, listen to me. What do you want to eat? What's your favorite thing to eat?"

This required a bit of thought, because he definitely wasn't hungry now, but he understood what Sam was doing: "Um. I dunno, a Philly cheese steak sandwich?"

"Okay. Um." Sam's mind raced. "Shit. Uh. Stairway to Heaven, Dean. Tell me the lyrics."

Instantly the flames receded. This he could do. He took a shaky breath: "Yeah, okay. Um. Th-there's a lady who's sure—um—all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a st-stairway to heaven…"

"Good." It probably wasn't healthy to keep him talking, with his chest in the condition it was in—shredded was a sufficient word—but Sam couldn't let him stop. He could feel his brother backsliding into nothingness each time he paused for breath.

"When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed, with a word she can get what she came for…" Dean gasped, not feeling the needle slide into his arm, but recognizing the onset of comfortable oblivion. He faltered a little at the blissful sensation.

"Come on, Dean: there's a feeling I get when I look to the West—"

"No, no." Trust Sam to get the Zepp wrong when it was a matter of life and death. "Th-there's a sign on the wall…"

"Sorry. Yeah, keep going. And she wants to be sure—"

"'Cause you know sometimes words have…two…meanings."

The flames were gone. Sam exhaled deeply.

With his last ounce of strength: "Now get the hell outta my brainpan…"

Sniggering at the exasperated half-laugh-half-sob from Sam was the last thing Dean remembered.

…

Dean woke comfortable. He was still in pain, but he was now comfortable in spite of it. The pain was behind a fence, barking at him, but safe.

He was trapped. He flinched—more pain—a few of the dogs released—but, no, blanket. Heavy, warm blanket. More than one. Not trapped. Safe. And a hand on his head and another on his chest, and a voice that, though he didn't recognize the words or even the owner at first, comforted him and kept him safe.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean, right here," he managed to hear. If the knowledge that he was safe from hell hadn't been calming enough, somehow knowing that his kid brother was what was keeping him safe was enough to relax him right through the mattress. He experimented with his eyelids as he allowed himself, now jelly, to be pushed back to the bed, but they weren't having any of it.

Fine. That was fine. Two could play at this game. I'm going back to fucking sleep. It's just good to feel so comfortable and safe and I'm going to sleep now, because I haven't had a good sleep in twenty years.

He was highly capable of fighting pain by now, but even if he hadn't been, no amount of pain was going to stand between Dean and some serious shut-eye right now.

His little brother's whining might, though.

"Just stay awake a couple more seconds, Dean. A few seconds…drink this…" he heard, distant, echoing, as if it traveled down a three-mile drainpipe to reach his ear. But he felt a hand behind his head and his throat muscles convulsed in a swallow on reflex more at this touch than at the feel of water on his tongue. The water was heavenly. And he no longer felt he could use that term lightly. He began gulping it down greedily, and groaned in protest when it was pried from his clinging lips. Then nothing. He lost all sense of time, of touch, taste, sight and sound. Where am I? threatened to snap him awake, to compound the pain, but then he remembered:

Oh, yeah. I was going to take a nap. How could I forget?

…

The next time Dean awoke, he realized himself fully, albeit slowly, for the first time. He had been to hell. And was now back. Both courtesy of Sammy boy. The process of realization was complete calm: there were no traumatic flashbacks, no crying out, reaching out for a hand to hold, no tremors or tears. The memories were still close enough to burn, and burn they did, for he remembered everything now, but he had evolved beyond pain recognition to a state of enlightened numbness. He still felt too tired to be sad or scared, anyway.

Dean opened his eyes. It was the crisp, cool, blue silence of early morning. He was in his room—the closest thing he'd ever had to his own room—and even then he'd always shared it with Sam—upstairs at Bobby's. Sam lay, not on the bed next to him, but in a chair beside his bed, his head resting beside Dean's elbow. He was completely out, drooling. Dean grinned faintly.

He waited, patiently, for Sam to awaken, as his brain put itself back together. Ever practical, it went straight to inventory. Damn, he was lucky Sam had grabbed him when he had, before they'd really laid into him. But then, keeping him alive for as long as possible was the point. Dean shuddered and began at the top: his head no longer hurt, and that was huge. He was pretty banged and slashed up, he was sure—ha, and they hadn't even been trying—but he felt bandages and stitches on him which, though they hurt, were a comfort after having gone so long with open wounds. He had almost forgotten what healing felt like. He felt a little warm—okay, hot, maybe—but a fever wasn't surprising or alarming: he'd survived plenty. He was hungry, and thirsty, but not urgently so. He was glad he didn't have to pee. He tried wiggling all his toes and fingers, and although the attempt at movement elicited a groan of serious pain, he was pleased to find he at least could move, and had body parts left to move.

Sam shifted next to him, and Dean reached a shaking hand to lay on the back of his neck. Sam relaxed into the touch at first, then woke with an undignified snort. His eyes went from hazily confused to intensely worried in seconds.

"Dean," he gasped.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean forced a grin. The emotion was not forced, only the physical expression, and he hoped it read on his face: nothing irritated Sam more than Dean's gameface when Dean was clearly in pain, and Dean knew he simply couldn't handle an argument with Sam right now.

Luckily, Sam smiled back, taking the hand away from the back of his neck to hold it between his own hands.

"Need anything?" Sam asked. They'd long ago learned when to skip How you doing? because it was, most of the time, like now, only too obvious.

"Nah," Dean said, not truly needing anything—he was out of hell, what else could he possibly need?—before considering and conceding, "unless…water."

Sam nodded and stood up. Dean couldn't help the instinctive flinch as Sam moved away from him. But Sam had an idea—knew—that Dean needed his presence and he wasn't about to go into the next room without Dean's say-so, so he patted Dean's arm and reached his freakishly long limb to the end of the nightstand to grasp a new bottle of water, never breaking contact. He popped the seal, unscrewed the lid, stuck a straw in, and helped Dean lift his head.

Again, the water was so phenomenal that Dean couldn't bear to stop, though he drank it slowly. Sam pulled it out of his reach after a few sizeable gulps, responding to the frustrated groan that "We still gotta take it easy on your stomach, Dean. You can have some more water in a while. Or juice. How'd you like some juice?"

Dean nodded. Paused a minute. Swallowed. His brain wasn't going to win any derbies anytime soon, but Sam was patient. "Apple," he finally managed. He wasn't sure he remembered what apple juice tasted like, but you couldn't go wrong with the basics.

Sam nodded, grinned. Dean almost laughed in response. He got this wistful light in his eyes, like, Apple juice I can do, glad to be able to do something. "Okay!" he beamed. "We'll get you some apple juice. You want to go back to sleep now?" Now Dean really did laugh, for pure joy: Sam was skipping the chick-flick moment, the care-and-share, and that was about as magnanimous as Sam got. "…What?"

Dean shook his head, still grinning. "Nothing. Just. I'm back. So far this isn't a trick and…." He sighed. "It's all…" he struggled a moment, deciding "good," sufficed. He said it with as much emphasis as he could manage. This was more than the nonchalant It's all good. This was good in the sense of the antithesis of evil. Everything was comfort, everything was joy, everywhere sunshine and fucking daisies. He'd made it. He'd survived. He was out of hell and alive with only the scars to deal with. A Winchester couldn't ask for much more.

Sam looked more and more like he was gonna cry by the second. Dean groaned and looked away. "Don't you dare, Sammy. If you—then I'll—I hold you personally responsible," he warned teasingly. He heard Sam sniffle, but he steadied himself.

As he stared at the opposite wall, feeling Sam once again slip his hand into his, he considered if he should thank Sam for rescuing him from the pit. No, he decided. Sam would take it as an insult, as well he should. He owed it to him, not just because it was because of Sam that he ended up there in the first place (although that wasn't a fair assessment and they both knew it), but just because they were brothers. That was what brothers just did.

Still, the grateful thankfulness that he was finally out of that stinking, rotting pit was more than the normally disturbingly stoic Dean could keep under wraps. "Dude. I totally owe you," he hoped sufficed.

Sam bristled a little, and Dean flinched, hoping Sam wouldn't take offense. But Sam relaxed: "You owe me, like, six, but who's counting?" Then, more seriously. "It's what brothers do."

Dean felt tears stinging to escape his eyeballs. "Sammy," he warned, blinking furiously. Sam laughing at him helped, even though he was pretty sure it was the laugh-cry that was so characteristic of emotional Sam. He turned his head to make sure.

"How you been?"

Now Sam really did look mad. "What?"

A flash of panicked anger heated Dean up a little. What was the kid's problem, taking offense at something like that? "What 'what'? I asked how you were doing," Dean repeated, trying not to let himself get worked up enough to expend energy he seriously didn't have, because fainting in the middle of a fight with Sam was rather high on his list of things to never ever do. In fact, he was pretty sure it came directly after never going back there.

Sam didn't stay angry long, though: he changed swiftly to exasperated, crushed. "Dean. You were just in hell. However I'm doing, I promise you I'm doing better than you, okay? So it doesn't even matter. Why are you even asking?"

Dean didn't want to fight, though his tongue was twitching with how badly he wanted to start off his next sentence with Fuck you, Sam. He would try the guilt-trip angle, but didn't think it would work. He rolled his eyes. "I kind of went to fucking hell to make sure you were fucking all right, Sam, so don't ask why I want to fucking know." Okay, yeah, so much for not being angry. Sam looked a little sheepish, so Dean continued. "And if my brother'd been to hell I know damn well there'd be no way I'd be all right, so I'm figuring you haven't—however long I've been gone—"

"Okay, Dean, I'm sorry," Sam urged, sufficiently chagrined, holding Dean down as he struggled futilely to lift his head in his tirade. "Sorry. I'm just—it's been hard on me, all right? Was that what you wanted to hear? I'm sorry. I shouldn't've snapped at you."

Dean blinked. That was easy. Now he just felt guilty. And really tired. "Okay. Okay, yeah, me too."

"You have an excuse. You're allowed to snap at me after…something like that."

"So do you."

This time, Sam let it go. He nodded. It had been hell for him, too. If it hadn't been, Dean would have been offended.

Dean rallied, his good humor returned. "Really, all I meant was I've been out of the loop for a while. Just asking if I missed anything."

Sam was still staring at the bedspread. "Nothing good."

"So you didn't get laid? Not once?"

The snort was impossible to hide, even though Sam was trying to retain serious brooding mode. Dean could have killed him. Instead he settled for making him laugh. "You really are pathetic. How long have I been gone?"

"Two months."

Dean took this quite well, considering it had seemed—been—much longer for him. Sam saw this, but didn't push the issue.

"Um. I once—" Sam began hurriedly, trying to keep the mood light. He laughed suddenly at a memory, "I did have to—now that you mention it—I sorta, um. This is kinda funny. Do you remember a, um, Heather Dawson?"

Dean squinted, and not just because of the current slowness of his brain. "Should I?"

"Yeah. Some diner waitress—"

"Oh! In Oklahoma, yeah." Dean remembered blonde and busty and really freaking good pancakes, but then, that was most of them.

"I sorta had to…ahem…sweet-talk her on the phone, she had some names I needed…"

Dean grinned so wide it hurt his face. "Did my boy go through my cell and phone-sex my contacts?"

Sam bit his lip to keep from laughing or puking. "Yeah, it kinda ended up that way. Pretending to be you was really awkward."

"Did she figure it out?"

"Dude. It's me."

"Shoulda known, Sammy. Proud of you. That's almost getting laid." He paused, closed his eyes, then opened one and looked at him. "Which you're free to do, by the way, if you want to. Any time. Now that I'm back. I don't want to keep you here. If, um," suddenly nervous, "so long as, if Bobby's here, or..." suddenly awkward, "I, um, don't think I want to be alone yet."

Sam shook his head, laying a comforting hand on Dean's arm, which was now shaking faintly. "No way, man. I'm not leaving this house until you're up and about. I head out of here next, you're coming with me. Your baby misses you, anyway. Don't think she'll go another mile for me."

"What'd you do to my car?" Dean demanded, his almost-fear from a moment ago forgotten.

Sam laughed. "Nothing, she's fine. I just don't have the magic touch."

Dean nodded. Then he smiled wryly.

"Bet that's not what Heather'd say."