DISCLAIMER: I don't own the anything, yadda yadda yadda, no suing, no infringement intended, blah blah blah, moving on…

A/N: So, this was supposed to be this whole long, multi-chaptered fic. In my head. Then I let it sit on my computer for well over a year and, well, now I'm just going to post it as is. I don't have any plans to make it longer, but, I don't know. I could happen I suppose.

A/N 2: The original idea was inspired by Cas' line ("We've been through much together, you and I.") in 4.22 'Lucifer Rising'. Just made me think what they must have gone through that we didn't see.

A/N 3:Also, the title is stupid. I don't know.

HELL

When Dean got off the rack he was fresh and new and whole again.

And hurt and angry and so far removed from who he was, that it didn't matter. And he tore into that first soul the only way he knew: he punched and kicked and tore and stabbed and beat until he was covered in blood and grime, the nails themselves torn from his fingers.

Alistair had watched with glee. He told Dean, that if his process hadn't been a total mess, he'd have let him keep at it because the rage was just so beautiful. That it just needed refined.

"Rage with grace, boy," Alistair whispered, picking up a razor.

XOXOXOXOXOX

They threw souls of the damned at them. Mounds of writhing agony to climb over.

Hell was blood and guts and gore from it's top down to it's deepest, bone and fire riddled bottom. Corridors carved with human bone and fear and screams. Hell was a labyrinth of heat, twisted bodies, souls and screams.

A place where tears sizzle out of existence before they even form.

Dean Winchester was the first seal, both sides knew. The angels fought to find him, the demons fought to keep him. And there's no direct route out of Hell, even for an angel.

Castiel wandered halls of blistering heat, laced with shrieks from the damned, all the while towing a withered Dean Winchester alongside him.

Demons threw themselves at Castiel. Creatures to weak to even think they could withstand an angel of the Lord. Their bodies littered his path in an attempt to slow his progress. Dean stumbled and wept as Castiel pulled him along.

XOXOXOXOXOX

A maniacal laugh bubbled up his throat as the - whatever the fuck it was, wrapped a monstrously bright and burning hand around his upper arm.

He wasn't sure what he was laughing at. The lunacy of it all, he supposed. The way those black-eyed mother fuckers seemed to be scrambling about. The way this thing dragged him along like it had somewhere to be. The way it shone and radiated a warmth that burned but didn't hurt.

Then it called his name. His name. Dean Winchester. It, whatever it was, knew him.

And it told him he was going back. That he was safe now. He was going home. He was going back to Sam. And Dean laughed. Because he'd been sure he'd crushed those dreams, and what was he doing having them again anyway? He'd crushed them long ago and this, this dream of rescue was just stupid. He wasn't going anywhere. The thing on his arm wouldn't take him anywhere. They'd never let that happen.

And home wasn't a dream Dean wanted anymore. Dreams of home and Sam and love were things he'd lost a right to the second he bowed his head to Alastair and whimpered a bloody "Yes."

He didn't want to go home, see the sun and smell a wind devoid of brimstone. He could never look at Sammy. Not ever. Not after the things he'd done, just to save himself.

He didn't deserve it.

So, reviews? Yea, nay... ? =D