Author's Note:

So Lint and I were discussing the season three finale and making wild speculation as to what might happen. I made one suggestion and was immediately told to: "OMG. WRITE THAT! WRITE IT NOW!!"

So I did, more or less, and upon Lint's request I was very, very evil indeed.

Everyone knows when a door opens. Depends on how long you've been here whether or not you give a damn though. He feels it while they are torturing him. Pain definitely takes priority over finding out what poor schmuck got himself tossed into the Pit this time. He rarely finds out directly anyway. They won't let him out on work detail, too afraid he'll find a way to escape, hide out somewhere until he can figure out how to drag himself up to the surface. Gossip works its way slowly down to the high security block. If the Pit has a pit, he's in it.

When they're done with him they throw him back into his cell and leave him there until he recovers enough to be tortured again. Funny how your mind works against you in Hell. His "body" is only a memory of what it had been when he was alive but they can still hurt it; break his bones, flay the skin from his flesh, burn him, beat him, cut him open. He suffers through the torture of being broken and then through the torture of healing. Here eternal life means eternal agony.

The lucky ones are those who have forgotten. His torturers are naught but black shadows, with no shape, no body to speak of. They can't be hurt because they can't remember, and they feast off the pain of those who do. It would be so easy to give in like they had, to renounce what he had been, to free himself from the endless cycle of suffering he must endure. His captors mock him because he won't. He is his father's son – stubborn and willful – but more than that he still has hope.

Salvation. It is the gold ring, the ultimate get out of jail free card. He doesn't know where or when or how it will come, but he has faith. Hope and faith, that's all he has left. It sustains him when all else fails.

His cell is tiny, barely more than a niche carved out of sharp, black, volcanic rock. He can not stand up in it, nor can he lay stretched out. There is only room for him to crouch, or to curl up in a fetal position – not that he sleeps any. That's another thing about Hell; you don't sleep. Exhaustion is just another form of torment, and dreams are nothing more than waking nightmares.

Anyway, who could sleep upon a hard floor scattered with rotting flesh and bones, not knowing if they are real or not. He had heard other rumors, rumors about those who had been cast down while still living. He found out it was true when they put a man in the cell across from him. What a horror, to die here, and stay here. The man had lived far longer than expected. His death was slow and hard to witness. When it was over his decomposing corpse joined the others on the floor of the cell. His soul had taken to another place, where, no doubt, he would continue to be tortured.

In any case, the rotting corpses are real enough, just like the pain and discomfort.

He's unable to sleep, to eat, to get warm – always tired, always hungry, always cold. It is a myth that Hell is hot. Oh, there are some places where fires rage, but not here, in this, Hell's basement. His clothes have long ago fallen apart into tattered rags, but in this he's luckier than most of the others who lay entirely naked in their cells. It doesn't really matter. Modesty is less important than the non-existent warmth. Fire does burn outside each cell, torches set into the wall to provide a modicum of light, but they produce little heat. Sometimes he welcomes it when they drag him from the cell to torture him. The blood he spills warms cold skin.

They'd broken his arm this time, and a few ribs, not to mention the new scars they'd put across his back. He sits huddled in his cell holding his arm close to his side so the broken bones won't grind together. The shattered bones of the corpses strewn beneath his feet are sharp too. He rocks back and forth to keep his weight shifting, so his feet will not be cut, but every move he makes pulls at the deep slashes upon his back, tearing them open so they bleed anew. There is no escape from pain. It is a constant companion.

When he first came he had tried not to make any sound so they wouldn't know how badly they hurt him. He'd quickly discovered it was next to impossible to be silent. He'd done his share of screaming. Now he sits moaning, rocking and moaning. Sweat runs down from his temples, but he shivers with cold. Tears fill his eyes. A sob escapes from deep in his throat.

Another day in Hell.

He longs to sit down, to brace his aching back against the wall behind him, but he knows better. The obsidian wall is jagged and sharp. The iron bars at the opening of the cell niche are no better. Razor wire has been wrapped around them to dissuade prisoners from misguided attempts to escape. Those who braved the wire and dared grasp the bars often had their hands bound there as punishment. Hell Hounds would then gnaw at their exposed fingers, slowly devouring their hands down to the wrists.

Still, even that was better than some of the other favorite torments. He'd experienced more than a few of them. There were countless ways his jailers liked to inflict pain upon their captives. The Hounds were the worst. A slit in the belly was all they needed - that and a steel hook to get things started. Once the demon dogs caught the scent of blood there was no stopping them. They would come in a pack, fighting each other for the right to feed first from their still living victim. They'd finish what the torturers began, thrusting their jaws into the wound, tearing out entrails, swallowing organs whole. Bound, helpless, unable to fight the beasts off, the agony they produced was beyond imagining. What could be worse than being deprived of the ability to die, or even lose consciousness, while being eaten alive?

Oh, he knew what was worse, the aftermath. He remembers lying in his cell for who knew how long, curled protectively around the gaping hole in his gut, screaming incoherently as his insides slowly grew back. The pain had been excruciating.

When he finally recovered they did it to him again.

He almost let go that time, almost let his memories wash away with the pain. Some of them are gone anyway. He loses a little bit more every day. His childhood is long gone, and with it his mother and father. It's a struggle to remember his own name, a struggle that becomes more difficult as time passes. He still remembers dying and wishes he didn't. Compared to the non-death he suffers here, dying that first time was easy, peaceful even. He knows what it's like for the pain to go away. Here there is no relief. Ever.

One of his captors slides past his cell, a thick, viscous dark vapor. He's relieved when it does not stop. There are few other prisoners in this corridor, maybe just one or two. He hears one of them scream as the jailer passes. Far away, in another section of Hell, he can hear the echoing screams of thousands of others, and faintly, very faintly, he can sense a door open. In the briefest instant before it closes he can feel the world above and it makes him shudder with desire.

Another jailer comes, and this one stops at his door. He was mistaken thinking he would get off easy this time.

They drag him from his niche, heedless of his broken arm. When he cries out he is punished. He smells blood. They've broken his nose. They jerk him along, half dragging, half carrying him, never allowing him time to get his feet up under him to walk on his own. Their "hands" are insubstantial, but then, technically, so is he, and he cannot escape. They are all simply variations upon the same state of being. Even these demons are prisoners, only some have progressed further in the hierarchy of power and can move about more freely. The highest of them all are those who have regained access to the surface.

Him? He's nothing. The lowest of the low.

He's thrown to the floor, a cold stone floor within a dimly lit chamber. The she-demon who stands before him is one of those highest in rank - very high, she's wearing flesh. She's recently walked the surface too. He can smell it on her despite the blood streaming from his nose. To be able to retain her borrowed flesh down here makes her very powerful indeed, but he wonders what perverse twist her mind has taken to make her possess a child. Even on his knees she stands shorter than he, barely meeting his eye as she approaches.

She moves with the bearing of a queen. In her outstretched palm she holds a black crystal cube. Her tone is one of command.

"Do you know what this is?"

There is no choice but to answer, yet his voice is long gone. He tries to reply but what comes out is nothing but a breathy rasp. Instead he must shake his head - no.

"It's a promissory note. It's a soul. Specifically, it's your brother's soul."

Frowning, he tries his voice again. It's hoarse from screaming, from misuse and abuse. It's harsh and unpleasant to his own ears. "I don't..."

I don't have a brother. I don't...do I?

He struggles to remember. He closes his eyes and sees a face twisted with grief and pain, a face that he has always been associated with his death. Desperately searching his damaged memories he finds more. They are short, random images, but all of them center around this one man. He sees him smile, hears him laugh, feels his love and compassion. She's telling him the truth. This is his brother.

His eyes snap open. "No."

Her smile is all the more chilling for being on a child's face. "It's mine. He gave it to me, and you know what he got in return?"

"No," he whispers.

No. It's the word of the day. His chest tightens with a pain not brought on by his earlier beatings.

"Nothing. He got nothing but a puppet, an empty shell going through the motions, driven by a mere remnant of the previous occupant. It's just enough to be convincing, just enough to make him think he's done the right thing." Her fingers tighten around the cube. "It's just enough to make him think he's bound by a contract that is, in actuality, null and void."

He sucks in a trembling breath, realizing what she's telling him. "You can't..."

"Yes I can," she snaps. She steps closer to him, suddenly, making him flinch. Her eyes flicker white before she puts a damper on her quick-fire rage. Her smile returns. "Imagine his surprise when he arrives tonight to find his baby brother was never truly resurrected. Oh," she purrs. "Don't look so distraught, Sammy. You should have known it would only be a matter of time."

Sammy. Sam. My name, my...oh God...Dean!

His voice is shaking, desperate, pleading. "Call it off, please. Let him go."

"Now why would I want to do that?"

"You already have me, I was Azazel's chosen. What is Dean to you?"

Her hand jerks back, cracks him across the face, demon strength in a human child's body. "A thorn in my side!" she growls. "Just as you would have been. Azazel was a fool, always playing games with humans, experimenting with viruses and mutations. I don't need some half-breed piece of crap to lead my army. I'll do it myself."

Somewhere in the distance a dog howls, a sound quickly followed by baying and barking and the scrape of claws against stone. The Hounds are anxious to be after their prey.

Sam feels himself beginning to panic, remembering what it feels like to be their victim. He can't let his brother die like that, nor can he bear the thought of Dean here, going through what he's been through...

"Please, please don't do this."

"I do so like it when they beg." The she-demon jerks her head toward a shadowy shape lurking behind her. "Release them whenever you're ready."

"NO!!"

He lunges to his feet, gathering every last bit of strength he has to launch himself toward her. She's startled at the suddenness and ferocity of his attack. It shows on her face. She'd dismissed him, underestimated him. They thought there was no more fight left in him, let alone any power, the power that had made him one of Azazel's favorites.

Azazel. Even Azazel had given up on Sam Winchester once his soul left his body, forsaking him for another, leaving him to rot in Hell.

He, she, they, everyone – were wrong.

His fingers curve into claws, his lips curl back in a snarl, and his eyes burn with an unnatural light. All hope of salvation leaves him, his faith is gone, and so too his humanity. His focus now is on one thing, and one thing only – her destruction.

"You will not have my brother!"

The clock struck midnight hours ago.

No Hell Hounds came.

Dean still lived. Sam still lived.

They were still puzzling over this unforeseen turn of events when there was a sharp rap on the door.

Dean flinched.

"Hell Hounds don't usually knock," Sam said quietly, and rose from his chair to peer through the peephole. "It's just Ruby."

"Just," Dean scoffed. "Your pet demon. What the hell does she want?"

"I dunno, but," Sam opened the door. "She might be able to tell us what's going on."

Ruby breezed in without looking at him. She stopped in front of Dean and with her usual bluntness, did indeed tell them what had happened.

"Lilith is dead," she said. "The contract is broken. Congratulations Short-Bus, your ticket to Hell has been revoked."

"What? You're kidding!"

"Dead?" Sam shut the door behind her. "How?"

Without moving, without removing her gaze from Dean, Ruby replied. "I was told it was another demon. Surprise, surprise, one of Azazel's pets." Finally she turned her head to give Sam a cool look. "A powerful one. You should know," she continued after drawing a deep breath. "That they caught and imprisoned him again before he could make his way back up here."

Sam met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Oh," he said, and nothing more.

The two of them stared at each other in silence until Ruby curled her lip in derision and walked away. "Keep on your toes. There's still a war going on, and thanks to Azazel and Lilith's bungling ineptitude, there's still a demon army out there running amok with no one at the helm." Sam followed her to the door where she paused, and lowered her voice so that only he could hear her. "Whoever you are, whatever you are, keep that body alive and undamaged until I can fix this damn mess, understand me?"

With a tilt of his head, Sam nodded acquiescence. Ruby shot him one last warning look, and exited, slamming the door hard behind her.

"Well," Dean snorted. "I guess there's no rest for the wicked, is there."

Sam glanced over at his reflection in the mirror. "It's how you earn salvation," he said softly, and shuddered. Raising his hands, he rubbed at his shoulders. "Is it cold in here to you?"

"Not really, but..." Grinning, Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder and guided him back toward the door. "Right now, I'm happy not to be feeling the heat. Let's go celebrate, get a drink. That'll warm ya up."

Sam paused to grab his coat. "Yeah," he replied, slowly returning the grin. "Sure, it probably will."