A/N: Hello all! This is my first attempt at a Supernatural fanfic. I enjoy breathing life into my ideas, and strive to remain accurate. Please let me know if you think anything is OOC! I embrace constructive criticism and relish any reviews. Also, I'm writing this as I go so reviews will always make uploads go faster. .-

Summary: When Dean refuses to tell Sam that he thinks he is being followed, he pays dearly for his insecurities and is left at the mercy of a cruel captor. With only a short time left before the end of Dean's last year on Earth, will Sam be able to find him in time to save him from a fate almost as bad as Hell itself?

Warnings: Mild swearing. Post-"Dream a Little Dream of Me," so spoilers up until that point. Plenty of Dean angst and hurt. Rated T for now; will be rated M in the future for content.

It was the dripping -- a normally small and insignificant noise -- that got to him first. It became a near-pounding in his head, and it echoed throughout the space and into the darkness that just wouldn't budge.

The sound made him open his eyes, where a momentary vertigo overwhelmed him enough to close them again. The quick glimpse that he had grasped―floors made of stones, and the black that bled from the corners of the room onto the small patch of light cast from some unknown opening to the outside―just didn't sit well with what he knew about himself, about where he should be.

He opened his eyes again; nothing had changed. His hazel irises had adjusted to the light now, however, or lack thereof. The dripping, he decided, was coming from the far left corner… from some place he couldn't see.

There was a lot that he couldn't see, and it was starting to piss him off. So he concentrated on what he could feel.

There was a breeze, coming from somewhere above him. It rustled his hair, sending chills down his already goose-bumped form. It didn't seem to go far, in this room, suggesting that it wasn't a very large space.

He had no shirt on. Somewhere in his fuddled mind, he knew that wasn't right. He wasn't at home in bed, and if he wasn't at home in bed, then he should have all his clothes...

His head. There was a stickiness where the breeze couldn't budge some strands from his skull. Sticky like... sticky like honey. Sticky like car oil.

His mind searched for the answer held just beyond the grip of his thoughts.

And there it was... sticky like blood.

It explained the pounding in his brain, at least.

Finally, as full awareness dawned on him, he felt the fire burning in his arms. They were being held above him, and the reasons for this also evaded him for a few seconds. But then he felt them too-- the cold, thick cuffs that cut into his wrists. The muscles in his arms screamed to the point that he knew he had been in this position a while.

He was on his knees, an irony that played a small smile on his lips. He wasn't a praying man, but he was quickly realizing that now would be the time to do it if he were.

The cuffs held him so taut that his bare chest and arms were stretched to their limits, and the direness of the situation was beginning to dawn on him. The smile faded. Panic began to set in.

A wave a nausea rose over him, as fast as the fear.

He couldn't remember how he had gotten here, and the cold wall against his back offered little support as he began to feel dizzy.

Think, he thought, trying to regain some sort of calm in the confusion of his mind. Think think think think…

He was in Hell.

That was it, wasn't it? It was over...

No… he cried in his mind, his breaths beginning to come in gasps as hyperventilation overcame him.

His time was up, he was in Hell…

Finally getting what he deserved.

He kneeled like that, the weight of his body tugging at his wrists as he gasped for breath, heart beating so fast that it felt like his pulse was choking him. Oh God, no... his thoughts screamed, already forgetting the earlier irony he had supposed. He closed his eyes, wheezing, his head slumped against his his left arm in an effort to regain composure once more.

No, no... He couldn't be in Hell.

He told himself this, several times. I'm not in Hell. I'm not in Hell.

Flashes of his own face took over his mind, drowning his thoughts; evilly contorted and eyes black as a moonless night.

"You're gonna die. And this. This is what you are going to become!"

"Not yet..." The young man cried out, his raspy voice echoing in the room. It startled him, snapping him from the visions in his head. His eyes now open, he fought to take control of his breathing.

He allowed his pupils to flit around the room. "Not yet..." He repeated in a whisper.

Heart thudding, he swallowed, subconsciously trying to swallow his fear, and allowed his mind to absorb his surroundings once more.

Dark, cold, stone room.

Not Hell.

His face flushed with shame at the outburst, at the absolute fear that had overcome his normally collected self. "Stupid…" he muttered, scowling.

He shivered and took a deep breath. So he wasn't in Hell.

Not yet.

Then what had happened?

He still couldn't remember, and his cold, stone chamber was void of any clues. The thought of searching his mind for help to this mystery made him hesitate―he hated dipping into his own thoughts lately―but he knew it had to be done.

He swallowed and closed his eyes again, trying to keep his mind off of his quivering limbs. What was the last thing he remembered?

A hotel room.

Just another old-fashioned, average, dingy hotel room. Two single beds. Ratty curtains. Ancient television.

It was night. His brother had won the battle for the remote control. "We are not watching softcore!" His brother had exclaimed.

"It's not softcore, it's… 'Late Night Adventures in Sin City.'" He had replied in defense.

"It's not happening is what it is."

"Fine." He pretended to be wounded, and got up from his bed. "Bitch."

From there, he had pulled on his tee that lay haphazardly on the foot of his bed, letting it fall over the waste band of a plaid pair of pajama pants. Wandered outside for a breath of fresh air. Told his brother he was going to get some M&Ms from the convenience store half a block away.

And then?

He struggled to remember. Something… someone… from behind a corner near the store…

Someone familiar.

Suddenly the image assaulted him with a fierceness-- Jet black hair, navy blue eyes, bright red lips.

His breath caught in his throat at the realization. It was her.

He shook his head. Dammit! He thought. I knew something about her wasn't right… why the hell didn't I do something about it?

But he knew why.

He hadn't wanted to worry his brother. His recently overprotective, younger brother was already more than worried about him. About his actions, about his state of mind... about the impending doom that would separate them at the end of the one year's time.

He didn't need to worry his brother any more, especially when it was just going to turn out to be paranoia anyway.

The woman… he had been seeing her everywhere.

At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. And then he battled with possibilities of coincidences. All the while ignoring that inkling instinct that something, in fact, was very wrong.

It was she that had come from the shadows, near the corner store, outside of the hotel room.

The last thing he remembered was her and her cold, dark blue eyes.

He shook his head, trying to erase her image from his mind. Opened his eyes again.

But she was still there.

He stared at her, confused.

"What's the matter Dean?"

What he had thought was only an image in his mind had asked this out loud, striking cold hard fear into his chest and causing him to jump.

The woman sneered. "Don't you know when you see a good thing in front of you?"