OK, this story was originally poster under We Go Way Back, but I didn't like the beginning so I rewrote it and renamed it. So, Tosh and dirleton please read this and don't be mad that I deleted the first story. I really hope this is better than the original first chapter… At least I thought it was.

Anyhoo, this story gives me a reason to bring back Nina AND write for Uriel. He is, by far, my favorite angels (next to Cass of course), and I have always wanted to write a scene with him in it. So, expect to see him.

This is the REAL sequel to Captured. So, let me know what you think.

I own nothing remotely recognizable. Most of the italic writing is the ending to Heaven and Hell, as you will read. It is on my top ten favorite scenes list-between Dean and Sam's fight in Tall Tales and Dean jumping into the muddy river in the Pilot. I would give you a complete list, but I don't want to take up more space.

Bye…

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Dean had fought a ton of different creatures in his life, killed a hell of a lot more, but he had never actually fought one of these. Cass didn't count; he wasn't trying to kill Dean when Dean tried to kill him. And Uriel, albeit getting in a few lucky shots, hadn't been able to do enough damage to really hurt him.

Sometimes he really wished Castiel was just a phone call away. That would be awesome, was his last thought before he developed the ability to fly and slammed into a stone wall, everything instantly going black…

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3 days earlier…

As curious as Sam was regarding what Alastair meant, about how Dean 'had promise', he refused to ask. It was obviously something Dean didn't want to discuss, and no amount of probing would help him. So, he just accepted the beer Dean gave him, nodded his thanks, and opened it. Dean opened his own, flicking the lid across the abandon road they had parked against. Both took a swig at the same time, Dean leaning against the car.

"I can't believe we made it out of there," Dean said a smile in his voice.

Sam let out a small laugh, "Again." They clinked their bottles together, a silent toast to their continuing existence. It was quiet for a moment, both savoring the peace, and then Dean said something that took Sam by surprise. "I know you heard him."

"Who?" Sam questioned having a vague notion who his brother was talking about.

"Alastair, what he said," Dean replied keeping his back to Sam, "about how I 'had promise.'"

Sam couldn't believe his ears, was his brother actually talking to him? Not wanting to get his hopes up, he instead said, "Dean, I'm damn curious, but you're not talking about Hell and I'm not pushing."

Dean took a swig of beer, for reasons Sam couldn't even begin to fathom. He, too, took a drink, but just to do something with his hands. "It wasn't four months, you know." Sam froze, unable to really comprehend what was going on. "What?" he questioned, glancing at his brother.

"It was four months up here," Dean continued, "but down there…I don't know, time's different." There was a slight pause, "It was more like forty years."

"My God," Sam whispered at a loss for what to really say. Forty years? Forty years in hell, he thought feeling a new wave of anger towards Lilith.

"They, uh… They sliced and carved and tore at me in ways that you… Until there was nothing left." Dean trailed off, but started up almost immediately, "And then suddenly, I would be whole again. Like magic. Just so they could start all over again." It pained Sam to hear his brother talk about Hell, but it hurt more that Dean was trying to sound casual about it; like it was a fricking vacation. "And Alastair, at the end of every day, every one, he would come over and he would make me an offer. To take me off the rack…" another short pause, "…if I put souls on. If I started the torture. And every day I told him to stick it where the sun shines." Sam could practically hear the other shoe start to drop. He was about to get a peek inside his brother's mind, one he wasn't sure he wanted to see. But there seemed to be no stopping Dean, a levee had broken and he was bound and determined to keep talking, "For thirty years I told him. But then I couldn't do it anymore, Sammy. I couldn't," Dean whispered the last two words. Sam could hear the tears threatening to come, could feel his own start to sting his own eyes. "Then I got off that rack. God help me I got off it and I started ripping 'em apart." His brother paused again, "I lost count how many souls…" Dean trailed off, sniffling. "The things that I did to them…"

"Dean," Sam tried, pinching the bridge of his nose and clearing his throat. "Look Dean, you held on for thirty years. That's longer than anyone would have." He didn't want to hear his brother's story anymore, not if it was causing him this much pain.

Dean sniffled again, Sam watching as he ran a hand down his face. "How I feel…" he wasn't even holding onto the tears anymore. "This... Inside me. I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing." The bottle slipped from Dean's grasp, bouncing off his boot and spilling beer all over his jean. It clattered as it fell to the ground, cracking against the road. He covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking.

Sam reached out, his hand resting on his brother's trembling shoulder. Dean jerked away from the touch, giving one final sniff. He wiped the tears away and said, "You wanted into my mind. Are you satisfied now?"

Before Sam could answer, Dean walked around the car and stopped at his door. His hand was on the handle, eyes glued to the road. He took a deep, shuddering breath and said, "We should go." Keeping his comments to himself, Sam nodded and took one last swig of beer. He slid off the hood, feet touching the ground, and headed toward the passenger side. Both entered the car at the same time, Dean turning the engine over. They were back on the road in a matter of minutes.

It had been a week since Dean's second roadside confession. Sam had always ranked the first confession in the top ten-always in the first spot. But after this second one-after he had listened to his brother's horrible account, after Dean managed to summon a fountain of tears instead of his usual one or two-Sam knew the first had been knocked down a peg.

When Dean wasn't drinking himself into a coma, he was scouring papers and websites for a new hunt. They had done two so far, back-to-back, both exhausting them mentally and physically. Sam would have loved to take a day off, but that would result in telling Dean to slow down. And Sam was pretty sure hunting was the only thing keeping his brother together.

Right now, Dean was sitting by himself in a booth, Sam's laptop in front of him. Sam stood by the counter, watching his brother while he waited for his change. He had essentially paid for two cups of coffee and a half eaten plate of toast. Dean hadn't eaten anything, he wasn't exactly hungry, and coffee was free refills. A whole two-ninety-seven. He paid with a five, his change should be already in his hand, but the waitress had to get a new roll of pennies from the back. He didn't even care about the two dollars and three cents; it wasn't like he was going to need it anytime soon.

But it was either wait for the change, or sit through his brother's pondering. 'Three missing people in Denver' or 'Five deaths in Madison.' Neither sounded remotely supernatural to Sam, both probably done by a human, but Dean needed something to keep his mind preoccupied. So, Sam would follow him into a hunt, one that probably wasn't anything more than a serial killer-something they definitely did not take care of-just to keep his brother from completely losing his mind. He was so not looking forward to the upcoming week.

He turned his back, the waitress finally appearing. She was blonde, a fake blonde but a blonde nonetheless, and had an aura around her that screamed 'I get what I want and like it.' Sam hated girls like that, they rarely had any personality. But she didn't seem to think that, trying to flirt with him as she handed him his change. He smiled politely, turning his back on her. He slammed his elbow into the counter, Dean standing a few inches from him, his arm going numb.

"You scared the crap out of me," Sam said rubbing his sore elbow. He tried not to take in his brother's haggard appearance, the dark circles a cause for alarm. Sam knew he didn't look any better, far from it actually, but he was more worried about Dean.

"Fifteen murders, occurring over the past month," Dean said and headed back to their booth. Sam followed, stashing the whole two dollar bills and three pennies in his pocket. Dean turned the computer toward him, Sam reading the news paper headline: Killer Still at Large: Fifteen Dead in Indiana Town.

"It could be a serial killer," Sam stated trying to keep the weariness out of his voice. He scanned the article, coming across a few eyebrow raising phrases. 'All the victims seem to be criminals on parole or citizens who have had questionable backgrounds.' 'Each victim has no trace of a wound-defensive or otherwise.' '…no reason to be dead, at all.' The first phrase reminded Sam of Father Gregory and Nurse Glockner. Both vigilante spirits bringing down the corrupted. The second and third phrases, however, puzzled him more. No wounds, no reason to be dead… it was definitely strange.

"That's a day and a half drive," Sam pointed out wondering if his brother could make the drive. Even jacked up on seven cups of coffee, he still looked half asleep.

"Then we'd better get cracking," Dean responded, ignoring the worried look Sam flashed him. He shut the laptop, stashing it into Sam's bag. It was a weird reversal of their roles, Dean doing the research to keep them busy while Sam went along with it.

Sam pulled his jacket on, picking his messenger bag up off the table. He shouldered it, watching as his brother dug around his coat pocket for his keys. It took Dean a full minute to realize Sam had the keys.

"Can I have my keys," he asked holding his hand out. Sam almost refused to hand them over but changed his mind at the last moment. He dug them out of his jeans, dropping them into his brother's hands.

Dean turned, heading toward the door. Sam quickly followed, his computer bag bouncing against his leg. He still wasn't sure if he should trust Dean behind the wheel, but there wasn't much he could do or say. He had given his brother the keys, whatever happened was on him. As long as we don't crash I'm good, Sam thought sliding into the passenger seat. As long as we don't crash…

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This story is inspired by Houses of the Holy, andevery episode about the fallen angels. Those angels are my favorite.

I'm going to leave you with one word: PUDDING!!!!!