Hell of a Ride

Okay, so this started off as a chapter to my Alphabet Adventures story but it morphed into something else entirely so I figured I'd post it on its own. I'm not sure if this will be a multi-chapter story or not. I had told myself I wasn't going to get anymore started until others were finished. Huh, I must have some demon blood in me because obviously I lied! This chapter is Dean's POV, I may add in another in Sam's POV. Let me know if you think it's worth continuing. Thanks to any who have a look.

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING!

It's warm. It's too warm. Why is it so warm?

His head doesn't want to move from the downcast position it's in so he just takes in the sight of his body that seems to be detached from his head. He wants to lift up his hand to wipe the sweat from his face but coordination is not a luxury he is currently friends with. Plus, it's a faint and distant realization but he's pretty sure his hands are tied behind his back. Peachy.

He can hear laughter and flinches slightly at the sound. He watches as a pair of ugly, worn out boots slowly come into view.

A pull on his chin and he is face to face with someone he can't recognize. A fractured smile makes its way onto the stranger's lips and he wonders what he did now, and why he can't gather the strength to try anything to wipe ugly's face free of it.

"Buckle up tough guy, you're in for a hell of a ride. Seeing as you've never ridden the wave before, you may want to think twice the next time you give a lecture about what others do to unwind. She wanted it. She needed it. Hell, she begged us for it. And she's just fine."

His glossed over eyes meet dark and cold ones and he struggles to figure out what the hell that means. What ride? What she?

His head is moved to the side and he tries to focus. He spots a young girl, smiling and flittering around, obviously doped up to high heaven with…. Ah hell, no…

Eyes meet his again.

"See, she is just fine, enjoying the trip. Too bad yours won't be so nice. But who knows, if you stick around long enough maybe you'll start begging for it too."

He wants to spit in his face but his mouth has been depleted of all its moisture. His chest heaves as the warmth he felt starts to transform into almost unbearable heat. He can feel the dampness of sweat gather in every pore, every wrinkle and crevasse of his body. It prickles his skin and makes him want to scratch it out of his flesh.

Another round of laughter and his head is released to drop to his chest like is weighs a tonne.

The boots circle around and there is a slight sensation on his arms before he is released. His knees buckle as soon as he's freed and he crashes to the ground, unable to use his sluggish appendages to lessen the impact.

He is hot now, soaked in sweat and panting like he just ran a marathon. A strange roar starts to echo through his ears. He can't place it.

His eyes try to focus on something, anything to figure this shit out when they automatically widen as far as they are able, as the reason for his discomfort makes itself known.

Fire. All around him. It circles him, the flames so high they have no end. Despite his overheated body, he shivers at the sight of it. At the intensity and power of it. This is no ordinary fire. There's only one place where flames this volatile and destructive exist.

Hell.

The heat intensifies and he uses what strength he has to shuffle back until his body is flush with a solid object behind him.

No. No. NO!

He sees smoke. His shirt. It's smoldering in the onslaught of heat. He watches through terrified eyes as it bursts into flame.

Fire. He's on fire.

He grabs the hem of his shirt and tugs it off in one swift movement. And yet the fire remains.

He's burning.

He can smell it, the odour of seared flesh.

He can, damn, he can taste it. The putridness infiltrates itself into him, like acid on his tongue.

Agony erupts in his legs. His jeans. They're melting, sticking to him like wax from a candle.

He undoes them with quivering hands and shimmies his way out of the fabric in an effort to get away from the trail of blistering heat they mark across his skin.

And still… still the fire remains.

He can hear laughter again. Sadistic and evil and cold.

Intermittent and chaotic, it floats through him, around him and over him in a haze of taunts and ridicule.

"Man, you are the best show we've had in ages. I don't know what you see but shit, we may have to keep you around a while, you know, to get our..."

It stops abruptly and he hears a flurry of grunts and groans followed by an agonized scream. He thinks maybe it's his but can't be sure.

He can't breathe. He's suffocating on the smoke, can't get the air he needs so desperately into his lungs. He gasps, claws at his throat for air.

Hands. He can feel hands on his wrists to guide them away from his neck. He looks down and sees his skin, his flesh start to peel away from his bone. He gags, unable to contain the bile that churns up and flies out from his throat. He squirms to get away. From him. From his tormentor. From this twisted game.

And still the hands remain. They are strong and unmoving, covered in flame and blood and tissue and flesh. His blood. His tissue. His flesh.

"Dean, can you hear me?"

He shivers and forces himself to look up, to look into the face of that familiar voice.

Renewed tears sting at his already watering eyes. No. God no. Anything but this. He can't be here. Sam cannot be here in Hell. Not him. Not his Sammy. No, this is some trick. He doubles his efforts to get away.

"NOOOOOOOO!"

He coughs and sputters as he feels the stagnant air filled with smoke and ash fill his lungs and constrict his throat.

"Dean, can you hear me? Shit. God, what did they do to you? DEAN!"

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