The last thing Dean remembered before he got whisked away from the inn was the sound of gunfire. Not just any gunfire. Machine gunfire. Tommy guns. It was like the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, Rhydin style. Awesome. And all he had to defend himself with was a .45. A lot of good that would do. He wondered what it would feel like to become Swiss cheese. It wasn't so much the dying that bothered him, but what might happen afterward. Would the angels send him back to fight another day or would he not pass Go, not collect $200, and go straight to Hell" Either way, his options sucked, but as things turned out, he didn't have much time to worry about it.

In the blink of an eye, Dean found himself back at the loft, sitting on the couch, dizzy and disoriented, and wondering what the hell had just happened. He figured there were only two possible explanations — angels or demons. Both seemed to want to keep him alive, for whatever reasons, but he wasn't quite sure which one had decided to intervene and save his sorry ***.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered under his breath as he blinked to clear his vision and look around the empty room. "Thanks for the rescue, but I can take care of myself," he told whatever invisible force it was that had whisked him away.

"You're welcome," a familiar voice replied, and he turned to find a tall, good-looking man in a suit and trench coat standing behind him, a grim expression on his face. "Why did you call me if you can take care of yourself?"

"Cas?" Dean asked incredulously, feeling a mixture of both relief and annoyance at the angel's somewhat belated arrival. "What the hell are you talking about?" Dean continued. "I didn't..." He trailed off, remembering suddenly that the angel seemed to always take everything literally. "I've been calling you for months. Where the hell have you been?"

"I've been busy, Dean. Things are not going well back on Earth."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the angel's somewhat cryptic reply, which prompted more questions than it answered. There was really only one thing he needed to know. "Am I still saying no?"

"It depends on the question. You haven't fornicated in some time, but if you are referring to Michael, yes. You are still saying no. For now."

"What do you mean for now?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss that right now."

"What are you at liberty to do?"

The angel seemed to consider that a moment before replying, cocking his head to one side, blue eyes studying the man, looking almost concerned. "You look like hell."

"Excuse me?" Dean asked, brows arching in annoyance.

"It is an expression. You look like hell. It means you do not look well."

"I know what it means."

"You should get some rest, Dean. We will talk later."

"I don't want to get any rest. I want to talk now!"

"I'm afraid that is not possible. Sleep, Dean. We'll talk later."

Despite Dean's protests, the angel leaned forward and tapped two fingers against the man's forehead, watching as he collapsed against the couch, losing himself to blissful darkness.

And then the angel was gone, as if he'd never been there at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

The loft, one week later...

"Dean, you need to stop."

Dean didn't bother to look up, seated on the couch, a bottle of J.D. in one hand, a TV remote in the other. He recognized the voice and knew Castiel was watching him with a look of mixed concern and disapproval. Or maybe it was disappointment. Either way, he didn't want to see it. Didn't need to see it. He'd seen it often enough on his father's face, on his brother's face. What the hell did they want from him anyway' He was doing the best he could. At least, he thought so.

"Shh. This is the best part." Dean scolded, intent on the movie that was showing on the television set. An old Clint Eastwood movie, back when Clint was in his prime. Dirty Harry. One of Dean's silver screen heroes. Harry didn't take any crap from anyone. He didn't worry about the consequences of his actions. He just did what he needed to, what everyone else was afraid to do, and let the chips fall where they might.

"I know what you're thinking," Dean echoed Harry, word for word from memory. "Did he fire six shots or only five" But to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I've kinda lost track myself. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky' Well, do ya, punk?"

Dean let go of the remote and raised a hand to pull the trigger on an invisible gun, just as Harry did the same. He gave a small, dry chuckle and lifted the bottle of half-drained Jack to his lips for a long swallow. "That gun is awesome. I should get a gun like that. Do you feel lucky, punk?" he mimicked, with an emphasis on the word punk.

"Dean..."

Dean sighed, realizing Cas wasn't going to go away and wasn't going to allow Dean to ignore him any longer. He took a swallow of the whiskey, wincing a little as it burned its way down his gullet, and angled his head to look up at the angel. "What?"

"You need to stop."

"Stop what?" Dean asked, clicking the remote to shut the television set off. He felt an argument coming, one he didn't really feel like having. One he'd had a dozen times before with Sam. "Would you rather I watch the Disney Channel" I'm a little old for Hannah Montana, don't you think?" he quipped, hoping to throw the angel off track.

"This isn't about your television viewing habits," the angel replied gravely.

"No?" Dean got up from the couch and wandered into the kitchen, the angel trailing behind. "What's it about then?"

"When was the last time you went a day without a drink?"

"What are you Dr. Phil now?" Dean set the bottle on the counter and turned toward the angel, annoyed to find a look of undisguised concern on his face. "I'm fine, okay' Just let it go."

"You're not fine, Dean. When was the last time you slept without the aid of..." Castiel canted his head at the bottle of liquor. "Captain Morgan?"

"Dude, this is Jack Daniels. The Captain is for girls and....pirates. Or something."

"You're missing the point, Dean."

"No, I got the point. You think I've got a drinking problem." He raised a hand and opened and closed it, in imitation of a mouth that wouldn't stop jabbering. "Blah blah blah. You sound like Sam."

"I'm sorry, Dean, but I cannot allow you to destroy yourself. There are people who are counting on you. People who need you."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the angel. "What the hell is this" An intervention' I'm touched, really, but I can handle it."

"No, I don't think you can."

Dean backed up as Castiel stepped closer, seeing a look in the angel's eyes that said he meant business and wasn't taking no for an answer. Dean instinctively swung a punch at the angel, who blocked Dean's fist and closed a hand around it, pulling him closer. Dean's eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected strength in that grip, and he suddenly realized the angel was going to give him no choice, just as he'd given Sam no choice.

"I'm sorry, Dean, but this is for your own good."

"Cas, don't," Dean whispered, barely able to breathe. But it was too late. The angel tapped two fingers against Dean's forehead and everything went black.

"Let me see your hand."

Dean recognized the angel's voice and wiped the tears from his face before turning to face him. He'd never let Cas see him cry. Only Sam and Quinn. He hadn't even let Alastair have that privilege while he'd done time in hell. He'd scream, beg, plead for mercy, but never let his tormentor see his tears. Only when they left him alone to contemplate his situation. Only when he had time to think. When he was feeling lost and desperate and hopeless. Only then.

Dean cleared his throat to steady his voice. "What do you....you wanna hold my hand now" Sing Kumbaya or something?" He managed a weak smile, realizing it was probably useless to try and hide his feelings from the angel. He'd been inside his head; he knew him as well, if not better, than himself. Probably better than Sammy did.

"Kumbaya, no. I do not know the words to that song."

"No' How about... In Heaven there is no beer, that's why we drink it here..."

The angel ignored Dean's arguably bad singing and informed him solemnly. "It's broken."

It was only then that Dean realized that the hand he was unconsciously cradling against his chest was throbbing painfully. How many times had he broken that hand" How many concussions" Broken ribs, sprains, bullet and knife wounds. The list of injuries obtained over the course of thirty years was as long and varied as the monsters he'd hunted. Each wound told a story, and though somehow the trip through the nexus had erased his scars, it hadn't erased the memories or the pain.

Dean pulled his hand away from his chest and slowly unfurled it, allowing Cas to take a look.

"This is not good, Dean," the angel remarked as he leaned over the hand.

"What' Are my dreams of being a baseball player over" Because I had my heart set on pitching for the Yankees."

"I am not talking about baseball. I am talking about this." The angel ran a finger along the fading line of a scar that cut across the palm of Dean's left hand.

Dean flinched and tried to pull his hand away, but the angel held fast. "It's nothing. Just a scar."

"I cannot allow this to continue."

"Cas, what the hell..." Dean broke off, squeezing his eyes shut as his hand was enveloped in a blinding white light. He felt an almost soothing warmth penetrate his hand, painless heat, and then he felt something tear through his body, like it was ripping something from his very soul, and he cried out in pain, yanking his hand away from the angel's grasp as the light slowly faded. He gasped to catch his breath, flexing his fingers and looking at his hand in wide-eyed wonder. The pain was gone. The fracture was healed, and the scar had disappeared.

"Your connection to the fae woman has been severed. You are free."

"Connection' What connection' What the hell are you talking about?" Dean furrowed his brows at the angel, only partially understanding what he meant. Whatever connection he'd felt to Spade was gone, but it only healed part of his pain.

The angel seemed to ignore Dean's questions as the problem had been resolved and was no longer an issue. "You asked for my help. I am helping."

"Helping, but not explaining. As usual." Dean flexed his hand again. "You got your mojo back?"

"My....mojo?" The angel frowned thoughtfully a moment as he seemed to try and puzzle out Dean's meaning. "No, but this is not Earth. Things are different here."

"Welcome to Oz."

"Dean, we are not over the rainbow. This is Rhydin. It is a unique place in all the universe. It is the nexus. A place where all realities and dimensions converge, like the center of a giant web."

Dean raised a hand to silence the angel. He was starting to sound like Logan, and it was making his head ache. "Yeah, yeah. I know what the nexus is. I read the manual my first week here."

"I should not be here, Dean."

"Why not' Afraid Michael might give you a time out for bad behavior" You're a rebel. Rules are for pussies anyway. They're made to be broken."

Dean got up and went to the fridge, hoping against hope to find a Labatts, but there was only Perrier. Maybe if he was lucky, it was the bubbly kind. He took two from the fridge, tossing one to Cas, and twisting the cap off the other.

"You should not be here either," the angel continued.

"Yeah' Well, I am and so are you, so here's to good times." Dean raised the Perrier in a toast and took a long swallow, wincing in distaste. "Tastes like crap."

The angel took a small sip, as if to confirm Dean's findings. "It tastes like water."

"It has no flavor. I need some flavor. Can't you just work your mojo on me and skip the twelve step program?"

The angel looked confused as he once again tried to sort out what it was Dean was trying to say. "Twelve steps" I do not understand this reference."

Dean sighed. Sometimes talking to Cas was like talking to a child. Or an alien. He wondered if Elliot had the same problems with E.T. "Never mind. Just..." He gestured with a hand in a circular motion. "Just do your thing and get on with it."

Dean knew from the look on the angel's face that it wasn't going to be that easy.

"I can't. There are certain....rules. Limitations. This is something you can only do yourself."

"Is this a free will thing?"

"Yes."

"Okay, well, I'm free willing you to mojo me back into pre-A.A. shape. Do your stuff, Benny. I'm running out of patience."

"Benny?"

"Hinn. Never mind. He's a fraud anyway. Most of them are." Dean didn't doubt there were a few authentic faith healers out there, but most of the ones he'd encountered had been frauds. Or demons in disguise.

"Dean, I'm afraid you misunderstand. This is something you have to do yourself. I cannot help. I can only..."

"Then why are we here" Why the lock down" Why not just let me do it when I'm good and ready?"

"Free will or no, I won't let you kill yourself, Dean, and that is what you are doing."

"So, you're just gonna leave me here alone until I'm dried out. For how long?"

"As long as it takes."

"Come on, Cas..."

"You won't be alone. I will see you when it's over." The angel looked at Dean with a sad expression on his face, blue eyes full of compassion. And then he was gone, leaving Dean alone once again.

Twenty-four hours later...

"What game should we play today, Dean?"

Dean's eyes flew open at the sound of that voice. It was a voice he knew only too well. A voice he dreaded. A voice that inspired fear and loathing. The question was one he'd heard every single day of his thirty years spent in hell. It was the first question Alastair always asked before the torture began.

"You aren't real. This isn't happening," Dean challenged, though it felt real enough. The rope that bound his hands and feet felt real, the nauseating smell of sulfur that hung in the air, the sweat that was pouring down his sides. He was trembling with fear, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. It was all too familiar. Thirty years in hell and every night in his dreams. Was it any wonder that he drank himself into oblivion' That he woke screaming in the middle of the night"

A face he knew only too well swung into his field of vision, and he felt his heart seize up inside him. The sneer on the demon's face was something he'd never forget. It wasn't the face of Alastair's human vessel, but the true visage of the demon himself, and it was horrible to behold, enough to strike fear in the bravest of men. It haunted him night after night.

"You're right," the demon agreed, grabbing hold of Dean's jaw and forcing him to face him, to look the demon in the eye and behold him in all his hideous glory. "It's not real, Dean. It's all in your head, but trust me, it's going to feel real."

Dean sucked in a breath, heart hammering, panic rising like bile in his throat. "Please..." he muttered, already knowing his pleas would only fall on deaf ears.

The demon leaned closer, so close Dean could feel the heat of his breath, the smell of sulfur filling his nostrils making him gag in disgust, the gaping maw dripping saliva onto Dean's chest where it burned through his flesh like lava. "You were my best and my brightest. You showed such promise, such creativity, such passion for your work. I had such high hopes for you. We would have made a brilliant team, you and I, if that bloody angel hadn't mucked it all up. Good times, eh, Dean' Ah, but so much for reminiscing. Here we are, together again. Back to square one, as they say. We don't have much time together, so let's get right down to business, shall we?"

"You're dead," Dean muttered through clenched teeth, as if he was trying to make himself believe it. "S-Sam killed you."

"I'm still alive inside here," the demon tapped a clawed fingertip against Dean's temple. "And that's all that really matters."

The demon released the grip he had on Dean's jaw and stepped back, baring yellow, pointed teeth in the hideous mockery of a smile. He waved a hand and was suddenly brandishing a knife with a jagged blade, one that Dean knew only too well.

It had taken thirty years to break Dean. Thirty years of torture and humiliation. Thirty years under the knife of the master — the Head Torturer and Chief Executioner of Hell. Alistair had learned well Dean's weaknesses, what methods were ineffective and which would leave him screaming like a girl. He'd learned that Dean was not fond of knives, at least, not where his own flesh was concerned.

Over the thirty years under Alastair's knife, Dean had been subjected to countless unspeakable horrors. The rack was only one of them and a favorite of Alastair's. He had once inspired Poe to write about the Pit and the Pendulum and had found the descent of a sharp swinging blade to be not only terrifying to the victim but a welcome change of pace from the usual slicing and dicing.

After thousands of years of torturing souls, Alastair was an artist, constantly honing and perfecting his craft. Experimenting, seeing which methods worked best for which of his guests. He was the master and no one had ever escaped Alastair's rack without breaking. No one but John Winchester. Alastair was confident that had he been given more time, even the great Papa Winchester would have eventually cracked. It was the same with all of them. Some took longer than others, but eventually they all begged for mercy. They all agreed to whatever terms Alastair proposed. Dean was no exception.

The inquisitors of the Medieval Ages had nothing on Alastair. He had inspired most of them, but he felt even they had lacked imagination at times. He had learned that often it wasn't so much the torture but the anticipation of it that would break a man. He was fond of blindfolds, but not of gags. His victims screams were like music to his ears. The only time he used a gag was when he deemed the inability to scream would increase the victim's torment.

As far as Dean was concerned, blindfolds served Alastair well, but gags were mostly useless. He had noticed that the inability to see what awaited him was almost enough to drive Dean mad. But not today. No blindfold today. He wanted Dean to see what awaited him. Whether he was real or not was of no concern. He was real to Dean, and that was all that mattered. A living nightmare that haunted his dreams and made his life a living hell.

Dean's stomach coiled into knots, the icy hand of fear gripping his heart as the demon made the first cut, the blade like fire against his flesh, ripping and tearing, warm blood flowing like water. He hissed in pain, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood, hands curling into fists even as he strained against the bonds that held him fast. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw a haze of red, as red as the blood that was flowing in his veins. He heard the demon's voice, gravelly and rough, perverting the words of a once popular ballad.

"Memories, Like the corners of my mind, Misty water colored memories, Of the way we were..."

Tears slid hotly down Dean's cheeks as the blade cut deeper, blood running like a river down his sides to soak his jeans. He heard a grinding sound and knew what was about to happen next. It had happened so many times before. The rack would slowly pull his arms and legs away from his body. There would be excruciating pain and sickening popping sounds as his limbs were slowly separated from his body. And then the demon would do his worst. He'd slice him open and cut him apart, one organ at a time. He'd leave the heart for last, still beating in his chest, barely keeping him alive.

And when it was all over, he'd put him back together and leave him alone to contemplate his predicament before starting all over again.

For two more days, Dean drifted in a sea of blackness. It was better this way. Less painful. Every now and then, he'd wake and realize someone was offering him small sips of water, but he wasn't sure who it was. He was too far gone to sort it all out.

Whoever it was, they seemed familiar somehow. There was a familiar scent about them that stirred his memory and his heart. A woman. But who' Once he thought he caught a glimpse of blond hair and his first thought was that of Quinn, but she didn't smell like Quinn. Quinn smelled like coffee and bagels and just a hint of something soft and alluring. No, it wasn't Quinn.

He heard himself groan, every muscle in his body screaming in agony, and then he felt a cool hand touch his face, like before, but it wasn't his mother's. He pried his eyes open, teeth chattering, unable to stop himself from shaking, and he found himself looking up at familiar brown eyes and long blond hair.

"Jo..." Her name got stuck in his throat, the pain of her death still too fresh. He'd relived her death time and again in his dreams. Their last kiss. His promise to join her soon. It was almost too much for him seeing her there. He knew she couldn't be real. She was just a hallucination brought on by his alcohol-deprived brain. She was no more real than his mother or Alistair or Sammy had been. His lips moved as he tried to tell her what he was thinking, but he couldn't find the words.

"Shh," she told him quietly, stroking his cheek with her fingers. "Don't say anything. Just listen."

He felt the tears threatening again as his eyes met hers. He thought he'd never see her again, but there she was, just as he'd remembered her. "Jo..." he muttered, shaking and delirious. "I can't do this."

She was close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek, her fingers sliding back through his sweat-matted hair. "Yes, you can. You have to. Because if you don't..." She frowned, trailing off.

He knew what she was going to say. She didn't need to say it. Because people are counting on me. It had always been that way, ever since he'd been four. Ever since his father had laid Sammy in his arms and told him to go outside, away from the nursery, away from the fire, away from his mother's death. Everyone, it seemed, was always counting on him. Sometimes it seemed such a heavy burden to bear.

"It's not your time yet, Dean," she continued, her fingers stroking his cheek. "We'll see each other again someday, but not yet. Not now. There's too much you need to do first."

"Jo..." He whispered her name again, like a plea or a prayer from a dying man, unable to hold back the tears that were sliding down his face.

She leaned close and pressed her lips against his, softly, slowly, and he felt his heart swell with longing. He'd kissed countless women in his life, but only a handful had ever really mattered. Jo had been one of them, and he'd lost her far too soon. She smiled again as their lips parted, her fingers gently brushing his cheek. "Go to sleep now, Dean. The worst of it is over."

"No," he muttered, trying to stay awake, to spend just a few more minutes with her. Somehow, he knew he'd never see her again, at least, not while he still lived. Against his own will, he felt his eyelids get heavy, the pain receding as his consciousness slipped slowly away.

"I'll wait for you. I promise."

It was the last thing he heard her say before he lost himself again to blissful darkness.