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If there is one thing Dean hates more than the current situation of Lilith trying to break the 66 seals and them having to stop her, it’s showing his vulnerability.
Therefore it’s only logical for the older hunter to drink his brain away when the ugly feeling of anxiety rises in his body, flows through his veins to his heart and brain to occupy his fears.
Sam is worried about him. Not only because it’s Dean carrying his emotions on his sleeve but also because their time is limited.
Damn this illness, both Winchesters think.
While Bobby and Sam are back at the abandoned wood mill, trying to figure out how they can stop the ghost sickness with only two hours to go before Dean’s heart is set to give out, said older Winchester brother is in his room.
Dean’s hands are sweating and Dean is aware of the time limit. Two hours more and he will be back in hell.
He grabs a bottle of whatever alcohol he still carries with him and gulps another big swing of it down his throat. He shudders and breathes.
Maybe he can talk himself into not believing what he is hallucinating. Maybe it will grand them more time. Maybe it can save him.
But Dean doesn’t know what he is about to come to face with. It could be his greatest nightmares, heck, it’s only logical to be his greatest nightmares.
And then it starts with the ugly wood ripping from claws scratching before he hears hellhounds growling from behind his room’s door.
Dean’s heart rate already picks up. He doesn’t want to go back to hell. He doesn’t want to feel the hellhounds tear his body apart until they can drag his soul out and carry it back home.
How was he supposed to calm his mind and heart down when the hallucinations feel so real?
He sees the door shaking, banging.
“You aren’t real!” Dean cries out while he backs up towards the farthest wall from the entrance.
He already can’t handle this torture. Two more hours to go? He understands now that he can’t survive them.
Scared and itchy with the anxiety pinching his veins like needles, Dean scratches his already irritated underarm. He digs his nails deeper, trying to rip the tingling feeling off his body. His head hurts and feels like it explodes any second.
And the hellhounds are still there, trying to break in and take Dean.
Dean hides and stops his breathing when the door opens but the only one that comes in is an angry and crazed Sheriff Britton with a gun in his hand.
“Sheriff,“ Dean gets up and tries to act as normal as possible. “What are you doing?”
“Why are you looking into Luther’s death?” The Sheriff yells at Dean, scratching his arms wildly, making Dean aware of the other’s sickness.
“You are sick. You’re sick, you’re sick, alright? Like me. You gotta relax.” Dean panics as the gun is pointed in his direction. It reminds him of his own injured arm and the scratching and he can’t hold back but dig his nails in it again to make the feeling vanish.
But the Sheriff doesn’t listen and smacks Dean over the head. “He was my friend. He made a mistake. But I didn’t bust him. So what? And you want to bring me down over that?” He screams the ending, coming closer until his gun touches Dean’s abdomen. “No, sir.” He raises his gun into Dean’s face.
But the older Winchester panics. “Guns are dangerous!” He smacks the gun out of the Sheriff’s hand before he gets tackled by the older man.
They hit and kick each other, trying to choke the other and Dean’s fear to die rises higher.
He pushes the older man away with a grunt so he falls to the ground, Dean fearing the demon eyes he saw in the other’s head thanks to his hallucinations.
But the Sheriff doesn’t respond anymore. He doesn’t react and instead yelps for air, clutching his chest. His eyes widen before he goes unresponsive and unmoving.
A shudder runs down Dean’s body. Is this about to happen to him as well? Such an easy death and he is back in hell?
He backs away, sits onto the bed and scratches his arms again, rocking his body. He hears Sam’s voice in his head, telling Dean that it’s about time to get back to hell.
An unmanly whimper escapes Dean’s mouth and he grabs his head. His limbs are shaking and his breath quick while he hears his blood getting pumped through his veins.
He can’t help himself. No one can.
Please don’t let him end in hell again, he prays in his mind. If he should survive this, he will never think about what he does now. He won’t talk about it, won’t tell anyone because Dean doesn’t believe.
But in his frightened state, only about half an hour left and his whole body screaming at him to die faster, he grabs next to him and picks up the bible.
He never believed, he won’t now but he still prays.
He prays for this idiot of angel. He begs his guardian angel for help. He apologises for his rudeness, rocking forth and back.
Please, Castiel. He begs for help, biting his tongue.
Suddenly a hand is placed on his shoulder.
With hope, Dean turns around but sitting there in his hallucinations is the vessel of Lilith.
“Hello, Dean.” The voice his warm and familiar but the face he sees, what he hallucinates is not the celestial presence he actually feels.
A part of him knows that his prayers were heard but what he sees is just too real to believe Castiel would have really come.
“Oh no. No, no, no.” He can’t handle Lilith. He is too weak, too scared of that.
But the girl he sees grips harder onto his shoulder and the voice is happily saying: “Yes, it’s me, Lilith! It’s time to go back again.”
And Dean jumps away from the touch, grabs the hand and pushes it off him. He doesn’t even register the deep, comforting, celestial voice saying “Dean, I am here to help”.
All of this is imagination and there is Lilith and no one can help him anymore. “You are not real.” He tries to convince himself and the illusion but the kid only pouts, stands up and slowly comes closer again.
“What’s the matter, Dean? Don’t you remember all the fun you had down there?” The girl says and Dean feels sick, not wanting to remember but the images still appear in front of his eyes with his hallucination. “Oh, you do remember.” She establishes with an evil undertone in her voice, coming closer.
How is that even possible, Dean asks himself as he backs further away.
“Four months is like forty year in hell. Like doggy years. And you remember every second.” She continues.
Dean’s breath shudders and he swallows while his head starts hurting more and his arms scream at him to pull the stupid anxiety out of it.
He tries to convince himself again that none of this is real but he fails. He can see the hellhounds rip his chest open again, he sees the things that happened in hell, he feels the torture of every day rushing through his veins.
And Dean is caged in that memories. He will be right back again. No one will save him. Why would Castiel want to drag him out of hell again the way he treated the angel? Why would anyone ever want to save him?
He can’t register the warm arm wrapping around his chest, the comforting hand on his shoulder where the angel’s mark is. Dean can’t hear the strong voice telling him “I will save you over and over again”. Dean is too numb to his surroundings.
His heart aches and Dean gasps, gripping his chest tightly while he crumbles to the ground. He can barely breathe.
His arms hurt and his head feels thick. His lungs are tight and his vision blurred. His heart is seconds from exploding.
“You are not real.” He whimpers.
A hand touches his chin and raises his head. Dean sees only his hallucination of Lilith. Dean can’t see or hear Castiel who’s holding him and telling him that he is save.
How much Dean would give, after all of this is over, to go back in time and see the angel comforting his past self.
But now the hallucination is still talking Dean into believing he deserves hell.
Dean gasps, slightly cries with the sound of his blood rushing through his body. “Why me? Why did I get infected.”
He starts to believe his hallucinations, his body slowly slacking down and Dean is tired of fighting the pain.
The only thing he still understands is “Listen to your heart” and Dean is sure that these are the words that will send him back to hell.
His blurred vision gone black and the pounding of heart, blood and head is more intense than before. He gasps and grunts, trying to breathe. His hurting head is on the floor but something is holding his body from collapsing completely.
And Dean tries to wiggle himself out of the touch that are hell’s chains in his imagination, leaning to the side, closing his eyes.
Dean cries and feels his heart flare up in pain. He gags and grips tighter into his skin. This is it.
That's the end.
Silence.
Complete silence.
And when Dean opens his eyes, he is still in that room from before.
And there is a comforting heat engulfing his body.
After a few more seconds he registers what he feels is as a body.
There is someone holding him, arm around his chest, hand on his marked shoulder.
And instead of fighting it, he sinks into the embrace for a while, closing his eyes again.
The next time Dean opens his eyes, the heat is gone, so is the celestial presence. The only thing telling Dean that his angel did look after him, are the vanished scratch marks on his underarms.