Dean had only been back for two months now after being dead for Four months. Four long months that had gutted both you and Sam. Until suddenly, he was brought back—by an angel named CAs.

You and Sam were relieved, overjoyed even. But Dean? Dean refused to talk about his time in the Pit. And you didn’t push. Not at first.

Now the three of you leaned against Baby, the Impala’s hood cool beneath your palms. The evening was still, a soft wind stirring the trees. On the surface, it looked peaceful. But beneath it hung a heaviness that none of you could shake. A silence so thick it pressed against your chest.

But then the silence broke on its own.

“It wasn’t four months, you know.” Dean’s voice was rough, startling you and Sam. He didn’t look at either of you, his eyes fixed on the gravel at his boots.

“What?” you asked softly, unsure of what he meant.

“It was four months up here.” His jaw clenched. “But down there…” He swallowed hard. “It was more like forty years.”

You and Sam both went rigid. Your heads snapped toward each other, eyes wide.

“My God,” Sam muttered, barely audible.

Dean’s voice kept going, low, deliberate, like every word was dragged from somewhere he didn’t want to go.

“They sIiced and cārved… and tore at me in ways you can’t even imagine.” He stopped, sucked in a sharp breath. “Until there was nothing left.”

Your heart sank, your throat tight, but you didn’t speak. You didn’t dare stop him now.

“And then, suddenly—I’d be whole again. Just like magic.” He gave a bitter, humorless laugh, his shoulders shaking. “So they could start it all over the next day.”

You glanced at Sam, whose eyes were already glassy, his expression mirroring the way your own chest cracked open. You’d always known Hell was unimaginable, but hearing the man you loved describe it broke you in ways you didn’t have words for.

Dean’s voice dropped even lower. “Then Alastair… at the end of every day—every damn day—he’d come over. And he’d make me an offer. To take me off the rack, if I just put souls on instead. If I started the tōrture.” His breath shuddered. “And every day, I told him to stick it where the sun shines.”

A pause. His lips pressed into a hard line. “For thirty years… I told him that.”

Your stomach dropped. Thirty years. But he said he’d been there forty. The realization hit you like a blade, and your eyes widened as you pieced it together.

Dean’s voice cracked when he continued. “But I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t.” His shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the ground, fighting to hold himself together. “So I got off the rack. God help me, I got off it. And I started ripping them apart.”

Tears welled in your eyes as your hand gripped the Impala for balance. Sam’s hand found your knee, grounding you both. Dean’s confession was shaking him just as much as it was breaking you.

“I lost count,” Dean whispered. “I lost count of how many souls. The things I did to them…” He sniffed, dragging a hand harshly across his face. Tears streaked down his cheeks anyway.

“Dean, you held out for thirty years,” Sam said, his voice thick with tears.

“And that’s longer than anyone would have,” you managed, though your own voice cracked.

Dean’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his shoulders trembling. “How I feel now… this—inside me—” His voice broke. “I wish I couldn’t feel anything. I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing.”

The words hung heavy in the evening air, echoing into the silence that followed. Sam looked stricken, his mouth opening like he wanted to speak but nothing came.

You stared at Dean, your vision blurred with tears. His face was turned away, but his whole frame shook with the effort of holding himself together.

For the first time since he came back, Dean W didn’t look like the man who could take on the world. He looked broken. And the only thing louder than the silence was the sound of his ragged breathing.