AFTER THE RITUAL: Dean/Jules
Dean knew what it felt like to be pulled out of Hell. Granted, last time, he hadn’t really known what was happening, hardly remembered it when he thought about it, but when it happened again for the first time, he knew. He was pulled out of the pit, out of the cage, and plunked down on the grass, greeted by familiar faces, and he was relieved, had reached out for them and laughed and said something, he couldn’t remember what he’d said anymore but he’d said something and someone had laughed and Juliet was crying and clinging to him, and it was good to be home. He went home, and he adjusted, or he tried to, and then things started to degrade, and the thought maybe this was his fault, he should try harder, he wasn’t coping well enough, and then Ben told him he wished he’d never come back, and Juliet tore his heart out, and he was back in the cage, a new day a new torment, a new, confusing memory to reconcile. It wasn’t real.
The next time would be. He would get out.
The first six times, it wasn’t real. The first three times, he was completely fooled, thought this is it, this time it really is- and then it wasn’t. The fourth time he was wary, a creeping, sinking dread filling him the moment he saw his friends and family, but he still hoped, he still went home and he was still, somehow, surprised when his heart was ripped from his chest. The fith and sixth, he refused to believe at all. He knew better. Fifth was yelling at them to stay back, inevitably being torn open by Sam, this time. Sixth, he was silent, and just let it happen. The sooner it was over, the sooner he could get back to not thinking about getting out.
The seventh time, he had already given up on it ever being real. He had given up; this was always going to be a trick, and it was always going to be Hell. When he landed on the grass in Stull cemetery, this time, he didn’t feel relief, and he didn’t even feel the dread of the last few times. He just felt tired. This would be over, he would “die” and then he would be back, eventually. Maybe in a year, maybe in five, ten, thirty, fifty. Eternity was a long time - he could be here another thousand times, before everything spun itself into oblivion.
He stared at the patches of grass visible beneath the snow, where he had displaced it. He said nothing, and he waited - someone would reach for him, someone would lead him home, and that someone would probably be the one to rip out his heart. He knew that. He couldn’t stop it, and he didn’t want to waste the energy to try.