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As it turned out, Hell was a lot like prison: you got one phone call a day.
Dean, of course, didn’t figure this out until day thirty-four sometime in between getting force fed his own foot and having the skin slowly peeled from his body. The maintainers of Hell are required by the treaty of 39762AD to inform any prisoner of this fact daily. However most people are screaming far too loud to hear (the treaty did not specify how loudly the prisoner should be told.)
So on the thirty-fifth day, Dean politely asked for a phone so he could call his brother. He dialed with shaking, broken fingers, smearing blood all over the numbers. He waited breathlessly for a moment and then Sam picked up the phone. It was the first time Dean had heard his brother’s voice in more then a month and honestly this was not the greeting he’d expected: “This really isn’t funny.”
“Sam,” Dean croaked. “Sam, it’s me. It’s Dean.”
“Mark my words,” Sam growled. “I will hunt you down and I will kill you. Human or not, I swear I’m going to kill you.” He slammed the phone shut and after a second to leave Dean staring at the phone.
He wasn’t pissed too long because a demon stopped by and scooped his eyeballs out with a spoon. He screamed and screamed until they came back and took his tongue too. It was all right thought. In Hell, they grow back. (Of course that just meant someone could rip them out again.)
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Dean called again the next day to the same reception.
“If you’re another fucking crocotta,” Sam said, “you should know I wasted one of you a few months ago. You’re not going to get my soul.”
“Why the hell would I want your soul?” Dean asked.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Not much about Hell is.”
There was a little hesitation in his voice before Sam finally said, “You’re not Dean. Dean’s dead.”
Dial tone.
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The third day when Dean called, a Demon lit him on fire before he could get the first word out and he screamed into the phone for the next two minutes or until the phone melted. Dean really couldn’t tell since he was, you know, on fire.
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The forth day when Dean called, Sam didn’t answer and the phone just rang and rang and rang and Dean thought that was worse then being set on fire.
And then they set him on fire again and Dean reconsidered.
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On the fifth day Sam answered sounding tired and hung over and Dean said, “Sammy, you sure as hell better be taking care of my car.”
Sam laughed. He actually laughed and Dean felt that little bead of hope building dangerously in his chest. “You’re not my brother,” he said, but at least his voice was light. “If my brother found a way to dial out of hell, he’d probably try to get phone sex instead of call me.”
Dial tone.
Dean blinked because if Sam’s not going to be convinced, that was probably the much more pleasant option
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So on day six he called Lisa but got Ben on the phone. Dean could hear the smile in the boy’s voice when he said, “Dean! My birthday’s coming up again are you going to come this year.”
Dean swallowed, trying of a way to say no that didn’t sound like, Sorry kid, I can’t because I’m dead. “Sorry kiddo, not going to make it this year.”
“Oh,” Ben said, momentarily forlorn, but he recovered quickly and before Dean could say anything else, he was off jabbering about monsters and hunting at high speed. “And when I get older, can I road trip with you and your brother? Please? I’ll be good! Dakota’s daddy’s going to teach me how to shoot and everything—“
“Ben, buddy. I don’t think that’s something you’re going to want to do. Hunting takes you to some pretty bad places.”
“Really?” Ben asked. “Where are you now?”
Dean glanced around the baron landscape. “I’m in hell,” he said finally. “Hey is you’re mom around?”
And then Dean’s time was up. He could tell because suddenly there were meat hooks. He really fucking hated meat hooks.
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On the seventh day, he tried Cassie and ended up getting bitched out by who Dean could only assume was her current boyfriend. After that he was slowly cut to pieces by a demon who looked like Sam, but wasn’t Sam. They must like fucking with his head. Dean didn’t know why that surprised him. He was in Hell after all.
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The eight day, Dean called Sam again. His brother picked up but didn’t say anything. He just breathed heavily into the phone for a long moment. Dean said, “Apparently there’s no phone sex in Hell.”
Then he hung up. He was sick and fucking tired of being on the wrong end of that dial tone.
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On the ninth day when Dean called, Sam was drunk. Dean could tell it from the first word—all that self righteous, condescending little brother talk just oozed off of every word. “I’m going insane,” he said.
“You really are an incredible lightweight. If I find out you were drinking appletinis, I swear to God I’m dragging you down here with me.”
“Hellhounds,” Sam muttered. “There were a deal made. You was stupid and sold your soul.”
“If you puke on my car,” Dean promised, “I will find a way to kill you.”
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Dean called Bobby on the tenth day and told him to kick some sense into his brother. Bobby, rather bewildered, muttered something about how he must be dreaming and Dean screamed in frustration.
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Dean didn’t call on days eleven, twelve or thirteen because he’s busy being filleted, buried alive and forced to listen to that emo-shit Sam likes. Oh, and then they gave him decaf coffee. So, by the time he pulled himself together (harder then you might think considering he was in more then a few pieces) and got to the phone, he was already pissed off beyond belief.
So when Sammy answered the phone and said, “Hey, I forget. How exactly are you supposed to kill a black dog?” Dean saw red (which wasn’t as common a color as you might think in Hell. On the whole, it was actually rather green.)
“Sammy,” he said slowly. “I’m standing here on broken legs holding my own entrails and you’re asking me how to kill a black dog?”
“Well, you’re not really Dean, but if you want to pretend, hell, I’ll pretend.”
“QUIT PRETENDING AND FIND A WAY TO GET ME THE FUCK OUT!!”
Sam made a sound that was half sob, half laugh and Dean felt the guilt swim over him. He never could stomach Sam’s misery. He took a deep breath, glanced down at the pile of entrails in his hands and said, “You can kill a black dog using rod iron rounds. That should work, but if it doesn’t try silver bullets doused in holy water.”
“Thanks,” Sam said and then paused for a minute. “You know, I miss him.”
“You miss me.”
“I miss Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean said finally. “You and me. We’re not talking again until you stop being such a bitch about this.”
He hung up in a huff and dropped his entrails in a mess on the floor. Unfortunately the floor turned out to be made of acid and that hurt just as much as it sounded.
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Days fourteen to thirty-one are all variations on the same conversation:
“Hey. It’s me.”
“No, it’s not.”
“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SAMMY, GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS AND GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.”
“Stop pretending you’re Dean.”
Dial tone.
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On the thirty-second day when Dean called, Sam answered the first and said, “Dean?”
“About fucking time,” Dean said.
“Since when are there phones in Hell?”
Dean started to laugh hysterically. He only recovered when a demon prodded him in the ass with a pitchfork. “Since always, I guess,” Dean replied. “Most people are screaming too much to take advantage.”
Silence.
“So,” Sam said awkwardly. “How you been?”
Sometimes, Dean really wanted to strangle his brother. “In Hell. How the fuck do you think I’ve been?”