That voice is enough to make Dean forget where he is. It's not hell, but it's somewhere like it, the air too close, the fire not only on his skin but down his throat, in his lungs. He's stretched wide but stoppered up, can feel the darkness inside him but can't get it out.

It's too much. He longed for hell and got its shadow, and that's enough. He can't take much more.

Dean parts his blood smeared lips and croaks, "Red."