Chapter Text
Lah te-keed an-neesh—the first language echoed, all hard angles and missing vowels, beading and sliding from his consciousness like water off oil.
—Nahm tee-bee noon-kwahm no-kay-boh —
—Soo gar ees-tha, kai ee, kai a-ee es-ee ee ah-lee-thee-nee ev-dai-mo-nee-ah moo —
—Ray-vay-twa, zhuh tahn soo-plee—
The words overlapped like ripples in a well, with no way of telling where one phrase stopped and another began.
—Ah-nee mek-ah-veh she-nip-gash shoov—
— Byeh hai-pa, wuo shr peng-yo —
—Man shoma ra baraye baghimandeh az vojood-e moshtarak-e ma doost khaham dasht —
“—Be not afraid,” Dean rather felt than heard himself say, cracked lips opening and closing in a fight for breaths, biting ferally at the moisture and dirt. “Bee not…” His eyelids flickered and trembled, eyes fleeing in vain from blazingly cold, ever-present blue flames.
“Uh-frayd…”
Pain gnawed at the hunter’s thrashing body, legs banging against solid wood as his hands gouged the moss. His eyes. His ears, his throat—anything in his vicinity that could be cleansed, cleaved, peeled and bitten off before the hounds find him. Rapid splinters, sometimes even his own hair and skin dug deep beneath his nails, filling his being with needle-like, metallic bile. The sensation shamefully teased him, inebriated him. Sweet, salty, rich and maddening all at once, its trickling grace grazing him for once inside and out.
And I should feel terrible, Dean thought. Sammy would never forgive me. Bobby and Ash, dad… mom and Cassie, Jo and Ellen. All of them would gladly condemn him for enjoying it, savouring blood like candy, even if it should never—
—BE NOT AFRAID!
Dean heard his inner voice roar with a flash of celestial light, calm yet insistent. Desperate. His palm splayed over his shoulder without him moving it, burning sensation magnifying in a teeth-grinding brand. Be not afraid. His mind repeated the mantra amidst the screams, going through what could only be described as a reverse-fall in his sleep.
Air flooded his lungs in one giant gulp, hands instinctively reaching under his head and never finding a gun. Shit. The hunter in him wracked and turned around for solutions, patting his waistband and pockets to find a knife, a phone or something he could use to fight or call for help. Unfortunately, he stumbled only onto his father’s lighter, whose light did nothing to lessen his anxiety.
Lumber, grime, bog—a grave. His grave, he realised, needy chest scalding and begging for oxygen. Fuck.
“He–e–lp,” Dean rasped, fingers twinkling and tickling with crimson that quickly switched to azure and then to his own skin. His throat itched as if he swallowed gravel. “HEEE-eee-LP!” He tried one more time, more and more certain that he was enclosed and completely alone. Scratching, bashing like the wild beasts he hunted. Said hunting experience commanded him to scream further, since there always could be someone to find him, yet a childish part of his brain knew it was futile.
Everyone waits for me to save them, not the other way around.
“HELP!” Dean yelped helplessly, watching light bounce off the sanded timber. Nothing. Not a hitch besides his echoing gasps. Come on. He pushed the wood above him, banging at it with his fists. His boots, his elbows, anything that would not immediately break if push came to shove. It did not budge. Come on now, move, you stupid sonofabi—
With a loud grunt and fresh soil on his lips, his coffin soon gave way against his forehead with a loud thud. Pungent, dry grass scratched at his nostrils, and the last bits of survival forced him to push himself up.
Unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome wind slapped against his wrists; he felt the solid ground under his fingertips. He was out. The first hungry breath afterward made him happier and more relieved than anytime his father returned from hunts. That screaming tension on his back and forearms embraced him warmer than any memories of his long-deseased mother. Handful after handful, Dean Winchester pulled himself farther out of his burial, soon collapsing onto his back with a shaky exhale.
I’m alive…?
Surrounded by charred ground and fallen, withered trees, his spidey sense tickled when only the lawn under his makeshift cross shone a fricking baja blast turquoise.
For a while, Dean wandered around the deflourishing forest, mind spinning with the possibilities of what in the ever-loving-fuck happened to him. He should have been dead; should have been in Hell. Paying for a deal he chose to strike for his baby brother.
Soon, asphalt swapped out mud as the hunter’s inner up-the-ass compass led him to an abandoned crossroad(ha!), a gas station and some clunker. Atrophied legs carried him towards the duo, and the older Winchester almost jumped at the happy discovery of both being abandoned. The soreness and common sense held him back, though, for once.
“Hello?” Dean whimpered around his thirst, fist wrapping in the fabric of his jacket—somehow, no longer patched— the instant the ‘ready or not, here I come’ countdown reached zero. With a crackle of the front door and watery eyes, he lurched at the closest refrigerator, almost hugging it as nearly holy water blessed his sandpapery tongue. One bottle, two, three, he drank and drank until he could not force any more down.
SEPTEMBER 18TH, 2008
The date on the closest newspaper read, mocking his four months of absence. Splash after splash, the young man leaned against the rugged sink, heaving from the unquestionable proof that he was still somehow kicking. The billion dollar question being: how?
The unforgettable “Colgate” miasma of hellhounds could not have been just his fever dream. Lilith possessing Ruby, defenseless Sammy right across from him remained etched into his subconscious, and Dean could have sworn he remembered the snap of each of his arteries in chronological order before the lights went out.
The hunter lifted his miraculously intact t-shirt, both relieved and alarmed to witness his anti-possession tattoo and abs in the foggy mirror. What’s more, is that there was no scarring, even. Not a scratch besides the subtle, quivering teal shine along his skin, stitching his flesh in long, serpentine veins towards his forearm. Suffice to say that touching the epicentre was not his best idea, and lifting the plain black sleeve only nailed him to the ground further.
A broad, scorchingly maroon handprint sprawled against his arm, flaunting possessiveness like some “who wants to be a millionaire?” medal. Or, simply put, hickey. What is it with supernatural and marking?
Supplying basic provision(water and protein bars), cash and entertainment(Dean could damn see the judging Sammy eyerollTM the moment he shoved “Busty Asian Beauties” in the plastic bag), he nigh hit the ceiling when the TV sprung to life, blueish static flickering its eerie welcome.
“No thank you,” the hunter joked, turning the device off only to hear the radio come alive with scratchy blues. Crap-fucking-tastic. He darted around the shop, suddenly very grateful that the previous owners were no low-sodium freaks. However, salting the doors did not have the desired effect, since the annoying, ear-bleeding ring grew only louder and louder, to the point where he barely registered his own thoughts.
His vision swam with blue-gray flashes as he knelt, windows around him immediately exploding with the might of a grenade-launcher. Dean curled and rolled around the grimy floor, ran, fell and rolled anew, clutching salt like a lifeline; begging, whatever forces existed to let him live.
And the sound dissipated, leaving almost as harmlessly as it had appeared.
Afterwards, calling both Sam and Bobby went just as expected, the latter cursing him out on the first and threatening to murder him on the third call. His bitch brother’s number was out of service. Inside the phone booth, the hunter sighed, already missing his Baby as he glanced the dusty clunker over. Thankfully, it still contained all the important carjacking wires, but the perspective of driving this monstrosity for hours did not stir any joy.
— — —
“Surprise,” Dean grinned hopefully at his adoptive father, both happy and sad to see the old man stumble backwards, mouth agape.
“I… don’t…”
What, believe it? the younger hunter thought-finished, smirking before finally entering the house. “Me neither.” He spread arms wide for both an embrace and hopeless acceptance. “Yet here I fucking am, eh?”
With a pretty convincing con-face Bobby rushed closer, smiling gently before lunging at him with an easily parryable knife(though truth be told, the upper cut he received was a future him problem!).
“BOBBY!” Dean shouted, both understanding and hurt as he evaded the attack. “IT’S ME!! Please—”
“—MY ASS!” The older man interrupted, marching towards him with the silver blade raised high. “Shifting into him, of all people, it’s low even for—”
“—WAIT!” the protege begged, shoving a chair between them, one hand raised in defence. “Your name’s Robert Steven Singer, you became a hunter after your wife got possessed, you’re about the closest thing I have to a father.” Wetness formed in his blurred, spearmint-tinted vision, emotions cracking the ever-stoic shell. “I’m me…” Dean grasped at his chest, suddenly aware that his hand glowed the same pale blue. “It’s really me, Bobby…”
Decisively, the bearded elder shoved the seat aside, tentative hand reaching towards the unmarked shoulder. They exchanged what seemed to be the happy looks of recognition, only for his guardian to attempt another slash at his eyes.
“I’m not a shape-shifter, either,” Dean grunted, overpowering him in a secure chokehold.
“Then you’re a revenant!” Bobby struggled, only to be let go after the weapon was wrestled away.
“If I were either, would I be able to do this with a silver knife?!” He argued, taking a solid slice above his elbow, scarlet liquid flashing with arctic hues. Again.
Thankfully, the older hunter did not notice the wound healing, his own blinkers teary and crinkled from a disbelieving smile. “Dean…?”
The younger man stepped closer, raising his arms in an unnecessary truce. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell ya?”
Soon, a strong stench of alcohol bombarded his nostrils as a solid beer belly slammed against his torso, desperation clinging into the scruff of his neck. “It’s…” Dean heard his caretaker snivel, his jacket getting wetter and colder with each light pat on the other’s back. “It’s so good to see you, my boy.”
“You too, da-” He caught himself on the word, choking out a bleak “damn it” as a cover up.
“But...” Bobby broke the hug, feeling every inch of his cheeks and forehead for marks or injuries, “How did ya… bust out?”
“Dunno…” he brushed the gentleness off, throwing the damn knife in the yee-chair’s direction. “Just woke up in my coffin, nicely tastin’ dirt, and—” The by now familiar splash of freezing holy water shut him up, ridiculing his once-in-fucking-never chick-flick. “Not a demon either, y’know.” Dean sighed, spewing what got into his mouth out on the knock-off Persian.
“Can’t be too careful.”
After retelling the picturesque, though actually boring story of how he somehow never became a thriller-video reject, the younger hunter was anything but happy to hear that his friend had abandoned Sam to fate. The fact that he let their shared responsibility vanish and did not take care of him while Dean rotted in the ground… forced the room’s image to swim in damn blue stars.
“These last months haven’t been exactly easy, boy, for him or me!” Bobby growled, nodding towards the small mountain of bottles collected at his desk. “We had to BURY you.”
“Why exactly did you?” Without a slab or a name to mark him, the hunter felt like a dirty nuisance. An uncharred, filthy motherfucker that awoke this morning all scarred, marked and dandy, like some trashy melodrama Jesus.
Full of despair and adrenaline, his father figure plopped onto his chair with a loud thud, cupping his hollowed checkbones. “Don’t blame me, son. I wanted to salt n’ burn ya like usual, but Sam wouldn’t have it.”
The younger hunter considered his words carefully, nodding along the plain explanation at best. “Well, glad he argued you outta that one, but—”
“—He said you’d need a body when he gotcha back six feet above, somehow. That’s about all.”
Dean squinted, brain short-circuiting at the implications. “Meaning?”
“It’s real quiet out there, boy.” The older man flicked his fingers absentmindedly, gaze focused and unwavering on the ancient, minty throw-up wallpaper despite the younger man’s staring. “Sammy took off without ever returnin’ my calls—Lord knows that child don’t wanna be found even if I tried to, and I did.”
Worried fingers splayed over his eye sockets, tongue squirming under the intentional pressure of teeth. “Damn it, Sammy…” He kicked the closest table leg beside him, recoiling at the familiarity of an unforgiving sting. “SHIT!”
“What?”
“Whatever Sammy did to bring me back ain’t no ordinary mojo.” Dean said, hurriedly explaining at the sight of Bobby’s quizzical brow. “Ya shoulda seen the gravesite: ‘s like a cotton candy nuke went off there…Then also that—that presence at the Philip Joint.” Sudden realisation struck him as he reached for the jacket sleeve, pulling it off in a hurried fashion. “The healing…” He flashed the spot he gashed previously, the wound now reduced to a neat, white scar. “And this.”
If I had a nickel every time I made him shocked or terrified, the Winchester mused grimly, I’d have two nickels today. Ain’t a lot, per se, but it’s weird that it happened twice in what… half an hour?
“Looks like some demon has yanked me sorry ass out… or torpedoed me out.” Dean concluded sarcastically before covering back up.
“But…why?”
“To hold up their end of a bargain, probably.”
Bobby’s eyes widened to the size of dining pie-plates. “You think our Sammy made a deal?!”
“That's what I woulda done.” The younger hunter reasoned.
Thankfully it did not take long for his bullshitting talents to pave a way through a telecompany call. Sammy might be the smarter, but not the most changeable of us, he mused, claiming the GPS of the infamous hairy princess as his prize. At this point, knowing his kid like the back of his palm was as ordinary as normies remembering every family member’s birthdays. old habits died hard, as the saying went.
“Sam’s in Pontiac, Illinois.” Dean offered after a quick search up, grateful to have some well-functioning communication technology for once.
“Right where you were buried…huh.”
“N’ right where I popped up—hell of a coincidence, dontcha think?”
The brain-numbing drive there couldn’t have lasted any longer, with the Winchester practically barging into the only hotel room to have “a giant” resident (God bless our mother and genetics for making him into a walking, easily identifiable moose!). However, the door revealed only the face of some shmancy brunette… And her loud demands of pizza almost made him chicken out and skedaddle. Almost.
His brother appeared at the doorway in rays of cherry (definitively non-pg) lighting, some girly pop-crap hollering in the background of their staredown fight. It was a usual deal for them, often accompanied by jerky/bitchy comments, but once-in-a-blue-moon, a plain “Hey, Sammy!” was enough.
The wall of muscles lunged at him immediately.
Two blades were drawn amidst the chick’s shrills, with their adoptive father having the last wise bone to break them apart like kittens. “It’s him, damn you!” The bearded elder fought the massive 6’4’’ hulk. “I WENT THROUGH ALL OF IT, SAMMY, IT’S REALLY HIM!”
“Yeah, don’t I look adorable?” Dean joked briefly before drowning in another rib-crushing hug of the day. But it was worth it. Worth every snotty splotch, every night in juvie, and John’s “unmanly pussy” accusations, so long as his baby brother is alright and not freaking out. Alive…
Shortly after, they quite gentlemanly(if ignoring Bobby’s loudly silent judgement) pushed the what’s-her-name out, the heart-adorned door slamming with a deliberate, gravely thud.
“So,” the older brother started, arms folded on his chest, foot tapping expectantly. He didn’t know what to say. How…? For some reason, getting on with it was much harder than he had imagined. “Gon’ tell me what it cost you?”
Mr. Loreal’s dream chuckled lightly, plopping down on a suspiciously stained loveseat. “Cute.” He bent forward, hands reaching for his shabby shoelaces. “But I don’t pay for girls here, thankfully.”
“Fucking overjoyed for you, casanova al diablo.” Dean kicked his foot insistently, leaving a solid blotch of dirt in his wake. Sam ignored both digs completely. “Was it just your soul, or did ya splurge on something ‘sides a ‘minted coin’ for that blonde bitch?”
His brother raised his brow, face tightening in a bitchy “You sure ain’t smelling toast?” expression. “You think I made a deal?”
“That’s exactly what we think.” Bobby supplied helpfully, voicing the unspoken things straight.
Sammy’s mouth hung open for a second before he spoke: “Which’s awfully nice of you, but I didn’t.” He shrugged innocently, bending down to resume tying his 45th size booties. Only by then hiding his red-rimmed eyes was, if anything, a bit too late.
“Bull.” The older brother pushed off the wall, the fire in his stomach compelling him to push the point even further. “Now I’m off the hook n’ you’re on, like some demon’s bitch-boy, is that it? I never wanted to be saved like this, you dumb—”
“—I wish I had done it, Dean, ‘lright?”
The hunter fisted both hands in his brother’s lapels, cinching the fabric tight as the attempt to yank him forward failed. “There’s no other way this could’ve gone down, now tell me the truth or I swear to mom I—!”
“—I did all you can think of, that’s the truth.” Sam shouted, easily slipping out of the hold. “I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would fucking deal my chips!” His chest heaved with undeclared emotions, an accusing finger jabbed into the other’s chest. “You rotted in hell for months, and I couldn’t stop it. So for-fucking-give me that it ain’t been me, okay? I’m truly sorry.”
“…’s fine, Sammy, I believe ya.” The older brother replied, suddenly regretting causing his brother’s tears. “No need to justify or apologise.” He stressed, patting that silky mop for good measure. “We’re good.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” their adoptive father mused, wisely herding them both to take a seat. “I’m shitting overjoyed rainbows knowing Sam’s soul remains intact… but that does leave us a rather sticky question.” If he didn’t pull me out, then what did?
After that, their convo gained its usual investigative undertones, with poor Sammy revealing he drowned for months in lacy bras and apparent grief. Yes, the usual 40-day-return deal had already passed, but come on now, that ain’t healthy. The same way Tennessee demons don’t just move towns on a not-so-random Thursday he busted out.
“How are you feelin’, anyway?” Bobby wondered, the familiarly affectionate “yaidjit” following as soon as Dean mentioned being hungry. “Anything strange, or different, or—”
“—or demonic?” Dean snickered at the older man’s impassiveness, "How many times do I have to prove I’m me?”
“Well, no demon lets ya loose from the goodness of their heart, so…”
“... So we’ve got a pile of questions n’ no shovel.” Sammy supplied with his signature forwardness, reaching under the collar of his sweaty tee.
“Well…” the older man took his phone out, flicking through his contacts. “I know a psychic а few hours from here—she could’ve heard the other side talking.” The door swung shut before he even heard the brotherly duo agree or follow.
With that, the taller Winchester rose from his seat, passing the dingy amulet to its rightful owner(making him also truly happy in the process). “Hey Dean…” he tarried, scraping his fingernails in a usual nervous tic. “Can you tell me somethin’?”
“Shoot.”
Sam gulped audibly. “What… what was it like?”
“What, hell?” Sometimes maybe warm, sometimes maybe bloody—0,5 Ibiza and 5 “fuck my life” stars out of five. “Dunno, honestly. Must have blanked most of it out after masquerading for a hell hounds’ chew toy.” He shook his head as he put the necklace on. “Don’t recall a damn thing, bud.”
“Well, thank God for that.” His brother quipped, locking gazes in search of reassurance he might never provide again.
For he remembered everything, down to the last, minute detail. The gasps of an Alabama cheerleader, whose scalp he pulled over a football for doing the deed with her quarterback brother. The velvety tux of a “peacemaker” as he shoved gold bars in all of the holes, relishing the crunch of blindingly white enamel. The melody of desperate prayers. He still felt goosebumps at the view of that teenage mother, her drowned twins consuming and ravishing her breasts. Of her son around Ben’s age, who each time just stood and watched. And Bella… Poor Bella, whom he forced to watch her abusive parents’ pleas over and over, each time finding a more elaborate way to make them squeal.
“Yeah…”