The air was crisp and still in Pontiac on the warm September morning that Dean Winchester dug himself out a shallow, unmarked grave, and into the light of a rising sun. Confused, exhausted, disoriented he staggered to his feet. Blearily he tried to take in his surroundings despite his eyes tearing, and his irises contracted against the harshness of the light after the dark of his...his grave. The realization crept darkly into his mind, like a cold shadowy thing, skulking upon him, and bringing with it a shapeless dread he could quite put a name to.
He stood. He breathed. He blinked. Slowly, too slowly, his eyes and mind began to clear. Memories, or something like them, began to take hold, to solidify into small islands floating freely in the expanse of dark empty space that still made up most of his psyche.
pain
fear...hopelessness
pain, Oh my god, the pain!
Hellhound...a hellhound!
growling, biting, tearing
his flesh, his body tearing...his blood spilling...his voice screaming
He pressed his palms to closed eyes as if the pressure could force the flashes and snippets together, like trying to squeeze scraps of clay into a ball.
barking, snarling, laughter
Lilith's laughter
Lilith laughing as he died...Lilith laughing as he twisted in anguish on the rack...Lilith's god damned gleefull, childish laughter as he...as his...his blade, cut...cut into...into...
"NO!" his brain screamed, so loud he was almost certain he could hear it outside of his head. His eyes flew open and he spun, frantically scanning his surroundings, twisting and darting his eyes to take in all angles.
Everything was still, save for his own ragged breathing and the pounding of his newly beating heart. He wiped the mixture of tears and grime...dirt...dirt from...his grave away from his adjusting eyes.
"Get a grip, Winchester." he rasped. Yes, that was it, Winchester, Dean. He was Dean Winchester. "Get a grip, Dean." he attempted, but his throat, too dry, too raw, like his slowly congealing mind, wouldn't allow it.
OK, OK, OK, he tried to calm himself. A single breath, as deep as he was able, forced ints way into his tortured lungs. Ok, now think.
Winchester
Mary
Mom
...Mom carrying him up the stairs...
John
Dad
...strong arms around him...safety...
...fear...urgency...something shoved into his arms..."Go! Now! Don't look back!"
He hadn't, not ever, not once since that night.
...a weight in his arms...
...a shadow over a bed...
...tears on a Christmas Eve...
...a shy voice, asking about girls...
...a surprising voice, saying his name...
...a fire...a shattered mirror...a dark orchard...
...an orchard...something lost... something important
But he'd found it, in an orchard...a barn...a crumbling house...a motel room...
Over and over, finding something lost, something important, something precious...
...a dirt road...on his knees...a weight in his arms...blood, blood on his hands...
"It's not even that bad."
"You're gonna be good as new."
"I'm gonna take care of you."
"...my pain in the ass little brother."
"No! No, no, no, no, no, oh god no!"
"SAM!"
A sharp, pointed focus stabbed through the swirling wisps of thoughts that were performing their twisting, drifting dance in his mind, brushing them aside and sending them careening off into a whole new chaos. The point, the one thought crystalized at the center, obscuring everything else with its own burning brilliance.
Sam, he had to find Sam.