Supernatural Imagines

The Pit

Crawling from your coffin had been a blur of wooden shrapnel and roots catching underneath your nails as you scratched your way through the Earth's crust, the dirt between your fingers suspiciously gentle after the literal Hell you had endured for... who knew how long. You choked on streams of dirt as they fell, your body pushing towards one of two options; the long-forgotten sky or another prison cell, complete with torturer and tally-marks carved into the stone. You couldn't count how many times you'd fallen for this charade of freedom, the hope bubbling in your throat as you cried out for your liberation, your eyes blinking the grime from your vision as you clawed and dug your way to safety... only to end up exactly where you had been before, in exactly the same room, with exactly the same warden. You would wind up exactly where you'd been trying to escape from, time after time... but you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps this time, it was legitimate. You reached through another system of roots, your fingertips breaking the earthen surface to brush against blades of grass. You pulled yourself upward, your arms thrashing about to create a hole your body could squeeze through, the summer sun burning brightly into your scalp brightly. This was farther than you'd ever achieved; the warmth was tangible, delectable even, against your skin, your face angling to meet the scorching rays of sunlight, your shoulder free of your grave. Perhaps, this time, your ascent was real. The light was blinding, a brilliant white gleaming against your overly sensitive eyes; after being trapped within a damp cell, even a match would send you reeling. All you had known for the past eternity was a leaking ceiling and a grimy floor pocketed with puddles of unknown liquids, hidden somewhere deep below the surface with only your thoughts for company... and Sam.

He was Sam in every physical sense; his hair was the proper length, his hazel eyes sparkled just so in the darkness, his jawline was sharp against his skin and painted with stubble... but in every other sense, it wasn't your Sam. He was to be your assigned form of torture; whoever thought having your boyfriend stroll into your cell every day, spewing words of kindness, of care, whispering of escape only to chain you to the wall, was a genius to be feared and loathed by all. It was always the same, yet each passing day... or hour, or year, you couldn't tell, the lovely imposter would join you inside your miniature prison, slashing and whipping and screaming you to a bloody, immobile pulp. Oftentimes, his words stung more than his blade, but no matter the injuries you sustained from the walking incarnation of your worst nightmare, you had but to blink to find that you were perfectly intact, and the torture would begin again. Sam would saunter through the open door as if he had never glimpsed the inside of your cell, rushing to your side, asking you if you'd been hurt, his hands ghosting over your shoulders, cradling your cheekbones, his eyes sparkling with a falsified concern for your well-being. Something inside of you would pray for reality as you watched the ink spread outward from his pupils to conceal the kindness so common in Sam's eyes, a sinister grin shaping his face in ways you had never seen on your boyfriend, his chest heaving with malicious laughter. There was an untapped fury glinting in those obsidian eyes each time they were reintroduced to you; it was as if your torturers were rotated, allowed rest and relaxation between shifts so as to return bright-eyes and ready to torment you to the best of their ability. They never tired, they never slowed, and the flow of Sam Winchester through your cell door never ceased to trickle in. Your Hell was designed to break you in the worst way imaginable; your Hell was designed to morph every memory until all you had known as fact was made questionable.

Your mind was lost in caution as you stumbled away from your open grave, your thoughts jumbled as you pinpointed possible hiding places, your eyes scanning every shrub and shadow, searching wildly for the form you knew awaited you. You were so preoccupied in your restless search that you barely focused on your movements, the walk from your resting place but a careless smudge on the film running through your brain. You couldn't remember hitching a ride, nor could you recall the face of the driver, the make or model of the vehicle you all but threw yourself into, or the twists in the road the car followed. You figured you must have walked to Singer's Auto, after many a minute racking your brain for snippets of small talk with a driver you deemed imaginary, your legs blissfully sore from the freedom of moving more than ten feet in one direction. You ran your palms over your thighs as you moved, relishing in the smoothness of your skin beneath the denim you'd been buried in, the lack of scarring or bruising coming as a hopeful reminder that this journey was real. You strode past the sunken, rusted shells of automobiles, your eyes flitting to passenger seats, the torn upholstery visible through the shade, threats vanishing before your eyes. You were safe... or safer than you had been, at the least. You had to focus on the next step in securing your safety, a step that laid in view, the chipping paint of Bobby Singer's door glowing like a beacon as it harvested sunlight. You had grown accustomed to the dank nothingness of Hell, dark stones and murky water and the deep crimson of your blood against Sam's pale skin, his dark eyes wild with rage. Your normal was nothing like the brightness of the ramshackle building, all blue paint and dirty windows. You were never one for entrances, nor were you keen on being surrounded by possible torturers. It was best to let yourself in. You picked his lock with the mechanism the boys had been thoughtful enough to bury you with. Classless, but necessary.