Supernatural: Percy Jackson AU

Lazarus Rising: Chapter Sample

"I hope you know what you have done young one. The world, and all of our lives are now in his hands. Let us hope your faith has not been misplaced."

"Trust me. He will be the one to save us. It has been foreseen. God would not make a mistake like this. Surely you must see this as well..."

"It has also been foretold he could be the one to end us. I will personally watch over him with you. I cannot trust the Fates, faith, or even God in this matter. He is a human. I know better than any of your kin what that entails. He has flaws and is unpredictable. That is dangerous to our cause. Keep him under control Castiel. Otherwise I will."

"...Understood."

Dean Winchester is saved...

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Flashes of red and black burst into his vision. The harrowing screams of those in damnation made his spine shiver. He could feel the chains digging into his skin as they pulled him apart, searing and shredding his muscles fiber by excruciating fiber. His chest heaved up and down as he fought the panic claiming his palpitating heart. At least what was left of it.

Then darkness.

Immediately afterward, it started up again: the visions and haunting high pitched screams, many of them his own. Flashes, very brief, but still paralyzing just the same.

Then another brief moment of consuming darkness and silence followed by more red, more blood, and more pain. The sounds, the screeches of the unnatural; the supernatural. All of it came back again. It never stopped, even in the darkness.

The intervals between flashbacks and darkness decreased, becoming a flickering nightmare of reality. His wide eyes wavered and looked frantically from side to side. The whites were all too visible as bright lights and horrifying shadows reflected across his irises. Then the red bled out into a blinding white that overpowered his mind and pain.

Then nothing.

A painful breath entered his lungs as he gasped. He gulped for air, amazed he could even breathe at all. What is this? Another illusion? He felt around, trying to get his bearings. If this was another illusion cast by Hell, he'd be prepared. He flopped his hand around before his fingers brushed against something cool. He wrapped his hand around the frigid metal. It was small and square with a little flap. A lighter. He positioned his stiff thumb to the edge of the metal, frantically flipping the flap open, hoping to create a spark. His first try was futile but he wouldn't relent. He stroked his thumb against the metal again, this time creating a tiny spark. A gasp left his lips as he created light. It was brief, but it would end this darkness of his. He tried once more, eager to see true light once again.

A tiny flame burst forth from the metal and he scrambled slightly, taken aback. He let out a heavy breath of relief. He started panting as he took in his surroundings. It was very small and confining, just barely bigger than his broad frame. His panting increased into stranded, fearful breathing as he recognized the shape he was inside. A coffin. He took in the pine wood above his head with confusion. The dark brown wood smelled dank and molded. What he couldn't understand was why he was even in a coffin. He looked at in alarm as he tried to move his body more.

"Help!" he croaked as his sore and raw throat  agonizingly constricted. He winced slightly, not only the pain but from how horrible he sounded. He started coughing softly from the strain.

"Help!" he cried out, straining his vocal chords for more volume. The flame flickered down by his thighs as he started panicking again. With determination, he began to slam the palm of his hand against the wooden boards. It took everything just to move his arm with that much force, he was that weak. He slammed two more times against the planks before dirt assaulted his eyes. He recoiled as his eyes instinctively shut and began to blink the dirt away. His breathing began to slow down as his brain processed the fact he seemed to be buried. Alive. He didn't know which was more haunting; the fact that he was buried, or the simple fact that he was alive.