Writing's on the Wall Destiel

Chapter 2

Dean came to in the darkness. Natural order set in and he began to panic, pounding the dark. The fact that his fists felt wood did nothing to help. "Somebody help me!"

He banged on the wood a couple times more before he fell back in exhaustion. His father's words came back to him and he remembered a time when they were practicing this very situation. 'Come on, Dean. The first thing you do in a situation like this is not to panic. Breathe.'

Dean slowly inhaled and exhaled, feeling some of the nerves settle. Okay, now what?

'Chances are, you'll be in a coffin. And if you're lucky, it's made of wood. Break out of it. Yes, dirt will start piling in. As soon as it does, pretend you're swimming.'

Dean closed his eyes and inhaled a last time before holding his breath and taking the first blow. The rotten wood gave way to the dirt. Almost immediately, Dean began flailing his arms and legs, burrowing through the dirt like it was fluid. Some got into his nose and down his shirt, but he'd fix that later.

After about five minutes of swimming through dirt, Dean's arms were tiring when they suddenly felt a breeze. Air. He was near fresh air. The very thought invigorated him and built up his energy. He began burrowing faster like a rabid dog, rising closer and closer to the surface until both his hands broke through.

As he clawed the dirt way and enlarged the hole, he raised his head up for the first time in a long while and gulped in air. In his weakened state, he somehow managed to drag himself out of the grave with many a grunt and occasional cry of frustration and pain.

It seemed as if the weight of his time in hell fell away in pieces from him and shattered at the ground as he breathed clean air and looked around. As he slowly made a 360 circle, he could tell something was up. For all the trees in the area had fallen, their tips facing his grave.

His fast thinking mind knew that something supernatural had to have done it. It had to be. No other living thing could fell trees all at the same time and leave no trace of the stumps. Just as he resolved to find out the truth, his stomach growled, reminding him of how long it had been since he had last eaten.

Walking along the highway for what seemed like an eternity, his work was finally rewarded when he spotted an empty shop. Shattering one window to get in, Dean walked straight to the cashier table and fished out some hundred and twenty dollar bills, buying a water from the vending machine.

Seeing a mirror, Dean walked over to it, pulling his shirt up at all angles for injuries. There were none. Alistair's inflicted wounds were fine. Then he rolled up the short sleeve of his left shoulder and saw it. A large, red handprint. He stared at it, wondering how that got there.

Snatching a steak melt from a shelf, he popped it into the microwave and heated it up, waiting a minute before the melt was ready. As soon as it was, he bit into it carefully and moaned in delight.

Eating his melt, he proceeded to stock up on provisions. Carrying a plastic bag, he put drinks, money, food and things he deemed necessary into the plastic bag.

A slightly crumpled newspaper caught his attention. Fishing it out of the trash, his eyes scoured it for the date. "September 18,2008," he murmured. He had only been gone for four months. But how? Was the time zone different in hell?

The radio suddenly turned on, getting his attention. Frowning, he put aside the melt and shut the radio off. It switched back on, filling with static. Almost immediately the TV turned itself on also.

Soon a high pitched noise began filling the shop and Dean clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sound. As the volume increased ever higher, the windows  began to shatter. Glass sprayed over Dean, sending him to the floor and under the table for cover.

After about five minutes, the noise disappeared. Dean cautiously held his hand away from his ear and, deeming it safe, crawled out from underneath the table. His mind suddenly conjured up a picture. Blue eyes, dark hair. He remembered those eyes well. They were the ones that pulled him out of his torture. But what did he have to do with the high pitched noise?

Feeling vaguely uneasy, he snatched the plastic bag and walked out, looking for a car. It turned out that the old Ford he saw was the only car for miles around, so he hot wired it and drove to Bobby's, complaining, "It's not my car."

The car pulled up at Bobby's house. Dean got out with the bag and slammed the door shut, slowly treading towards the house. This was it. The chance to finally see a familiar face again. The chance to have someone touch him without violence for the first time in forty years.

Summoning the scraps of his courage, he knocked on the door, smiling faintly when Bobby opened it, his face in shock. "Hey, surprise."

Bobby looked stunned for a moment, but Dean wasn't fooled. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Bobby's hand backwards, presumably for a knife. That was why he was prepared when Bobby lashed out at him with the said silver knife.
He grabbed Bobby's arm and twisted it behind him. "Bobby, stop! It's me!"

"My ass," came the answer accompanied by a backhand slap.

Dean pushed him away and grabbed a chair, putting it between him and Bobby. He raised his hand in surrender when Bobby came at him. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait! Wait!" He searched his mind frantically. "Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed. And you're....you're the closest thing I have to a father."

He stepped away from the chair and walked toward Bobby. "Bobby, it's me."

For a moment, Bobby seemed to deflate. He lowered the arm holding the knife and rested a hand on Dean's shoulder. Suddenly he slashed again, Dean barely stepping back in time. "I'm not a shapeshifter!"

"Then you're a Revenant!"

Dean shoved Bobby away, showing the confiscated knife. He unrolled his sleeve and held the knife over it. "Alright. If I was either, would I be able to do this with a silver knife?"

Inhaling, he cut along his arm, wincing from both pain and the memories of hell. As he drew the knife away, he looked at Bobby, who was dumbfounded. "Dean?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you." Dean dropped the knife and sank into Bobby's arms, grateful for at least some nonviolent human contact.

"It's...It's good to see you, boy."

"Yeah, you too."

When at last they pulled away, the million dollar question was asked. "But...how did you bust out?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted, turning away. "I, uh, I just woke up in a pine box-"

He never got to finish his sentence. As soon as he turned back to Bobby, he felt water hit his face. He closed his eyes, clearly done, and spit out some holy water. "I'm not a demon either, you know."

Bobby shrugged sheepishly, not bothering to hide the flask. "Sorry. Can't be too careful."

Dean rolled his eyes as he wiped off the water, droplets falling to the floor, a prelude of things to come.