Lazarus Falling [Supernatural]

Chapter Four - An Offer You Can't Refuse

Dean awoke in the dark.

All around him – blackness. He could smell the faint scent of pine and dirt, along with other, less pleasant scents: rot and mildew and dried blood.

He tried to take a breath, surprised when he came up slightly short. He coughed in an attempt to get more air into his lungs, but even that was a struggle.

"Help!" He cried hoarsely, desperation trying to invade all corners of his mind. However, his survival instinct took over and he reached inside his jacket for his lighter.

After a few failed attempts to light the damn thing, he finally got a small flame to flicker along the top of the device. Holding it slightly above him, he saw a bloodstained pinewood lid above his head, with a crevice he could wedge open.

A coffin. He was in a coffin.

A buried coffin, he realized as the lighter guttered out from a lack of oxygen. That meant he had to get out of here, fast, or he would suffocate.

Dean slammed his body into the space when he estimated the slim opening was. After a few tries, the lid collapsed, and Dean felt the weight of 6 feet of dirt pushing against him. Even though it definitely wasn't ideal, he was out of the damn coffin.

He dug his way up through the dirt like a fiend, ignoring the burning in his muscles. After what seemed like forever, he felt his hands rise into empty air. He planted his hands on the grass just above him and pushed himself up back into the world of the living.

He gratefully took a gasping breath of the clean spring air and squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding sunlight. It felt like centuries since he had seen anything so bright. It probably was centuries.

Dean dragged the rest of himself out of the hole, just laying on the damp ground for a moment. Finally, he looked over at the grave that had housed his body not so long ago...his surprisingly healthy-looking body. He should have been a bloody, rotting, disgusting mess, but his skin was perfectly smooth – not even a mark on it to show he had been mauled to death by a hellhound. Interesting.

Another interesting thing was that he even had a grave, albeit a very humble one, with nothing to mark the spot he had been buried but a wooden cross. Why hadn't he been burned, like all hunters were?

Dean stood slowly, scanning his surroundings. He was in a forest...or rather, what was left of a forest. All of the trees had been knocked down in a perfect radius right around his grave.

"What the hell...?" Dean muttered.

"What the hell, indeed," He heard a familiar voice speak from behind him. Dean whirled around, ready to fight whoever was there...and saw the young John Winchester. In a flash, his memories came rushing back: Hell, the angels, his rescue, all of it.

Dean strode forward, grasping the angel in a one-handed chokehold. The angel didn't look fazed; he only smirked out of Dean's father's face. "Who are you?" Dean shouted in a voice rusty with disuse.

Not-John-Winchester replied, "My name is Michael. I'm an archangel of God."

"The Michael?" Dean asked incredulously, still keeping his hand firmly on Michael's neck.

"Yes."

Some strange, foreign part of Dean hissed kill him, kill him. Another part of his mind was screaming at him to run, run as fast as you can, while a third begged for answers from this creature. "Why should I believe you?"