Idk, I was inspired by this imagine (above) and i wrote a fic...here goes.
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don't judge me
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Black.
All he could see was black.
He wheezed for breath, coughing and hacking as he desperately clicked his trusty lighter. The small flame that flicked on revealed dirt all around him, and strong wooden planks above his head. The space was small, barely giving him enough room to move. He tried to yell for help but his voice, having been out of use for so long, was nothing more then a rasp.
He coughed again furiously, trying to scream for help, but no one seemed to be there to hear him. He pounded at the wood above his head and, with a grimace and a huge shove, he forced it off of him. A pile of dirt fell on top of him, but he pushed it away as he dragged himself to the surface.
First one hand, then the other, then a body emerged from the ground as Dean Winchester clawed his way out of the grave, gasping for air. Groaning with effort, Dean hoisted himself up and found himself in the middle of an empty field. All of the trees around him had collapsed, radiating out from his grave in a perfect circle.
He didn't waste time examining the gravesite and, minutes later, Dean was making his way down the road to a seemingly empty gas station. He broke in easily, shielding his face from the shattered glass, and entered the gas station cautiously. Dean glanced around for any sign of movement before picking up a newspaper- September 18, 2008, Pontiac, Illinois. September...that meant he had only been gone for four months. It had seemed like years...
Dean's eyes flicked up and landed on the rows of water bottles lined up neatly on a shelf. All hesitation abandoned, he greedily downed a bottle and tossed it aside before moving on to the bathroom. Dean splashed his face with cold water, gazing in the mirror as he started to search for any sign of the attack that had sent him to Hell. His chest was smooth and unblemished without a trace of scars, or any mark, for that matter. It was as if that night had never happened. Dean slowly slid up the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal a large red handprint burned into his muscular shoulder. He grimaced at the sight of it before looking closely at the mark- he had no idea how he had gotten it.
Shaking off the cold feeling crawling up his spine, Dean let the sleeve drop and walked back into the store. He took advantage of its abandoned state by grabbing a plastic bag and loading it up with chocolate bars, water, everything he could find. With a smirk, Dean threw in a Busty Asian Beauty magazine. As he filled up the bag, the TV set beside him crackled to life and started to emit static and white noise. Dean turned to the TV slowly and switched it off but it turned back on immediately, along with the radio.
Dean leapt into motion, grabbing a container of salt and spreading it across the windowsills. A loud ringing screech started to sound as he worked, growing louder and louder until it forced Dean to his knees. He collapsed onto his side, clamping his hands over his ears as they started to bleed, the windows shattering above him.
Then, suddenly, everything just...stopped.
Dean glanced up, his hands covered in his own blood, and muttered, "What the hell?"
He rushed outside and ran to the phone booth, locking himself inside the glass box. Abby's number was the first Dean dialed, desperate to hear her familiar voice. He did, when the phone finally stopped ringing, but it wasn't exactly in the way he'd hoped.
"This is Abby Wells. I'm assuming you're smart enough to know what to do, if not then don't bother leaving a message. I'll get back to you when I'm not busy saving people."
