Once, Dean Winchester and I were leaning against the sleek, black charisma of his car, drinking a few cold ones, and he turned to me. He said that I wasn't past the point of a safe return, and that he would fix me or die trying. I told him to cut the bull- to read a Cosmo and drink one, too. I shouldn't have done that.
I'm in a car- I'm driving a car. I narrowly swerve against a semi, overcorrecting to dodge the corrupted blue paint of a Soccer Mom Minivan, and the world begins to spin uncontrollably.
Someone by the name of which I do not know grabs the wheel, the car coming to a sudden halt just moments before hitting a tree.
A high- pitched whining ensues, the hands which grabbed the wheel now gone, and a screeching of tires interrupts the culprative sound. A tall man erupts from the black car, his hair untamed and long. I wince as sudden images flash through my mind. Memories of this man that aren't mine flow before my eyes, and I flinch. He runs to the car, opening the door and pulling me out- I can't move, can't feel anything, but I see the car ignite moments later.
He hauls me over to the black car, sitting in the backseat with me.
"Hey, hey, hey," he shakes my shoulders with a sense of urgency. "Where did you come from?"
"Hell," I say nimbly, barely noticing the man who drives the car as the world slips away. "I came back from Hell."