Hey guys,

I'm testing out a chapter for a new story. I don't know if it's good enough to be posted yet, though. I'd appreciate any feedback you can give me.

Also, If anyone wants to Beta for me, that'd be very welcome. Thanks in advance!

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or the characters. I don't even own a laptop less than five years old. I've never even met Jensen Ackles, Jared Padelecki, or Misha Collins. There is an even long list of things I need but don't have in my browser history, mainly concerning certain Doctors and blogger/sociopaths.

He was in a dark place, that sadly wasn't new. It seemed like whenever he died or got kidnapped by some unspeakable evil, he was put in a dark room or container. And, to his eternal annoyance, he was usually tied up or in a space to small to move in. He didn't mind being tied up so much, if he had some fun with a kinky lady he'd picked up from a bar/case.

The thing was, this dark space was far too small, far too familiar. He was able to feel the walls around him. They were roughly hewn and uncomfortably close to his body, so much so that he was unable to move his arms past his elbows. With a resigned sigh, he dug around his pocket for something to confirm his theory. He flicked his lighter on.

He was right. He was inside a wooden coffin.

Dean squinted at the ceiling of the coffin. He could smell the dirt around him, encompassing his prison. Well, shit. He was underground as well.

With a jolt, Dean remembered what had just happened, what Death had warned him would happen. He tried to get a look at his hopefully bare arm but the tight quarters caused him to burn himself with the lighter instead. The lighter dropped from his hand and it flickered off.

Not only did he have to almost kill Sam, he also probably caused the end of the world. Awesome.

"Son of a-" he cut himself off as his thoughts turned to his brother.

"SAM!" he tried shouting at the top of his lungs. Maybe if he screamed loud enough, Sam would respond? He subconsciously knew it wouldn't actually work. It was more likely to use his oxygen supply up quicker, than anything.

"Dammit!" Dean cursed, frustrated. They might have gotten the mark off him permanently, he hadn't lost control to the mark and killed his brother, and he'd killed Death. Things were looking good for once. Then, as if sensing too much going right for the brothers, pillars of black smoke (looking like demon smoke) had risen out of the ground and covered the Impala - and the brothers - completely, while he struggled to get his baby to drive. Then everything had gone black. "Dammit!"

Another curse had him punching the roof of the coffin with as much force as he could muster. He hadn't expected much, just a way for him to relieve his frustration, but there was a loud CRACK! and rivulets of dirt began cascading down. Dean froze.

Maybe he wasn't that far underground? His mind knew this was wrong, he could feel it in his bones, but he would grasp onto any sort of hope that he could. How else could he explain the super strength? ...unless the mark was still there. That was a chilling thought that he tried to banish almost immediately.

Dean tapped lightly on the wood above his head causing more dirt to rain down. With a deep breath, he pulls his arm back as far as he can in the enclosed space, and launches his fist forward. CRACK!

The boards broke apart. Piles of dirt came down all at once. He couldn't breath.

Climbing up through the dirt was like trying to swim through jello. For what seemed like forever, he struggled through the soil, and it seemed like he didn't make any progress at all. The eternity he spent underground was punctuated only by a worrying pulse from his arms as his lungs began to burn. After the pulse worked it's way through to his chest, the burn went away and his lungs seemed to fill up with fresh air.

This almost had him pausing in astonishment, but he was distracted by his hand breaking through to the surface.

With one last slight grunt of effort, Dean pulled himself out of the soil and laid out on his back, breathing in deeply.

The sky was clear, save for a few wispy white stragglers. There was nothing to indicate the Darkness that had just burst from the ground and into the sky.

He realized he wasn't panting. The climb out of the coffin should have tired him out, should have made him out of breath, at least. He had just spent about a minute without air, after all. That should have caused some sort of negative reaction.

Then he realized, it had. The burning that was telltale of oxygen deprivation had disappeared just when it had begun to be a problem. It disappeared after that pulse in his arm...right where the Mark of Cain...

With a sudden insane worry, Dean scrambled to take his flannel top off, leaving him in only his black T-shirt and jeans.

He threw his flannel to the ground and brought his forearm up so he could see it in the light.

The skin wasn't raised like a burn anymore, it wasn't red either. The only reason he knew something was wrong was the fact that it was his arm to begin with.

Where once was a bare, tanned, and relatively unscarred skin, there now was a large, barely-there, grey symbol. It was so light on his arm that he couldn't quite make out what it was, but he could tell it was in the exact same place as the Mark. That didn't give him much confidence in the origin of the symbol. It could've simply been the Mark returning.

His plaintive ideas kept getting beat up by each realization that he had. Now he was left with only three, none of them filling him with much hope.

A, he the Mark of Cain was coming back and the powers came from it as it spread it's corruption further. That was ominous in it's own right.

B, he was turning into a demon, the symbol on his arm actually being the first sign of his transformation. Every demon had it's own symbol, after all. Now, he'd never seen the process first had, but he had seen the opposite, even experienced it. A demon's strength was one of the last things to go. Maybe he was almost a demon. This was also a scary theory, especially if it was right.

C, he had been powered up with some sort of super strength, like an angel sigil or something. The thing was, by what/who? Was it a demon, an angel, God? It just didn't bode well, even if it was the theory he hoped most for. That meant he could still trust himself around his brother and Cas.

His brother. That thought had him scrambling up and looking around for where his brother could have been buried.

He looked around in the glaring sunlight and saw a scarily familiar setting. Around his escape route through the dirt, was a perfect circle of dead trees, blown back by some amazing force (i.e. Castiel, the angel of Thursday). It was an exact replica of the day he came back from Hell. Even the headstone was the same, if a somewhat crude wooden cross could be considered a headstone.

What was going on? Why was he here? Was he hallucinating? Was this what the Darkness brought? Did this mean he had to relive all of his failures again?

No, that didn't make sense. He'd already done things differently, punching through the coffin lid, hanging around here a lot longer than before. Those things wouldn't be possible if he was made to relive it. Wouldn't being able to change events be counterproductive? If anything that might make him happier, or at least more stable. It was more of a reward than a punishment.

He paused as a new thought occurred to him. What if they - that is, whoever or whatever was doing this - made it so, no matter what he changed, things would end up the same, or even worse than before.

Dean shook his head. He wouldn't know unless he tried, but should he try? Shouldn't he just give up? That would be the better solution wouldn't it? He could just step in front of a car now, save so much trouble-

What the hell?! Where the hell did those thoughts come from? Since when did he think giving up was a good idea?

With a disturbed look at the new mark on his arm, Dean hazarded a guess as to why. Cas did say that it wasn't a physical mark. It 'transcended,' or something, his physical form. Like it was etched into his soul.

Well, that strengthened theory A. Not a good feeling.

Dean shuddered. It was chilling, to think that the mark might have gotten a stronger hold on his mind.

A growl sounded out loudly from somewhere near him. It was so very close but he couldn't place where it came from. Dropping into a low, ready stance, he groped around his pocket for a weapon. All he came up with was his lighter.

Ok, he'd had less to work with before. He brandished the lit lighter like he would with a torch

He hadn't remembered anything like this happening before. There wasn't anything or anyone here before. He hadn't had to fight after he got back from Hell, at least until he got to Bobby's.

The growl came again, louder.

With eyebrows scrunched in confusion, his eyes were drawn to his own stomach. Another growl.

What the hell? How had he not recognized his own hunger? Dean nearly sagged in relief. He stuck the lighter back into his pocket.

Should he do what he did before? Or should he go another way and hope for a ride?

Shaking his head, he began walking, his grumbling stomach his only company.

Dean walked down the same empty road he did before. No passing cars, no houses, empty or otherwise, and no people to speak of. His stomach's voice had risen to a roar and it was soon accompanied by an uncomfortable but familiar pain.

He hadn't been this hungry the first time. Had he taken longer to get her than before? That seemed the most likely. This hunger didn't support either theory A or B, as both relied on demonic-like essence, and demons didn't feel hunger.

One point to theory C, then.

He approached the same abandoned gas station with the same two cars, both relatively old and worn. It still looked like no one was there, so that was something.

He pounded on the door anyway.

"Hello?"

Dean looked at his hand for a moment before shrugging and punches the glass.

He looked at his fist, searching for damage. Apart from a couple of scratches, his hand had remained pretty much unmarked.

While cool in general, that also added a point to theory C. Demons and Cain both still bled. It just didn't hurt them when they did.

He stuck his hand through the now clear window and opened the door.

After he stepped inside, his eyes were immediately drawn to food isle, or more specifically, the single serving personal pies.

He wet his lips.

He strode over and quickly devoured one of the pies in question. After about three more of those, his stomach had stopped protested and he began stuffing bags of chips and the rest of the pies into a plastic bag with a few bottles of water.

He stood up and tore open one of the candy bars at the counter. A newspaper sat to one side. Curiosity took over. He wanted to know how far this - whatever it was - went.

True to the continuity, the paper read:

Thursday, September 18th.

"Still September." Dean muttered to himself. It was seeming less like some illusion of torture. He remembered those. There was always something to indicate that the world wasn't quite real. There was always something...

Dean shook his head and headed to the bathroom to answer the call of nature.

He washed his face and hands in dingy sink after finishing up. The sink was attached to a mirror. Dean finally got a good look at himself. It was like looking at a ghost.

He ran a hand along his clean jaw, no stubble impeding the way. He felt around for the invisible scars he'd collected over the years. None were there. There were no burns, no scars, no bruises of any kind. Hell, he wasn't even sunburned from all that walking in the sunlight. He had more weight in his cheeks, like the baby fat he told Sam he had.

His eyes were different, too. They were younger, the very early stages of his crows feet starting to show. There was more life to them, as well. More of a sparkle. His eyebrows were kind of scrunched above his eyes, but the lines on his forehead weren't as prominent as they were the last time he looked.

Overall, he just looked healthier, less stressed.

Dean stared at his new, yet also old face in the dingy gas station mirror. A short pain on his left shoulder causes him to turn it to the mirror. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a raw version of a large hand print.

He'd forgotten that it had hurt at all, that it had ever looked different. He'd just gone on with the knowledge that he'd have it the rest of his life/death.

Dean walked out of the bathroom with purpose and picked up the plastic bag of snacks and starts walking to the counter.

Something was supposed to happen, he remembered. What was supposed to happen, though? He couldn't quite tell what it was.

He was distracted, however, when he saw a magazine stand. On the stand was his favorite 'adult' magazine, "Busty Asian Beauties." He picked it up, and, smirking, flips through it. He eventually stuffs that into his bag, as well.

He went to the counter and set down the bag. He rounded that corner and hit a single button on the register. The register pops open, to his pleasure.

Was this what happened last time? He could quite place the exact details. He took a couple of twenties but left the rest where it was. He stuffed the procured bills into his back pocket.

Then, the radio turns on.

Dean stands there staring confusedly at the radio for moment, trying to remember what happened next. Finally, he shut it off. Only, instead of the gas station going silent again, another radio turned on, this time to static. Frustration getting the better of him, Dean turns that one off as well with a little to much force, causing the dial to crack slightly. The TV went on next. His eyes widened.

He knew what was going to happen next.

He dove to the floor as a high-pitched sounds bursts through the air. The glass in the windows and TV both shatter at the sound. However, unlike last time, Dean's ears weren't bleeding from the noise. Instead, he winced and clutched at the headache this sound was giving him. He could almost understand the shrieking for words. It was barely there but he could make out a few. Before he could distinguish the whole message, the sound cut out, as did his headache.

That was an angel speaking, wasn't it? Dean realized. And not just any angel, Castiel, the angel of Thursday.

Dean almost smiled at that thought.

Dean inserted a coin to the phone in the banged up little phone booth and he dialed a number. Unlike last time, he went straight to Bobby's. He couldn't quite remember what Sam's phone number was, but Bobby's was one he'd remember.

The phone only rings once before it's picked up.

"Yeah?" The gruff voice on the other end says.

Dean nearly sobbed, hearing that voice again, after so long. He struggled to keep his emotions in check.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?" The voice repeated.

"Hey, uh, it's me." Dean stuttered slightly. Remembering what had happened last time.

"Who's 'me'?" Bobby asked, annoyed.

"It's me. Dean." He waited patiently for the hang up.

Just like before, the dial tone sounded through the phone. Dean hung the phone back on it's perch. He didn't call again. He knew better.

Dean turned and saw on of the beat up old cars in the parking lot. The same old, beat-up white car, parked in the same spot. He hot-wired the car and quickly pulled away from the gas station. He wanted to get as far away from there as possible.

He'd driven for about ten minutes in the wrong direction, or right direction if you thought about it.

Bobby's was up in Sioux Falls, but Sam was in Pontiac. Or at least he used to be.

The sleazy motel he'd stayed at when they'd found him was lacking a distinctive '67 Chevy Impala. He already had the room number, or at least the location (numbers really weren't his thing), but he was hesitant to go up there.

Last time, the only thing to keep Sam from killing him was Bobby's word. Without Bobby, this would end badly.

Add that with the fact that it looked like Sam had already left and the picture painted wasn't a very useful one.

With a sigh, Dean climbed out of the car and walked up the steps to the crappy room, reminiscent of those he'd stayed in with his father and brother.

He knocked on the door with all the authority he could muster, which wasn't all that much to be honest.

A woman opened the door, but not the one he expected. He knew he looked like he'd seen a ghost, and not the good kind.

AN: Hey, as I said before, this is just a test chapter. If I get good reactions, then I'll start posting the other chapters. However, I'd like some feedback.

Was it good? Bad? Does it need more editing? Should I add more detail? Less?

And tell me who you think the mystery woman at the end of the chapter is!

This just a small update.

Love,

Kai