AN: This story has previously been posted, however, I have rewritten the first chapter and will begin to finish the rest of the story. The plot line is basically unchanged.
Handprint from Hell.
Chapter 1.
Darkness surrounded him from all sides. His shoulders pressed tightly against what felt like wood, and he could smell the damp scent of soil. He could barely lift his hands to press against the lid of his wooden coffin.
It was cold. His body tingled as he felt the blood circulate, almost like it hadn't done that in a while. His legs were cramped, and his groan echoed around him when he tried to move them. His back hurt from being pressed against a flat surface.
It wasn't unlike waking from a sleep; Dean Winchester was disoriented and couldn't remember anything. Other than dying, of course. He could still feel the sharp scrape of Hellhound claws on his chest.
Was he in Hell right now? He was surrounded by darkness and could barely move. This wasn't what he'd envisioned, what with the description of it being "so bad that even its own inhabitants fear and despise it." What, are all demon's claustrophobic?
Somehow, he knew this wasn't Hell.
His suffering somewhat ended when suddenly the ground shook violently. An explosion of bright white light pierced through the cracks in the timber; the feeling reminding him of an incinerator, not that he'd ever been in one. But if he had, he knew it would compare to this situation.
The light faded as quickly as it appeared, and Dean found it easier to breathe. There was still a faint amount shining down on him, which he recognized as, or hoped it was, sunlight. All he knew was that in these situations, you tend to go to the light.
He struggled to raise his arms in the cramped box, however, before he could push, the lid was lifted. Torn would have been more correct, as Dean could see the rough edges of the wood where the nails were pulled from.
Standing over him was a tall figure. The blinding light only revealed the silhouette of a man as it shone behind him, making him appear to glow.
Dean continued to lay there for a few more seconds as his limbs continued to tingle. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he thought the guy could have been a freakin' angel for helping him out.
He struggled to his feet as he realized the man was waiting for him to move. The tingling sensation became more intense as he stood, and he almost fell forward. He caught himself at the last minute, glad he didn't fall on the stranger.
"Sammy?" He croaked out, before he discovered it wasn't his brother in front of him. The man was barely six feet tall, in a dirty trench coat covering a cheap suit. His tie hung loosely and crooked around his neck. He swore it could have been on backwards. Dean studied the man, from his crappy brown shoes, to his short brown hair, to the bright blue eyes that were watching him quizzically. Those eyes were too blue.
He realized he'd been staring and he awkwardly looked away. "Not Sammy." He grumbled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Trench-Coat guy continued to stare.
"Uhh. Um, thanks for, y'know." He finished lamely, gesturing to the broken remains of his coffin. "That." His throat ached with every word. Dean doubted he could say much more, even though most of what he said was a growl.
The man just tilted his head slightly to the left and continued to stare. Dean waited for him to say something like "you're welcome" or offer some explanation, but he just stood there.
Moments passed, and Dean decided he'd better leave. He had to find a way to contact Sam. Maybe he knew where he was or why he was here. As he turned around, he noticed that they were standing in the middle of a field, in a hole. It appeared as though this guy blew apart the ground in order to pull Dean out of his coffin.
"Dean Winchester." Trench-Coat guy said.
He didn't bother asking how the man knew his name. He turned his head slightly so he could see the man in the corner of his eye, still standing there. He didn't respond, and he doubted his throat would co-operate with him. It was already burning now, but he resisted the urge to rub his neck.
Trench-Coat guy walked around to stand in front of him. Dean wasn't intimidated by much, but he knew he should be wary about this stranger, whom had managed to blow a hole into the ground to save him. Dean waited to see what he had to say.
"You're injured." The guy liked to point out the obvious. Dean just shrugged, a sign showing that he was fine, and he took a step sideways, around the guy. An obvious signal that he's okay, and that he's leaving.
Apparently not an obvious enough signal, as the man reached out to touch him. As though it was in slow motion, Dean watched the man as he bit his lip in concentration, his eyes trained upon his forehead as he lifted his hand. However, before Trench-Coat guy could place his two fingers on Dean's head, Dean grabbed his cheap-ass trench coat in two hands and shoved the guy backwards before climbing out of the pit and running.
He didn't hear anything after him, but he continued to run, not wanting to risk a fight when he's not a hundred percent. Dean knew he could outrun any homeless man. He also enjoyed the feeling in his muscles, as though he hadn't used them in a very long time. It didn't take long for the tingling to subside.
Everything appeared to be similar to his experiences on Earth. People walking about, cars driving passed, that kind of thing. Not that there were a lot of those where he was.
He ran to the nearest gas station. The attendant didn't look at him twice when he entered; obviously people covered in dirt were a regular occurrence around here.
Things appeared very similar to before he had died. Stores still sold pies and cars still ran on gas; no hover boards or aliens or time machines. This didn't reveal much, as he was currently in a small building in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere.
He walked over to the newspaper stand, picking up the first copy. His eyes searched for the date. It read 'September 18, 2008' and the front page featured something about a freak mining accident.
Dean had been in Hell for three months. That was all.
He knew something was wrong. The more he found out, the more questions he had, and the more answers he needed. Dean knew he needed to find Sammy.
There wasn't anyone around, so Dean subdued the cashier quickly. He quickly scooped out some money from the register and began packing supplies. He drank water as he packed; his voice somewhat returning but still sounding gruff.
Taking a fresh pair of clothes and bandages, Dean went to have a shower at the back of the store. The bathroom was small but the water was hot, and Dean was glad to wash the dirt off his body.
He examined his body in the mirror, locating all his cuts and bruises. He still had the cuts from the Hellhound claws on his chest, however, they appeared to be slight scrapes and not the shredded mess he'd been when he died. The most surprising, however, was the handprint-shaped welt on his shoulder. He tentatively poked at it and hissed at the pain that shot through his arm.
Putting it out of his mind, he began bandaging his torso and shoulder. The end result was that Dean looked somewhat like a badly wrapped cartoon mummy.
At the pay phone, Dean began calling every number he could remember of Sam's. Each number he called said that the phone had been disconnected. He threw the phone down in frustration before something occurred to him.
His mind went back to the lone newspaper he had read earlier. The freak mining accident in Columbus, Ohio. Dean hoped Sammy found enough in that case to check it out, and suspected that's where he's headed.
He ran back into the store and snatched the newspaper up before going to hotwire the cashiers' car. He threw his supplies into the passenger seat before he drove off, steering wheel in one hand and a pie in the other.
It didn't take him long to get there from Pontiac, Illinois. He made a few stops; he switched cars and clothes, and got a room in a small hotel nearby. He'd asked for the room closest to the exit, his usual room, but it was unavailable. Dean suspected Sam was staying there.
His suspicions were confirmed a few minutes later, after he picked the lock. This motel wasn't as trashy as the ones the brothers would frequent in the past. It had a decent view, of the parking lot anyway, and the pink floral wallpaper wasn't too bad if you hit your head on it a few times.
The room was easy to navigate; it seemed Sam hadn't changed much in the past 3 months. Pictures were stuck on the walls and books strewn over the small table. Dad's journal was even sitting on the bedside table, and Dean stroked his fingers over it lightly.
He looked through the clues in hopes to find where Sam would have gone. From what Dean could see, Sam had connected the mining accident to a similar one that happened 60 years earlier. Dean knew that if he was on the case, he'd be at the site, so that's where he'd find Sam.
As he was sitting on Sam's bed reading through his notes, he suddenly realized how exhausted he was. Dean felt considerably weak, and he assumed this was due to the lack of mobility in his body for three months. He decided to rest for a while, and perhaps he'd surprise Sam when he came back. It wasn't surprising, really, that he fell asleep.
His dreams were filled with Hellfire. Dean couldn't remember what had happened to him in Hell, but he remembered the heat. The heat that made his body tingle, like it did now, and it was a familiar feeling. The fire burnt black, but there were unfamiliar flashes of white; flashes that made the fire burn hotter. He couldn't see him, but Sam was there, too, calling his name.
"Dean?" Sam called out, hesitantly. "DEAN!"
Dean bolted upright from the bed, sitting back against the headboard. Blinded momentarily, Dean fumbled for the gun under the pillow before he realised he didn't have one. He calmed when he realized it was Sam that called out to him.
"Sam-" Dean started scratchily, intending to reassure his brother about his appearance, but as his eyes sought out Sam standing near the couch, he stopped speaking when he realized there was another person in the room.
It was the fucking /Trench Coat guy/.
It took Dean a few seconds to realize the guy was talking.
"…I mean no harm to Dean." He was saying, and Dean saw with incredibility that Sam wasn't worried, or too surprised, about his brother.
"Dean?" He called again, looking over at his brother uncertainly, as if he didn't believe he was actually alive. When he was sleeping, Dean still looked dead.
Dean regretted sleeping. His whole body ached and the tingling had returned with vengeance. He managed a weak smile at Sam before he was enveloped in a warm hug. He hissed as Sam came into contact with the scratches and the burn, and Sam moved back to sit next to him on the bed.
Trench Coat guy moved forward to stand beside the bed. "I am here to help Dean." He said to Sam, who just continued to stare at Dean.
Dean spoke before Sam could. "I have," He paused to cough, but that made his voice worse, "no i-ide-a who he isss." He was embarrassed by the weakness of his voice.
"I am Castiel." Trench Coat guy said, at the same time Sam said, "He's an angel."
"Cas... Angel?!" He choked out. "You know," Cough, "I don't believe in that crap, Sammy."
"I am an angel of the Lord." Was all Castiel replied with, and Dean just sighed before laying back down on the bed. He had so many questions, but his throat was on fire. And when would that damn tingling /stop/?
He heard Sam and Trench Coat guy talking, but he didn't listen. If he did listen, perhaps he'd have heard the familiarity in which they spoke. Instead, he rolled over to find a more comfortable position to sleep in. The tingling radiated up and down his legs and arms, and no matter how hard he fidgeted, it didn't settle down.
"Dean, what happened to you?" Sam called out, walking over. Dean just looked over his shoulder with a cocked eyebrow before realizing his shirt had lifted and Sam was staring at his bandages.
"H…Hellhound." He managed to rasp as he pulled his shirt down. He gave Sam the look that said he was fine, but Sam wasn't convinced.
"What about your voice?"
Dean just shrugged before rolling onto his back and sitting up. He looked over at Castiel and gestured for him to talk, but all he received in response was a head tilt and quizzical blue eyes staring at him.
Luckily, Sam translated. "Do you know what happened to Dean?"
"It appears the injuries inflicted upon Dean's body were unable to be healed while he was dead." Castiel didn't elaborate, and Dean was starting to get angry. That didn't exactly explain what had happened. He wanted to know why he was back and who this guy was. He didn't appear dangerous, but anyone would could blow a hole in the ground made Dean wary. Sam trusted him, but that wasn't good enough for Dean.
His thoughts were interrupted by Sam. "Is that okay, Dean?"
"What?" Dean croaked. He was contemplating ripping his throat out.
"Castiel would like to heal you." Sam said, and Castiel began walking over to Dean.
Dean jumped out of the bed but couldn't get past his brother and the angel. He barely choked out a "What? No!" before suddenly there were two fingers pressed to his forehead.
He began to feel the strange sensation of his skin knitting together all over his chest, as the Hellhound claw marks began to heal. His neck was the worst to heal, the process felt as though his windpipe was being crushed. It probably didn't help that he was fighting this.
He started to feel lightheaded as his breathing became shallow. He knew he was going to pass out. Before he could fall, however, the fingers left his forehead and two strong hands gripped his shoulders before lowering him onto the bed. He was unconscious before his head reached the pillow.
Castiel was frowning down at Dean, and Sam looked worriedly between the two of them.
"Is he okay now?" He asked impatiently as Castiel just stared at his brother. Sam noticed that all the little cuts and bruises he could see on Dean's face and arms were gone, and he sighed in relief.
"Dean is asleep." The guy loved stating the obvious. He kept watching Dean, his head tilted to the left, and then swapping to the right as his eyebrows knit together. Sam watched the process and couldn't help but chuckle. Castiel didn't even look his way, he just kept staring.
After a few awkward minutes, he shuffled on the spot and cleared his throat, finally getting Castiel's attention. "So…" He muttered awkwardly, hesitating slightly before gaining the confidence to ask how the angel had managed to save Dean.
Castiel spoke before he got the chance, his eyes falling back upon his brother. "Does Dean usually dream about pie?"
Sam didn't bother answering.