A/N: Takes place chronologically before Star Wars, It Ain't. Just how did Dean get the lightsaber- I mean sword? I have an alternate version of those events floating, unformed, in my brain that is composed primarily of grade A crack. I'm not sure if it'll ever see the light of day, but suffice to say that it involves Chuck, a box, a stick, and a string.

This one is a bit more SRS BSNS.

Word Count: 472. 'Cause I'm a winner. *cheesey 80's freeze-frame high five!*

Summary: Dean gets a special message from the Lord who, it seems, has stepped back into the building. Spoilers for season 4. AU. This one is not!crack.


Stigmata


Dean scratches restlessly at his forehead, looks closer at the weathered page of one of Bobby's books.

"Find anything?" Sam's voice penetrates his wall of concentration, and he glances up to the Bible in his hands, then the younger man's face.

"Nada. You?" The palms of his hands receive the scratch-treatment next, and suddenly his side isn't feeling so hot either.

"I could find more on Wikipedia; I swear man, I-" A loud grunt of pain cuts him off, and Dean doesn't notice that he's on the floor until Sam is hovering over him, eyes wide and panicked.

"Dean?!"

"Ungghh... Sammy?" His voice is soft and small, the way it is when he talks about Hell, which is practically never. A long howl, and there's something trickling warm and wet across his sweat-slicked forehead.

"Sam. Shoes." His words become agitated staccato bursts that he can't quite understand himself, but the message gets across and soon he feels the cool air on his feet.

"Holy shit... you're bleeding..."

Dean screams, laying on the floor of the study. Just barely catches a fuzzy glimpse of Bobby out of the corner of his eye before all he can see is red. They're drilling through his hands, his feet, his forehead, slashing at his side, and there's nothing he can do. Black chains, like a spider's web, stretch out endlessly from his skin and then suddenly-

Euphoria.

He can see again; he can really see. Everything has a faint glow about it. Sam is kneeling over his body, yelling, tears pouring down his face like a waterfall. His brother's voice echoes into his ears, light and airy. This isn't like dying.

His right hand is wrapped loosely around something heavy and cool. It takes him ages to look down, to raise his hand up. A sword.

And it glows brighter than anything, shining silver from within, bursting with hot white flame from hilt to tip. A voice, made of pure agonizing static, screeches through the air. The radio in the corner plays an upbeat country song before it squeals and changes the station itself. Through the cacophony, he understands a single word: "Fight."


Dean wakes up, gulping in deep, strained breaths of air. He catalogues his injuries: head, feet, hands, side. Still bleeding. Everything is silent. Sitting up is surprisingly not difficult, and from here he can see Sammy sprawled on the floor beside him. He's leaning back on his arms as though crawling away backwards toward Bobby, who is staring, mouth open, sawed-off forgotten on the floor by his feet.

Before he gets a chance to ask just what the hell they're gawpin' at, he feels it. Cold, steady; his fist clenches around the hilt. He drags it upward, studies the clean silver surface that reflects his face like a mirror.

"What the fuck?"