4.
The light is sudden and ungodly bright, burning his retinas even though his back is turned; Dean lets the fungi drop from his hand and whirls around—it could be anything, and though he hopes it's Cas to spirit him out of the pitch hell-hole he had been tossed into, he's taking no chances—and he scrambles backwards just as soon as he gets his first good look.
Blinking rapidly, Dean sucks in a breath, the musk and stale air seizing his throat.
The ghost—he's sure it's one, it's a bit see through and faded, and glowing—is all skin and bones; it is probably the scrawniest thing he has ever seen, each rib showing in HD-quality detail. The thought that perhaps he might have been able to do something slams a fist into his chest, and he swallows hard as it shifts on the pile of dirt it's atop of.
"Those are poisonous," it intones, voice airy and faint, tone flat.
Dean darts his eyes about the hole he'd been dumped into before settling them back onto the ghost. "And how would you know?" he shoots back on reflex, jade on toxic green, and immediately regrets it.
Something flickers across the specter's face; it's eyes pinch shut for the briefest of moments before reopening, and the Winchester can tell that the room has grown a shade darker.
Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been for the phantom to grin.
Dean recoils as if struck, his heart stuttering in shock, and eyes wide.
It's teeth are bloodied even in death; it's gums a hateful dark purple and oozing a bubbly dark green, and if Dean had been looking, he would swear flecked with red.
"How do you think I died," it whispers, eyes radioactive bright and unwavering.
.
