Open Up Your Eyes (See the World Without Your Sorrow)
AN: I meant to update sooner . . . Okay, you're right, I have no excuse. My apologies for being late. CallMeAnonymous9, as always, I friggin' adore you, flagrant flatterer that you are.
Anyways, I have a question for you about the next chapter. It's genre could probably-no, could definitely be horror, so do you want me to skip it and go right on to unashamed humor? It's your choice.
Disclaimer: A girl and a disclaimer walk into a bar. Neither of the two own Supernatural (especially the disclaimer), which is probably why they're at the bar in the first place.
Summary: In which Dean Winchester is Saved.
Souls curled about his horns and twined around his claws. They slid over scaled skin and perched atop broad shoulders. They hissed, "Listen. Listen. Listen, listen. Listen."
He paused. There was the sound of wings and the clash of forces. The demon asked, What is that? He was unaware that he did not speak aloud.
"That, our demonic friend, is salvation." They gave a wheezing laugh. "Yours, to be precise."
Mine? Why?
A soul, held in the palm of his clawed hand, whispered in a surprisingly childish voice, "Because you are Dean Winchester."
Am I? Not simply Demon, then?
"Remember your name," they told him, "for you shall need it."
He felt an angel's palms settle upon his shoulders.
"Dean Winchester," the souls sighed, hissed, laughed, cried, "you are saved!"
There was white.
A soul said, "Dammit, turn down the light show!"
Then Dean Winchester was gone.
"Blasted angels," another one grumbled.
Dean Winchester stumbled away from the grave he had just crawled out of. He glanced around and saw nothing but trees surrounding him. He lifted a hand to scratch his head and realized- wow! Look at that! A human hand!
He marveled at the rough yet soft skin and the fingers with short nails- not claws! He slid his other hand up his arm and realized that he was like that everywhere- rough, yet soft. Human.
Extraordinary!
Brightened considerably, he ambled along until he reached a road, which he then followed. He soon reached a convenience store. And a phone.
He quickly broke into the store, stole some food (food! Wow!), some money, and, after a moment in which a high-pitched noise broke the windows and nearly his eardrums, went over to the phone.
He stared at it, wondering who Dean Winchester would call- for he wasn't entirely convinced that this Dean person was he.
He pondered. If you didn't remember that you were someone, were you still that same person?
Whatever.
He finished the call and left. He began to whistle as he walked down the road, swinging a plastic bag filled with his stolen goods. Except for the money. That he kept in the pocket of his jeans. And that, too, was remarkable.
Next up: "Sometimes I see Lucifer when I friggin' brush my teeth."
Weird Randomness!
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The numbers in his mind (actual numbers!) helped him in his predicament. He dialed them in and waited for someone to answer.
Click. "This is Singer. Who is this?" a real human being asked.
"I'm not sure," he replied, "but I think I'm Dean Winchester. I was hoping you would know."
There was a moment of silence. Then Singer said, "I'm hanging up. If you call again-"
He was elated. "May I?"
He was curious to hear the sound of what seemed to be Singer gritting his teeth. And rather violently, from what he could tell. "If you call again-"
"I don't know if I'll remember how," he admitted. "I mean, I hope so- wait, do you have a beard?"
". . . are you off your rocker?"
"Can I be?" he asked eagerly. "Is that possible? Because I couldn't tell before and there wasn't anyone who could give me a credible opinion Down where I was."
"Idjit." Then Singer hung up.
He put the telephone back (phones! Portable communication! Wow! What will they think of next?) and let himself out of the booth.
Today was going to be good, he just knew it.
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