Chapter 3: Surfacing
Dean is dreaming. Or dead. It's entirely possible that fanged asshole punched his ticket and the Afterlife involves lying in some chick's lap while she gazes tenderly into his eyes and … draws on him with a soldering iron? He arrests her tiny wrists with one hand, noting that she's fairly solid, for a dream.
"What the hell's going on?" he spits out, but she is gone. He's on his feet quickly, scanning the area and confirming that he is the only living creature in this nasty swamp pit. He's got a reverberating, lurchy feeling like he's fighting a hangover. Must've been hit with some venom containing grade-A hallucinogens. He vividly remembers the feeling of being torn open, and an arc of thick dark drops flying through the air as his vision whited out, but he seems fine now. The pattern of burnt skin across his chest has faded along with the girl. Lingering effects of his acid trip, maybe.
For weeks afterwards he dreams of silky black hair falling like a curtain around him, and intense light grey eyes fixed on his. The woman studies his face while his chest burns and something flutters deep within him like a trapped butterfly.