Summary: As anyone who knows an addict knows, they never really stop being an addict. They just change their obsessions and take it up to ten. For Dean, that will be a problem. It's bad enough his brother and friend are cutting him off from the mark, cold turkey, and have imprisoned him into the bunker. He is finding it harder keeping his feelings hidden from his best friend and anyone else. He is slowly learning that when you take away one drug, you replace it with another. But the added stress is made even worse when his father turns up at their door.

Warning: This fiction will have displays of graphic M/M sex, as well as other symptoms of detoxing, and drama. If you feel you will be triggered by anything I urge you not to read. If you have a problem with Destiel, I urge you not to read.

I came up with this fic on the fly, mostly as a way to challenge myself in writing other forms of fiction. If you like it, great, but I am open to any comments and criticism, after all I am here to learn.

This fic is taking place in a slightly AU. I incorporate in the mark, but this is my idea of how Dean could get rid or be cured of it.

Now, on with the show.(cough)erm...Story.

Chapter 1: Awakening

He awoke with an excruciating headache. The air hot and thick around him, making it hard for him to breath. He opened his eyes, hoping to get a better understanding of his surroundings.

What he saw was not inspiring.

It was dark, impenetrably dark. He was inclined to believe it was night, but the air around him was too thick, even for the height of summer.

Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out his lighter and flicked it on. His hope dying with the first spark. He saw that he was in a wooden box, barely bigger then himself. It was sealed up tight enough that the dirt, or at least he thought that was what was outside, could not get in. He extinguished the flame so as not to use up more air, he started to work.

He took his buckle off his belt and held it between his teeth, as he pushed up the edges of the box, he recognized as a coffin. Once he had opened the lid enough, he used one hand to hold it there, and the other to take his belt buckle and place it between the two pieces of wood. A difficult task, considering the confined space.

He then pulled his shirt over his head, removing his arms for free use, before tying the bottom of it over his head. Feeling that his work was satisfactory, and the dirt would not be able to get inside his shirt and suffocate him. He started to push on the lid of the casket even harder.

Once the top had opened enough, he began to take handfuls of soil and shovel them into the casket. With each handful, the lid opened more and more. He couldn't tell how far he was getting, not really being able to see. But he knew what direction he had to go. He continued to dig up, pushing the dirt under him as he shoveled.

He continued up, feeling the dirt get thinner and looser as he dug. He was getting close. He just had to keep going.

Finally, his hand broke the surface and he could feel the warmth. He continued to pull himself up until he felt a hand grab hold of his and pulled. He felt the dirt around him shifting as well. Someone was helping him out.

As his head and shoulder broke free of the ground, he took long, deep, lungfuls of warm, humid air. He kept his breathing measured as he continued to climb out of the ground, pausing a minute or two to drink the air in greedily. As his legs and feet came free, he took a moment to lay down on the warm, dew touched grass, breathing deeply.

Opening his eyes, he had to close them again almost immediately. The light from the sun glaring into his eyes, almost blinding him. It was painful, but that let him know he was alive. Last he remembered, he was dead or dying. Those memories where drifting away from him already, like a dream after waking up.

He felt a cool, plastic bottle being pressed into his hands. He took it, unscrewed the cap, and drank from it greedily. The water soothing his sore throat and giving him an added boost of energy. He opened his eyes again, and squinted to give them a moment to adjust.

Looking around him, he could see that he was in a cemetery. Surrounded by headstones and placards. The sun high in the sky, pouring light down on the trees. Green leaves, swaying in the wind.

He looked over to his helper, who's eyes where scanning him for any sign of injury or illness. He was a short man, and thin with brown hair and eyes. His beard scruffy and unkempt, saying that the man was not really concerned about appearance. His hands where jittery, his movements sporadic. A sign of alcoholism.

"John Winchester?" The helper asked him, his voice high-pitched and nervous.

He swallowed another mouthful of water before answering.

"How do you know my name?" He asked, staring hard at the smaller man.

"Because I know you." The stranger said, then seeing that John was getting ready to go on the defensive, he continued. "It's okay, I'm kind of a psychic. I saw you coming out of the grave, so I came to help. My names Chuck Shirley. I know your sons, Sam and Dean."

Okay, I figure I should get this out of the way now.

Disclaimer: I in no way shape or form, own Supernatural. I am merely letting my mind wonder to what-if scenarios and writing them down. The characters and series plot belong to the wonderful Eric Kripke. I am making no money off of this story, nor do I intend to. Please do not sue me.

Hope you enjoyed.