Once Upon a time...

It's a warm summer that blankets the town of Lawrence; parents watch as their children dance through sprinklers, dogs chase cats, bugs drift lazily through the sticky air. All in all, very Americana.

Dean stares out of the window, his hand cupping his chin while he tries to swallow down tears that threaten to push their way to the surface. The caravan of cars trails behind the Impala, all bearing the flags for a funeral. He watches as people pause in their daily activities to give the long line of cars a solemn nod, or maybe to herd their children inside.

His father is stiff beside him, letting a soft sob go only after a moment before becoming silent again. Sam sniffs in the backseat, his head buried in Jess' blonde hair. She holds Sam's hand tightly, her face stoney as she tries to be the strong one in their relationship.

Dean's eyes flicker away from his younger brother to the rolling scenery outside of the window.

()()

They lower his mother into the ground; the priest drones on about the after life 'From dust we come, to dust we shall return' or some such shit that isn't comforting to Dean at all. Everyone is quiet, and it's driving him insane! His mother would have cracked a joke, tried to get everyone to smile or maybe even roll their eyes, but she's too busy being buried six feet under.

The crowd starts to disperse afterwards; they're going to their cars to head to the Singer residence for refreshments and a whole mess of awkward condolences. Dean remains sitting on the hard aluminum seat, his hands in his lap while Sam tries to shake him from whatever trance he's in. The older Winchester stands, ignoring his brother in favour of running to the patch of woods surrounding the graveyard.

Sam starts toward his brother's retreating form, but a small hand on his shoulder causes him to stop. He looks to Jess who's dabbing at her eyes with a tissue; she shakes her head, sliding her hand down his arm so they can twine their fingers together. "Let him go, babe, he needs some time."

()()

His legs scream at him to stop, and his heart pounds loudly in his head, but Dean Winchester is a stubborn bastard, so he continues. His nice suit pants are speckled with mud, and his dress shoes are scuffed from running on sticks and rocks; he slows his run to a jog, then to walk, his breath coming out in heavy pants. The trees get thicker as time passes, and Dean's pretty sure he's lost until he comes upon a clearing with the remains of a building.

A frown dips the corner of his mouth as he approaches the crumbling stones; grass shoots up between the fallen stones and shards of rose coloured glass poke up from the ground. Dean takes a closer inspection of the cracked and fading stained glass window, and raises an eyebrow. Why the hell is a church out in the middle of nowhere?

He walks closer, a hand running down the pitted stone of the building. Something feels strange about this place, but he can't put his finger on it. Maybe it's the grief talking, but Dean walks closer to the dark inside, ducking under a nearly rotted wooden board covering the doorway.

Sunlight streams through holes in the walls and dusty stained glass windows; beams of light fall on crooked pews and dusty rugs, candle sticks are knocked to the ground, and music sheets look like they're growing mould. Dean sneezes as dust settles into his nose, he shakes his head, mentally chastising himself for exploring ruins like some six year old.

He stands at the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Dean grimaces at the chaotic mess the inside of the church is in, and he's about to turn to return to his family until his sweeping gaze falls onto something that looks like a mannequin. He frowns in confusion, glancing from the doorway to the mannequin until he decides to take a look.

The mannequin is laying on top of the alter table, appearing as if it's laying in a pile of black feathers. Its arms and legs hang off the sides and end of the table, looking as if it's about to be offered to Satan or some other crap teenagers are getting into. It's skinny, and pretty detailed with jet black hair and a bit of stubble lining a square jaw. Dean thinks about dumping the thing off the table until its abdomen rises and falls with a deep breath.

He jumps back, a shout of surprise leaving his lips as he falls onto the closest pew. Dust flies into the air, causing Dean to choke and cough. He stands again, moving closer to the mannequin, prodding it with a finger. His mouth falls open as the thing feels warm to the touch, and frantically Dean feels for a pulse on the mannequin's(?) skinny neck.

There's a soft fluttering under his fingers, barely detected but still there. Dean watches for the rise and fall of the person's chest, and panics when it doesn't move. "Oh fuck, oh fuck fuck fuck..." Dean glances around the messy church before licking his lips and planting them onto the chapped ones of the other man's. He breaths into the immobile mouth, hoping that this will jump start the man's breathing so he can get the hell out of there.

The closed eye lids flicker, and Dean watches as they flutter open to reveal etherial blue eyes.

He pulls back, stumbling backward but managing to keep his footing as the other man slowly sits up. Dean's eyes widen as the pile of feathers are connected by muscle and bone to the man's back; a white hand comes up to rub at an equally pale forehead, and a pink tongue comes out to sweep across parched lips. Blue eyes lock with shocked green, and the man cocks his head to the side, a slightly confused expression flitting across a previously dead face. "...hello."

Not long afterward she opened her eyes, lifted the lid from her coffin, sat up, and was alive again.

SNOW WHITE. This is why I shouldn't be allowed to watch season 5 and 6 while colouring Disney Princess colouring pages.