Opening Note: First off, Holy Chuck, the writer's block I had with this chapter was ridiculous! This chapter was originally supposed to be typed up and posted on January 21st, but I unfortunately had a really hard time with getting into Dean's mind with this one and ended up having to write a full draft of this chapter entirely from his point of view in order to keep him relatively in character. School also really interfered with how much writing time I really had and I had to prolong this chapter until spring break. Hopefully that won't happen again! Chapter four is already under way and it should be posted shortly after this! Thank you to everybody who has reviewed, followed and favourited this story since its last chapter! I am once again stunned by the amount of positive reception this has garnered at only two chapters and I apologize once more for how long it took to get this chapter out.

The question of Daisy's name and how I came up with it arose in a review and my only answer to that is to keep reading. The history behind Daisy's name will also be revealed within the story itself, actually. On an entirely separate note, I hope you all like the new cover image! A friend made it for me in photoshop and unfortunately, much of the quality was ruined by the site. The woman in the image is who I envision Daisy as and I pretty much based the character's entire appearance upon her. Hopefully now you readers have a clearer vision of her as well, as I typically drop hints of my character's appearance scattered throughout the story in almost all of my work.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, its characters or anything associated with it. I only own the protagonist of this story and have merely taken liberties with the universe Eric Kripke created.

Trigger Warning: Much like the show, this story does heavily reference and explore religion within some chapters and while the female protagonist of this story is agnostic, the character does contemplate the idea of religion and the beliefs of different religions during Dean Winchester's time in hell and following the introduction of the canon character, Castiel, within this story. Religion vs. science is also a recurrent theme – if exploring the reality of such things makes you uncomfortable, then this story may have a similar effect. This story is not, however, about exploring either religion or science. The themes are present due to the nature of the show and the protagonist's own background.

Specific triggers for this chapter include descriptions of injuries, bleeding, digging oneself out of a grave and ankle clutching. Also mentions of self-harm.

Chapter 3: Individual Differences

August 3rd, 2008

Toronto, Ontario

Things undoubtedly changed after that first, real conversation with Dean, or at least the nightmares did. I still have them every night and the setting remains consistent, but I've gone from seeing one disturbing thing to another. I no longer watch Dean getting tortured, instead he is the one who holds the blade and inflicts the pain. Maybe that was what finally drove me over the edge. Back when they couldn't see me, sometimes when Alastair would torture Dean, other demons would come to watch how the mighty Winchester had fallen. They had called Alastair "da Vinci with a razor". After Alastair had made me an active participant in his "art" and Dean rose up as his prodigy, I became hysterical. No longer was I just a spectator watching in disgusted wonder as Alastair painted a bloody picture with his blade. With every session my nightmares whisked me off too, I had taken to sitting with my back pressed against a wall, hands covering my ears and eyes snapped shut. This new position did next to nothing to drown out the cries of whoever was on the receiving end of the torture, nor did it take away the knowledge of what was happening. Every now and then I'll catch more than a glimpse of what Dean does to the other souls. It also did very little to hide me from those I was visible to, but it didn't matter if I was seen anymore. The only person who could see me was Dean. Yeah, imagine my surprise when Alastair completely ignored me, despite the fact that I appeared right in front of his face.

At this point it was no secret that both my brain and the version of Dean that it had created terrified me almost as much as the first and only time that Alastair had seen me. There are times when I hear the begging and crying of a soul before I even open my eyes. Their screams are nothing new to me, I often find myself disturbed by just how indifferent I've become to them during the past three months, but hearing them that up close stabs at something inside of me each time a new voice begs Dean to stop. It's only worse to open my eyes and see whatever method of torture he has decided to inflict upon whoever ends up on his rack. Ever since Dean agreed to Alastair's offer, even my waking moments were filled with thoughts of what he would do that night. Would he go with the messy blade or the burning acid? Would he start with the fingernails or the spleen? I can't hide the fear in my eyes when he turns to look at me. It's bad when his reaction to my fear is shame and oddly enough, I feel bad for making him feel bad. I mean, I used to literally curse out whoever hurt him while watching the show. But it is so much worse when there are fewer traces of remorse and more of joy. Hesitation was quickly turning into pleasure. It is during these moments especially that I recall what Ruby had said about Hell turning him into a demon. Had it already started? Would I go to sleep one day and see black where there should be green?

My only salvation in all of this is that I keep reminding myself that this version of Dean Winchester is by no means canon. The Dean Winchester I binge-watched in a matter of weeks is the real deal and he would never do any of this. Or so I told myself. I don't know what the eagerly anticipated season four held for the character I adored so much; I had avoided everything related to the show while I was awake as if it was the plague. I had also completely forgone re-watching it as I had once planned on doing, despite the insistent begging of my friend to binge-watch once more before the new season premiered. I had refused of course on the basis that watching the thing causing my nightmares would only bring me more nightmares. At this point, I was more than beginning to believe that these nightmares weren't just a psychological problem. Something is triggering them that goes well beyond my control, but the real problem lay in my lack of willingness to accept such a possibility. While I was willing to extend the benefit of doubt to anything likely, I only truly believed where there was evidence provided. Quite frankly, uncertainty made me uncomfortable.

But weren't the healing scars on my forearm enough evidence? As much as I tried, that was one phenomenon that I couldn't explain. Sure, this version of Dean was pretty different. More broken than usual and more brutal than necessary, but that was what Hell did to a person, I guess. Yet despite the obvious fear and disbelief this version of Dean, the one that has been emotionally scarred and traumatized to the core, must see on my face each time he looks at me, he repeatedly protects me as much as our location will allow him to. The only contact that we had really made since that first meeting was between the eyes. His would flicker to mine when Alastair's attention was directed elsewhere. Otherwise, he ignored my existence. As soon as the demon left the torture chamber, in the few minutes between his departure and return, Dean would hand me a blade without exchanging any words. I tried to focus more on the fact that he was even helping me in the first place and less on the blood of the soul that still covered the blade. I tried not to wonder just whose blood it really was on my arm every morning while inspecting the newly self-inflicted red addition.

What little relationship we have is by no means symbiotic. His glare is hard and his eyes are cold each time he directs even the slightest bit of attention towards me. He still doesn't trust me, which is beyond clear each time he looks at me as if I am some kind of an infiltrator. Of course, I try not to hold this against him. I've seen things he would never relay to Sam. I still see those things. What did surprise me was his silence on the obvious matter. I expected him to have more questions, especially after my djinn blunder. In his eyes, I was untrustworthy and still very much a threat. On top of that he must have realized by now that I knew too much? I doubt many girls claiming to be living human beings confronted him about his hunts. In Hell of all places too. Sure, he protected me from Alastair, but I kind of just pinned that on him being a good guy. Hell couldn't take that away from him and he probably didn't want to see his torturer any more than I did. Yet despite my endless analysis of his character, I could not for the life of me figure out the reason behind his silence. Maybe I was just his last ditch effort at redemption after the torturing. Keep the living girl alive a while longer, feel like you're not that awful – that kind of thing. Who knew, but whatever it was, I was grateful.

Of course, this was Dean Winchester and despite how decent he was being for somebody who was morphing into Hell's version of Picasso, he wouldn't let the djinn thing go unspoken of either.

For the first time in four days, the only two people within the chamber were Dean and I. Alastair had another "appointment" with some other unlucky bastard and Dean was told to make the chamber presentable for the next soul. Instead of cleaning, Dean had broken his silence, denying me my escape for the evening and simultaneously breaking our routine for the first time as he informed me about the panic I had set off in Hell. Apparently Alastair had been so livid after my disappearance that not only had the number of demons in the Pit tripled after that incident, but Alastair supposedly had a bounty on my head as well. This came as a bigger surprise, but I suppose that it did make sense. I'm more than certain that souls don't have the freedom to just vanish when faced with danger. The only valid assumption that left was that I was another Ruby-esque demon who had been attempting to break Dean Winchester out. Of course, this also meant that Alastair himself would be attached to Dean's hip until I was found and the idea of Dean having to spend even more time with that monster sent guilt shooting through every nerve in my body.

"I'm sorry," I had told him earnestly.

His eyes remained hard and jaw clenched as he began wiping off a scalpel.

…

He ignored me for seven more days before he spoke to me again. My continued supposed absence must have set Alastair off enough to leave Dean alone for a second time.

The Adderall had failed me once more, I realize as my body goes through its own routine to fight against the environmental change. My lungs burned for air, prompting me to take in a deep breath, only succeeding in kick-starting my now regular, and violent, fits of coughing. The alveoli in my lungs that had only been exchanging carbon and oxygen mere seconds ago are now invaded by the poisonous smoke that seems to cover every inch of the ground, while the awful stench of sulphur makes its way through my nostrils. There are white spots dancing in my vision and my head is pounding. The smoldering ground upon which I lay is sure to set my skin aflame through the thin material of my pajama top, sticking it to my skin as my body temperature rises at an impossible rate. I don't need to open my eyes to know where I am. I had always heard that merely being in Hell would make it difficult for a person to breathe; I just never thought that would be such a literal thing. This breathing problem had begun with my nightly Hell trips and I was always fine within the minute, but that knowledge never stopped the onslaught of panic I endured each time this occurred.

Panic would probably kill me faster than this place would. I sort of regretted each time I ironically claimed that Dean Winchester was more important to me than oxygen. Yeah, no. Two things I've learned in the past three months: oxygen is much more necessary and I really need to stop caring so much about fictional characters.

It was only when the fog cleared that I registered the feeling of two fingers resting on my pulse.

Fingers. Green eyes. Freckles.

Oh god.

Cue my heart palpations.

He instantly drew back his hand upon noticing my open eyes and I'm fairly ashamed to admit that I noticed the missing body heat before I noticed that there was no soul getting tortured today. For the first time in a long time, I had not awoken to screams or a gruesome sight. I wish I had said something impressive during that moment. Flirtatious, snarky, anything. Alas, as nature would have it, I was neither flirty nor snarky. Just sarcasm and a brain full of memorized scientific equations. I am definitely not proud to admit that I laid on the ground in silence and stupidly stared at him with my mouth hanging open for several seconds before he spoke up.

"You planning on lying there all night?"

I manage to flush a shade of red that would put Crayola to shame before pushing myself up off the ground and proceeding to scoot backwards until my back is pressed against the warm wall of the torture chamber and I am hugging my knees to my chest.

"I wasn't planning on being here at all, actually." My own voice takes on a snappier tone by the end and for a second I think that there's amusement on his features as he seats himself upon the small table of torture tools across from me. I quickly turn away from him and opt to stare to the side instead. There is nobody on his rack, I confirm happily in my head, blissfully ignoring the fresh blood still staining it. I try to avoid looking at him as much as I can without making it obvious that my lack of eye contact is fear induced. Sometimes I'm afraid of seeing that joy stains his face after a successful torture session, but mostly I'm just afraid of the way I look at him in fear and sadness. Of all the people to look at in that manner…he shouldn't be one of them. Not him. I had gone on far too many times about Dean being a hero. I had spent too long believing in my own defensive words to be afraid of him now.

The most terrifying aspect of this entire situation itself is that despite the fact that it made me fear Dean, it always fades. Maybe that makes me the sick one, but I can't hate him. I can't harbour any ill feelings towards him other than disapproval. Knowing Dean's past, I often find myself thinking that maybe it's okay he's finally no longer the victim. That for once, it's okay that he gets to inflict the pain. I am wrong, though. Dean is still a victim to his own mind and if this version of him ever gets out of this place, I know for a fact that he would blame himself for every wound that he inflicted upon another.

Another sigh broke through me as I realized how rude that must have sounded. He had no reason to protect me from Alastair and all of Hell itself, yet here I was being ungrateful towards him.

"I'm sorry."

"You say that a lot."

"What?" My eyes snap to him in, curiosity filling me.

He shrugs.

"Sorry isn't an unusual word for the people in this place. The dead ones anyway."

Oh.

"Daisy, right?" I nod in confirmation. Despite having not heard it in person or through a speaker for so many nights, the gruff sound is so distinct to my ears by this point that I could pick it out of a crowd of people speaking all at once. "How did you know about the djinn?"

There it was. The question I had been waiting for since I had stupidly mentioned its parent topic during my own distress. I bite down on my lip, unwilling to tell the guy sitting across from me about how that certain aspect of his life was the episode before the second season finale on a show about his life. This version of Dean Winchester may be just as unreal as the television one, but if there's one other thing that I had stupidly done up until this point, that would be paying attention to every aspect of the character. When he and Sam were both sharing the screen, it was him that my eyes remained fixated on. When a bombshell had just been dropped on them, it was his reaction that I focused on. When the boys got injured, it was his pain that I felt for. I knew that he bit his nails when he was nervous. I knew that he ate so much food now because he used to go hungry so often for Sam when they were younger. I knew that he would lie about the severity of his injuries so that Sam would focus on himself first. Of course I knew about the djinn. I watched this guy grow from a soft, pretty eyed, young twenty six year old with hair that could rival a porcupine's head to a man who was torn apart by hellhounds because he loved his brother too much to let go. All of my knowledge was a result of me binge-watching three seasons in one month and reading every meta-analysis about him possibly written up until this point.

I also knew my brain well enough to know that it would use my extensive analysis of the character, Dean Winchester, and apply it to the figment it had conjured up. Meaning that if I told any of what I had just thought about to the guy sitting across from me, the most possible outcome of that would be another blade held up to my throat faster than I could blink. Yeah, that particular explanation would not go over well at all. For a second time since we've met, I decide to give him the partial truth.

"It's, um, sort of common knowledge for me…" I trail off vaguely, nervously tucking a few loose strands of my black hair behind my ear as I stared straight ahead at a small table filled with knives, scalpels and other shiny tools that I had seen in my biology textbooks. All of which held very different purposes down here. At least the months of watching those devices be used on people had made me less prone to the possibility of throwing up during an in-class dissection.

Wow, I really have become twisted if I'm comparing torturing people to dissecting fetal pigs and sheep hearts.

"Are you a hunter?" I can hear the surprise and almost understanding in his voice.

I had to laugh at that.

"What? No. God no." The idea of me as a hunter was far too ridiculous. Me, who wore pretty dresses, carried large handbags and was viciously in love with lipstick. I couldn't imagine trading any of it in for blood, ripped jeans and guns. I knew nothing about guns, anyway. I was certain that if even half of the crap that Sam and Dean hunted turned out to be real, I would be terrified to the point of cardiac arrest. The idea of being a hunter was one that was glamourized in the world of fandom and I won't lie, the job itself – if it were to exist – is admirable. You got to be a hero and save lives, but it was also one that I imagine came with a lot of baggage. Sam and Dean themselves were prime examples of this. I know for a fact that if the weight of the six billion lives rested on my weak shoulders, the knowledge of that alone would crush me beyond repair. Who was I to save people? Knowing me, I would die in such an embarrassing way that I would remain humiliated from beyond the grave. "My family is Muslim. Djinns are well known in Islam."

That wasn't a complete lie. While other kids were threatened to be grounded if they prolonged bedtime, my childhood consisted of my mother telling me and my sisters that a djinn would come to punish us if we didn't go to sleep.

"That doesn't explain how you knew that I went up against one."

"Did you?" I feign surprise, even raising my eyebrows for dramatic effect. "I didn't know that," I lie. "I don't even know you." Now that one was just laughable. "I was scared and saying things, I guess. I don't even think they're real, really." Lie.

He scoffs and it sounds more like "you're a terrible liar" in my mind, but he doesn't push the matter and for that I am grateful. He probably doesn't like the idea of a complete stranger knowing anything about him beyond his afterlife in the pit and doesn't want to entertain the idea of me having any kind of knowledge of him. If I were him, I would have torn my hair out in frustration if there was even a possibility that somebody who was a complete stranger to me could know so much about me.

"I'm Dean," he offers and I give him a small smile in return.

I know who you are.

"Daisy," I respond automatically before realization dawns on me once more and I feel the heat crawling up my neck, colouring my cheeks at an impossible rate. "Which you knew because I already told you… and you just asked me… and I'll just shut up now."

He only chuckles in response. Its short-lived and faint, but still wow, I think as my cheeks flush red again. That sound alone could literally stop wars.

A new question had been added to the ever growing list that had started with that very first nightmare. Why did Dean even bother acknowledging my presence? We both knew by this point that my being here was pretty unavoidable, but that didn't mean that there was anything stopping him from ignoring me. This wasn't a fanfiction. I have known from the very beginning that Dean is under no obligation to give a crap about me and nor would he, hence my confusion to him striking up yet another conversation the very next night. I expected him to have questions about the djinn thing and we had already had that specific conversation push both our comfort zones. He clearly didn't believe my answers, but I didn't expect any interaction beyond the follow-up questions. Follow-up questions that never came, apparently.

Alastair was once again missing in action and Dead has just finished torturing a twenty-something pre-school teacher. She had been the first victim who wasn't traditionally seen as destined for Hell. The majority of Dean's past victims, the ones whose crimes I had bothered to pay attention to, had been variations of racists, murderers, rapists, and the greedy. Their screams had been easier to ignore. The cries erupting from this woman's throat made my stomach churn with discomfort. Luckily this time I didn't have to see what was happening because Dean had oh so graciously handed me a blindfold the second he had heard my usual panicked breathing. I had never been more apprehensive of having my vision taken for a few hours. The idea of being blindfolded in Hell of all places made panic shoot through every nerve in my body, but the thought of being blinded from Dean's actions tempted me to wrap the slip of fabric around my head. Within seconds after he held it out for me, I was reaching for it. I tried to ignore the fact that the blindfold itself was yet another tool used to inflict the torture and accepted his offering with gratitude, avoiding any contact with the bloodstains on its material. The lack of skin to fabric contact did not stop my brain from wandering, however, and I still wondered where the stains had come from. Whether they had been used as wipe after a soul had gotten their eyeballs ripped out, as I had once seen Alastair perform on Dean, or if somebody's eyes had burned out of their skull while wearing what now acted as protection for mine. The only problem that came with being temporarily blinded was that it heightened every other sense that I possessed. Especially hearing.

A whimper leaves my own throat as the woman lets out a particularly loud scream and my hands automatically pressed harder into my head, pushing the three studs that stuck through my earlobe into the skin behind them. It was the silence after her wail that was deafening, however, and I pulled my legs further into my body in anticipation. Dean had started to play a game of his own since the razor had been passed down to him. He would pretend to end the session and allow the soul to think that he was giving them a chance to escape before he put a blade through their spine. I suspect that this new favourite hobby of his likely stemmed from the pain and despair he himself must have felt during one of his own sessions with Alastair back during his first month in the Pit. Alastair had pretended to end their session and a fake Sam had appeared in front of him, telling Dean that he had come to rescue him. It was only when "Sam's" eyes had flashed black and "he" had started blaming Dean for getting "him" back into hunting that Dean had been distracted enough to allow the copy of his brother to drive a blade through him.

The incident had hurt me too. There was something about watching the brothers together onscreen. Maybe it was when Dean had made the deal for Sam's life or when Sam had held his brother's body, but somewhere along the way their bond had become one of the reasons that I had kept watching. The idea of the Winchester brothers having a temporary fight was enough to bring me discomfort, but watching one stab the other? Especially Sam, the one person Dean had essentially forgone whatever pieces of childhood he may have possessed as a child for? Well that was entirely new levels of painful.

Would Dean have made me watch him do that to this woman if he knew how much the incident had affected me too? That was primary point of contemplation for me throughout the session. The years in Hell had effectively hurt him, that much was certain. He was clearly receiving pleasure from inflicting the same kind of pain on others, yet he protected me as much as he could all the same. The blindfold was proof of that considering that I had made almost no effort to hide how much these nightmares were affecting me; and why should I? If I wasn't safe to show my emotions in my own head, then where else was I supposed to? I still don't understand why Dean goes to such lengths for somebody he clearly distrusts, but if not dwelling on it is what has been getting me through these nights, then that was what I would do.

I was wrong though. Dean had forgone any tricks he may have held up his sleeve for tonight and had lowered my hands from my ears before untying the blindfold around my eyes. I couldn't stop the cry from escaping my throat upon seeing his blood-covered hands. He immediately retracted them from my body.

"Sorry." The apology was feeble and he sounded more ashamed than apologetic. I only shook my head in response.

"Don't. You–" I gestured helplessly towards him. "You don't belong here." My voice broke and the back of my head slammed against the wall the rest of my body rested on, frustration clouding my thoughts.

"How can you say that?" he growls at me and for a moment I almost think that I must have imagined the noise before I turn to face him and take in the broken expression on his face. "How can you say that after everything…Everything you've seen? Everything I've done?"

Was he serious? Did he actually think that after seeing everything that had happened to him, I was holding his actions of all things against him?

"You're joking, right? Dean, you were tortured for thirty years." I watch with amazement as his eyes widen. "I don't blame you for breaking."

His next words hit me harder than I expected to.

"What? No…it can't have…It's been longer than that," he states with certainty.

At most, I only spent a couple of hours here every night, but Dean? Dean spent every second in the Pit and what has only been a ratio of 1:10 to me must have felt like an eternity to him.

"Time moves differently here. It's faster than it is on Earth. A hundred and five times or so approximately, I think. I'm not precisely sure, I estimated. It's only been three months back…up there."

Its silent for several moments before he speaks up again

"You… you estimated how much faster time is in Hell?"

"Well I would have calculated it," my voice grows defensive as an incredulous look replaces the disbelieving one he wore only seconds ago, "but I can't get any accurate results unless I'm constantly in two places at once for a month straight. So I kind of just settled for an estimated 1:10 ratio."

"No…you tried to calculate how fast time in Hell moves." Yeah genius, we established that, I think to myself as he continues. "Who does that? Seriously, out of everything that happened here in the past thirty years, that's what you chose to focus on? Is that like a nerd thing? Do all nerds do that?"

My jaw drops open and the defensive feeling that had been slowly growing in my gut flared throughout my body within seconds.

"Okay dickwad, way to be stereotypical! It's because of the glasses, isn't it? You're totally stereotyping me because of my glasses!"

The incredulous look returns before his lips break into a small grin. What the hell?

"Okay, Penguin Pajamas. So are you a conspiracy theorist in addition to being a medical student or just out of it?"

What? I stare at him confused. Where could he have gotten that one from?

"You accused me of being stereotypical because of your glasses."

"It's a valid accusation!" I defend my words once more.

"Yeah, except you're not wearing any glasses, Einstein."

My face scrunches in confusion once more as my hands fly up to my eyes, feeling for the plastic frames and finding…nothing. Right, I didn't sleep with them on. Well that explained why I had been so painfully near-sighted in every single nightmare. I feel my face growing hot again before I grab a blade from him.

"Shut up," I groan in embarrassment as I bring the blade to my forearm.

"Wait."

Of all the days he could have chosen to be talkative…I sigh once more before motioning him to continue.

"Yes, Dean?"

He looks down for a few seconds, hesitation evident in his movements, before continuing.

"You said that I didn't belong here...How, how would you know that?"

Because I've seen you sacrifice yourself for your brother. Because I've seen you save more lives than you've hurt. Because I've seen you hurt.

Crap. He was expecting a legitimate response. I rub a sweaty hand on my pants nervously before looking at him.

"Alastair," his previously relaxed posture goes frigid again and I want to whack myself over the head for being the reason behind that, "he said once, when you guys couldn't see me, that you saved your brother?" He only nods in response, jaw clenched and eyes faraway – no doubt thinking of Sam. "Well that doesn't sound like somebody who deserves to be in Hell."

November 1st, 2008

Toronto, Ontario

As fate would have it, after Dean and I sort of started getting along, the nightmares stopped. As of today, I was officially around three months free of nightmares. I had cried the morning after the first night that I had slept through. The marks on my arms were fading to scars under my bandages and the dark circles under my eyes had disappeared. My complexion was back to normal and despite having to write the longest exam of my life the first day of my freedom, I have never felt better. Sure it would have been nice to have had more moments with Dean similar to the final one we had shared where the atmosphere had almost been light, but I felt no remorse towards the lack of goodbye between us. All that I cared about at this point was that I was happy and healthy again. I still reminisced about what I had seen in the hypothetical Pit, but that too was being pushed to the darkest corner of my mind where I would hopefully never encounter the memories again.

It had been difficult at first to forget, yes. I still had trouble even looking at a knife, let alone picking one up. It didn't matter if it was plastic or steel; a blade in a shaving razor or a butter knife. Sharp, metallic objects that were not my earrings or nose studs were off limits for me. The feelings of being emotionally numb had started to fade, however, and my social life was beginning to exist again. I was even able to sit through an entire conversation centered on Supernatural between my friends. I didn't flinch when Dean's name was mentioned and even inquired about Ruby's new actress and the character of Castiel, but I never asked for details beyond that. I still hadn't laid eyes upon the fourth season nor did I plan to. How TV-Dean had gotten out of Hell was none of my concern and no matter how much I missed the feelings of excitement that rushed through me every time I had seen an episode or a BM scene, I couldn't bring myself to watch the fourth season or anything before it. I would not subject myself to those nightmares again.

…

"Come on… where is it?" I fumbled through my handbag for the keys to my apartment. Medical school was impossibly hard and all I wanted to do was collapse on my bed. It still astonished me how I had managed to pass the MCAT with the condition the nightmares had put me in.

Relief washed over me as I felt the cool metal against my skin. Here I come, sweet sleep. I quickly stomped into the apartment as soon as I heard the click of the lock, my heels louder than usual. This had been a habit of mine that I had developed as soon as I had moved out of my parents' house for university. A show about demons and ghosts didn't scare me nearly as much as the idea of coming home to an apartment with an intruder in it. Silence greeted me in return and I let out a sigh of relief, quickly locking the door before turning to face the rest of the apartment.

Bed. Bed. Bed. Be-

My eyes widened in fear as they met a pair of grey. Crap.

I stared at the man who had managed to come up behind me without making a sound. He doesn't look like an intruder. His suit was far too fancy for breaking and entering and his greying hair made him look more like some corporate CEO than a petty robber. Still, what else did you call a guy who had entered your apartment while you were out and was now staring down at you as if he had won a prize? I felt my stomach twisting and the goose bumps rising over my bare legs as I attempted to take a step back, which only resulted in my spine meeting the front door. Crap. I had no place to escape, I realized as the man came closer, his eyes taking me in as if I was some kind of prey.

Oh god. I could die tonight. Think, Daisy. Think!

"I –" My voice cracked as I struggled to speak. "Al – All of my money is in the other room. I don't hav –"

He cut me off with a laugh as I stared at him in horror. The bastard was laughing at me.

You'll be fine, Daisy. Just go for the groin.

"I don't want your money, girl." He had me completely trapped between him and the door now. It was now or never, I realized, as I tried to bring my knee up as subtly as possible, hoping for the best. What was I even doing? I had never taken lessons for any form of fighting or self-defense and here I was, trying to fight off a guy in three inch heels and a skirt. I quickly slammed my knee into his groin, silently cheering and expecting him to instantly double over in pain. I was sure that he would. It had been a clear hit…and he barely flinched. Crap! His eyes narrowed in anger and before I had even registered his hand moving towards me, he was pulling my hair, forcing me to let out a pained groan. "You will pay for that, you pathetic ape."

Ape?

I barely had a second to react to the odd insult before he had pressed two fingers against my forehead and the world had begun to spin.

…

It had stopped as soon as it began, leaving me with an ache in my head and a feeling of nausea. I clutched my head and stumbled for a few seconds before managing to get my feet to stay in one place for longer than a second. The nausea wasn't as strong as it had been mere moments ago, but the sunlight wasn't helping – wait sunlight? My eyes snapped open and my hand fell back to my side as I took in my surroundings. This definitely is not my apartment. Only seconds ago I had been standing in a dark apartment, upon a wooden floor, and had been trapped between an overly dressed intruder and a door. Now, I stood in the middle of a grassy field, under the glaring sunlight, surrounded by fallen trees. The area must have been a forest once, but now it looked as if a nuclear bomb had been dropped on it.

Where am I?

My eyes fall on the cross in that stands in the middle of the perfect circle of destruction. Was that supposed to be a grave? Within seconds of noticing it, I managed to cross the area of grass that separated me from it.

'No name', I think to myself as I trace the wood with my finger. I wonder why anybody would create a grave out here? Its a voice that snaps me out of my pondering.

"Help!" The voice is faint and for a moment I think that I must have imagined it. A feeling of unease takes over as I step back from the cross and turn to face the distance beyond the site. There was no way I was still in Canada, but how did I manage to even leave my apartment in the first place? Was this a dream? Were the nightmares back?

"Help!" I couldn't have imagined that. While still faint, it was undoubtedly there.

"H – hello?" My own voice is shaking as I frantically search for the source. I can't pinpoint its direction and the idea of leaving this unknown place for something even more foreign terrifies me. It's almost as if the sound is coming from below me… but that's impossible? Whoever's grave this was, they must have been long gone by now.

But what if they're really in trouble?

The distinct noise of something collapsing reaches my ears and before I am able to even comprehend what is taking place, my right foot is falling through open air where there was once hard earth and a warm hand is clutching my ankle. A scream escapes my throat as the hand tugs my leg towards it. Was it trying to pull me in with it? Panic overtakes every part of me as I furiously begin to fight the unknown hand.

"Let go of me!" I struggle against the tight hold, kicking where possible, hands frantically clutching at grass as I am pulled further into the grave. I can barely hear the groaning and gasping of whoever is clutching my ankle over my own screams as another hand grabs a hold of my thigh as if it is a lifeline. "Get off!" I scream, finally managing to kick the perpetrator somewhere.

Another groan and then release.

My heart is pounding as I desperately grab at the grass, attempting to pull myself up, and stumble forwards. My heels are digging into the grass and were it any other circumstance, I may have complained about the dirt stains, but this was not any other situation. Somebody had crawled out of a grave, somehow, and now they wanted me to move in. My sole focus right now had to be on survival. What if the freaky zombie tried to grab me again? What if he was some kind of serial killer? What if he was just some guy who had been buried alive? The possible scenarios ran through my head as I felt a heel give out from underneath me, causing me to come crashing down.

No, no! Get up!

My heart was beating frantically as I grabbed at more grass. My efforts only proving to be futile. I had to calm down if I wanted to be able to successfully run away from some grave crawler with a broken heel. Did he even manage to pull the rest of him up, or were his hands still grasping onto whatever they could? Curiosity got the best of me as I pulled myself up to rest on my forearm and glanced back to see the man lying on his back, panting.

He didn't look like a zombie. No, in fact he seemed rather familiar. My eyes widened in realization as I really took in his features. Dirty blond hair covered in dirt, a freckled nose and two layers. Holy crap!

"Dean?"

His eyes finally opened as he pushed himself up to face me. They're green and only confirm my suspicions.

"Daisy?"

Closing Note: Wow, thirteen pages in Word! I hope you guys don't mind, but I felt like I owed you all something long for the long wait. Any guesses on who the intruder might have been? I think I made it pretty obvious, haha. Its quite late here so I apologize for any errors that may be present, but I feel like this chapter's release has been delayed enough already. Please review and let me know your thoughts about this one! See you in chapter four!