Summary: Dean's time is up and he's dead and gone to Hell. But Sam still won't give up on him, and some promises are even stronger than deals with the devil. AU spinoff Season 4 Episode 1: Lazarus Rising. (i.e. An alternate version of how Dean came back from Hell.)

Rating PG-13

Author: BlackDewintheMorning

Disclaimer: As for ownership: I wish it was mine, but it's not.

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Author's (Very Long) Note:

/looks around abashedly/ So. I really, really wasn't on planning on writing this. I wasn't even thinking about writing it. In fact, I was so against writing it, that I'm still not entirely sure how it showed up on my monitor.

November is terrible. Whoever chose November to be NaNoWriMo should be shot. There is just no time to write anything, between all the essays, projects, and traveling for Thanksgiving break and all. I've been so stressed out that even writing—my usual escape from the real world—has been too much. So I decided to catch up on a TV show I haven't watched for at least a year: Supernatural.

I shouldn't have done it.

But it's done. I'm caught up with the show, and intrigued about what's going to be happening next. Still, as I was browsing through looking for good ff to help me with my continued procrastination of work (I've never touched the Supernatural fanfiction category), I got bored and impatient, and decided I needed something really distracting—especially considering that at the moment I'm trying to put off doing a 12 page essay that's due this next Tuesday (Why is it that all the fun goes out of writing when you *have* to do it?).

Before I knew it I had two chapters of this story written out. I was about to save it along with the million other "ideas that will probably never be finished" files that are cluttering my computer, when I figured, what the heck? I'll post it and see what people think, though I have no idea how far this is going to go. The idea snuck up and pounced on me, I'm afraid.

For my other readers, don't worry about me dropping "The Meaning of Pain." I have been working on it, but regretfully not in very good chronological order. Some scenes are just demanding to be written out of order. :) It's fun, but it's not very helpful on the posting front. Still, I'm planning on polishing up the next chapter and posting the first week of December. Keep hope!

So on to the story. As usual--unbetaed, and fresh from my mind disgorged onto the 'net for all of you to enjoy (heh). Anyway, now that you know my life's story, enjoy. I'd love to hear what you think!

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Prologue:

Sam scrambled across the floor, ignoring Ruby/Lilith's dead body. His knees soaked with blood from the floor as he caught a hold of Dean, raising him up slowly.

Dean didn't answer. His glazed eyes stared, caught in the middle of pain and shock and cut short as his heart was ripped from him.

"No, Dean, no. Dean!" Sam's voice broke. "Dean!"

Sam cried out, hunching over his brother's body and letting his grief take him.

Dean Winchester was dead, his soul dragged to hell.

It was over.

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Chapter 1: What the Fudge?

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Three months later.

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Eyelids went first. Peeled off, ripped off, shredded or scorched. Always went first.

They liked to have him see.

They liked to have him watch. Liked to have him see as he felt. Made it worse—always made it worse.

Heart clawed out. Liver shredded, dripping black blood like tears. Gut peeled open like an autopsy. Eyes gauged out by pins, by knives, by fingernails. Eyes always last, though. Always last. Just a millisecond of darkness. A fraction of rest, of blindness, before it all started over again . . .

It went dark.

. . . . .

"Graaaaaaaaaargh!" Dean jerked awake, his heart beating fit to burst. Pain, pain, pain . . .

No. It was fading. Memory. God, they'd done it again, hadn't they? No, not God. Pure Hell. They'd carved him up, nothing left. Carved him to his bones an started over, always started over.

He blinked furiously, liquid spilling from his eyes, but his vision didn't clear. Darkness surrounded him, stifling him.

What the hell?

It was dark. Why was it dark? It was never dark. Always bright, too bright, even in the shadows. No rest, no exit, no escape.

He reached out, the fact that he could move his arms only sending a further tremor of terror down his spine. Just above his face—wood. To the sides, too. The air was close, thick, musky. Too tight. Couldn't breathe.

They'd gotten tired of the old games. Gotten tired and decided to play something new.

Dean thumped his fist against the wood. Dirt trickled down, scattering over his face, his clothes.

Burying him alive? That was new.

He gasped, choking on his own breathe as panic began to rise.

Not again. Please, not again. I'll do anything.

"Tryin' to scare me?" Dean rasped hoarsely. Spit tasted like blood. Everything tasted like blood, until they would cut out his tongue and he couldn't taste anything at all. "I ain't gonna give, you sons of bitches. I ain't gonna give, you hear?!"

He slammed his fists against the wood, heedless of the pain as his breath hitched. The pain was nothing compared to what was coming, and it didn't matter. He needed the fury, the rage. It was almost enough to ignore the desperation that was screaming despite the defiant words.

No more. He'd give in. Couldn't take it anymore. Please . . . .

"Help!" he gasped, clawing at the boards. His fingernails snapped and blood ran down his hands in the darkness. "Help!"

His fingers found a crack in the wood. Panting, he slid his fingers in. The board moved, raining dirt onto him, into his mouth. He froze, lungs freezing with panic.

Buried alive. How deep? Had they buried him in the basement of hell? Got bored of him and thrown him out?

"Damn this," he whispered. He wrenched the board aside. It's not like it could kill him. He was already dead.

A hundred pounds of dirt collapsed onto him. He choked, scrambling upwards, fighting the pull as the dirt threatened to pull him down, and down, and down. . . .

His lungs were bursting. His blind eyes were white as his body screamed for him to breathe, but he swam through the filth, swam through the darkness, choking on the scent of death as he rose up, and up . . .

"Gah!" He burst through the earth, gasping in a breath full of air. He choked, spitting out dirt onto the ground as he dragged himself out onto the grass . . . . "Guh, uh, uh . . . ."

Grass?

He wiped the dirt from his eyes and opened them, immediately shrinking back and raising an arm to shade himself from the brightness. His breath caught, sending up a coughing fit that sent another mouthful of dirt-crusted spit into the dirt.

Still shading his eyes, he squinted around, his heart twisting like a knife. Grass. Blue sky. The sun.

"God, no," he panted. He looked behind him. A wooden cross stuck out at the head of the ground where he'd broken through. His grave. He turned around, tears stinging his eyes. "What games're you playin' now, huh? You think you can trick me? Show me freedom and pull it away just like that? You can't fool me, you bastards. I'm not your bitch!"

Silence. Dead silence. Dean stood slowly, waiting for them to appear. Waiting.

Nothing. A bird sang in the distance.

A bird?

He turned towards the sound, still shading his eyes against the blinding light, then went still.

The trees around him were flattened, knocked over. Some ripped right out of the ground, roots and all. The bird sang on.

Demons might be clever in their nastiness, but this was a bit far out, even for one of them. They liked things simple, like a knife scouring flesh from the bone.

He turned around slowly, taking in the scene.

Was he out?

He expected something at the thought—hope, elation, joy, relief. But there was nothing.

He couldn't let himself hope. They'd shatter it all over again. He couldn't take it again. Couldn't lose it again.

He turned, lifting a hand to brush the dirt from his shirt, but as his hand brushed his shirt agony shot down his spine and he gasped, recoiling in on himself as he stared down.

His hand was pressed over his chest, blood leaking between his fingers from the claw marks that had shredded him, tore out his heart, killed him.

"Son of a bitch," he gasped, staring at the blood flooded down his front. Why hadn't he noticed before?

Already felt too much. Gone numb. Even the agony was distant.

Blood trickled down his hand as he stared, and but stopped at his elbow. He froze, bringing his other hand up to his right arm.

He'd had a scar there for years, sliced right down the length of his forearm, and as familiar to him as any part of his body. It was gone.

A white pentagon was seared in its place—plain, unadorned, and he hissed and pulled back as his fingers brushed it. The mark still burned.

What the hell was going on here? This felt a bit much for the sadistic bastards downstairs, though he wouldn't put it past them.

On the other hand, if he was out . . . .

Dammit, Sammy, what have you done?

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TBC . . .

I know this starts out almost exactly like the episode, but I'm just setting the stage and trying to get the feel for writing these new characters. Next chapter should probably be up tomorrow.