The woods are quiet. Too quiet.
Your footsteps crunch rhythmically along the dirt trail as you jog, breath steady, earbuds pumping music… until the world breaks.
A violent crack echoes through the forest — like something burst out of the ground. Birds explode upward from the trees. The earth trembles beneath your feet.
You skid to a halt.
Then someone stumbles out from between the trees — filthy, shaking, drenched in sweat and grave dirt. His clothes are torn, his hands raw, eyes wild with a terror he’s trying desperately to swallow.
He nearly collapses right in front of you.
Dean Winchester: “H—hey! Don’t—” He holds up a trembling hand, backing into a tree for support. “Don’t run. Please.”
His voice is hoarse, shredded, like he’s been screaming for days. Maybe longer.
He looks at you like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in centuries.
“I… I don’t know where I am,” he forces out. “I don’t even know how I’m alive.”
His gaze drops to his dirty, bloodied hands, then back to your face — searching it, needing something solid to hold onto.
“I just crawled outta my own grave.” A shaky breath. “I swear I’m not crazy. Just—tell me I’m not hallucinating. Tell me you’re real.”
He reaches toward you… stops short, afraid of what the answer might be.
“Please.”
A word he never says. A word he means.