░░ ⊰ — ≜ ❜ his arm seared with the imprint of a hand whose origins were yet unaccounted for. dean winchester awoke beneath soil, jarred by the distinct impression that he was secluded in his own thoughts, fashioning himself a life of confinement. with minimum struggle, he grappled for the surface, finding scattered roots, tugging, unleashing all matter of dirt and other various living things upon his unguarded visage. tendrils shook wildly as he still pursued this one simple quest he’s set upon himself. the shackles bound to his soul were then severed, but the pieces were jagged at the edges, uneven ; this puzzle could not be put back together in the common way. when he reached the surface, he was not met with reassurance. his surroundings reeked with terrible magic, and dean's heart weighed heavy with fear for what his brother might have done.
but it wasn't his brother. all around them, demons and hunters alike, his survival was a daunting mystery ; and then they found pamela. pamela hears the whispers of the name balthazar -- however once she chances a glimpse, her eyes burn right out, and many others followed. the message is far from a favourable one.
his nature was corroded. dean winchester bore the scars of a man who was offered a lifetime of service in pandemonium ; with breath abated he waits for an unseen calamity governed by a semblance of puissance he'd not seen before. was this simply the work of a higher grade demon? this was no azazel, no lilith ; nothing he's yet to have witnessed.
these actions were reckless, his decisions rash, but dean couldn't live in the shadow of a debt collector with no notion of what was to come. he was intended for something. that's all that could be driven into his skull ; but he wouldn't allow himself to set fire to the world. he had done that already; though this, this he did not yet know.
the walls had been painted, all faiths respected, an array of weapons arranged upon his working board to anticipate the harbinger. it's been minutes, hours, and dean tires ; he's impatient, he's intolerant, he's anguished. he's a number of questions to ask, but he's more anxious to stab than confer with the beast. there's a darkness to him that seeks evasion, that lurks beneath his skin -- and the tiles above the roof begin to rattle, the wind whirls and pounds, the lights go out, one by one. his saviour had come to honour his summon, and by extension, honour dean winchester's opposite end of the gun. it's instinctive ; bobby and himself lunge for the shotgun, and when the doors are thrown upon and unhinged, they fire away. there was no stopping the hunter instinct -- but it was all in vain.
the man keeps to his approach, and dean's fingers curl around their demon blade. ❝ who are you? ❞ his voice rings with hostility, his eyes fixated on one very simple purpose : the purpose to kill.