➵ burnin' for you // open { revival 2.0 }
Though once-vivid childhood memories had long since faded with the passing of time, Dean Winchester could still remember quite clearly fragments of his youth. He could remember, in particular, the day his normal life went up in a blazing inferno— the heat of his burning house hot on his back as he carried little Sammy out the front door. That day, the life of Mary Winchester had been consumed by flames, burned alive on the ceiling of his brother’s nursery. The first of the Winchester clan to fall— and until now, the only one whose existence had been robbed by a literal fire. Sam had come close, of course, and all three of the Winchester men: John, Dean and Sam alike, had all experienced the horror called the pits of Hell.
Playing with fire, it seemed, never yielded good outcome for their family.
A violent death came hand-in-hand with a violent awakening. He died in between a maze of food stands, lean frame eaten away by Belphegor’s magic until there was nothing left, merely a charred, unrecognizable corpse. But he woke with a start in the infirmary, the breath returning to his lungs with a wide, hungry inhale. It simply wouldn’t do for a player in this game of mutual killing to be cast from the fun permanently— but while Dean’s body had been renewed and kept mostly intact, that did not mean the experience of returning to life was any more pleasant than the previous time. In fact the searing pain across his chest, where the flames had first made contact with his skin, made it incomparable to his first resurrection. Where Dean had once stumbled to his feet within minutes, this time he lie paralyzed within the cot, widened eyes fixed on the ceiling, breathing forced and ragged.
His first coherent thought was simple, once his breath finally steadied and he adjusted to the lingering aches and stabbing pains: God, the Hell’d I do this time?
Closing his eyes, the Winchester would’ve been more than content to rest for a long, long while. But as fate would have it, the click of the door and a sudden flood of sunlight into the room signalled the presence of another. Whether they’d come to see him on purpose, or had merely accidentally stumbled upon a man burned alive and returned to the living, was unclear. Dean’s brow furrowed, and through closed eyes, he called out hoarsely, “…I sure hope you’re here bearing 'get well soon' gifts.”
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