At last! The squeal to Reincarnated! I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting.

I was all ready to post a few chapters right away right now, I uploaded the cover and everything, but aside for this one chapter I had on Google Docs, the rest is on a jump drive I left at my house, and I won't be able to get until Tuesday morning when I get back from Green Bay.

I'm so sorry my cupcakes!

Very very very very very very very very very sorry!

A few more chapters will be posted July 21, 2015 (Tuesday) at 9:00 am, Eastern Standard Time.

But, here's a little snipit to hold you over until then... ;)

Omniscient POV

Abruptly, Dean inhaled.

The harsh feeling of dry, stale air rushing into his lungs made him cough; it felt like he hadn't used them in years. Dean gave a few raspy calls for help, but his voice was too dry and quiet. After blindly feeling around his pockets, he pulled out a lighter. With an expert flick of his thumb, a small flame burst out.

With the light from the flame, Dean was face to face with the top of a pine box. As startling and conclusive as the sight was, he fidgeted around the box briefly before he closed the lighter and began slamming his hands against the top of the box.

When it broke open, Dean barely had time to take a deep breath before dirt poured down on him. He pushed, kicked and crawled his way to the surface.

The sun was blinding as he broke through the surface. With half of his body still in the ground, Dean had to lean over to the grass, taking deep breaths. He was pretty sure he was using parts of his lungs he hadn't used in years.

After yanking his lower body out of the dirt, he looked at the poorly made wooden cross that stuck out, crooked, from the ground. Along the horizontal part, were the letters 'RIP D.W.'. Dean rolled his eyes and batted the cross lazily with his hand, making it fall onto the ground. Nikki must have made it; she had shit skills with a hammer and nails, but much neater knife-carving letters than Sam.

Nikki and Sam.

Fleeting thoughts about his brother and 'best friend' raced through Dean's mind as he got to his feet; specifically Nikki sobbing and hurting the knuckles in his hand. He yanked off the dirty long-sleeved shirt he was wearing and looked around. The field he'd been buried in had been surrounded by trees; it was like a bomb went off. They were stripped of their leaves and needles, and no longer upright. Every tree for about a mile ha fallen trees that radiated around his grave.

Dean tied his flannel around his waist, and started walking.

Using his shirt to soften the blow, Dean used his elbow to break the glass of a gas station door. He reached through the broken pane and turned the knob.

He didn't even check to see if there was anybody in the backroom. He made a beeline for the glass-doored fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He drank half of the first in one gulp. After he finished it off, along with two others, he leaned against the wall. Dean idly recalled Nikki saying that if you drank cold water when you were overheating you'd get a stomach cramp. He chuckled slightly, and started his third bottle of ice cold water.

The gas station looked like it hadn't seen any new technology since 1980; which didn't sit too well with Dean. The newest things in the place where the news papers. He was feeling a mix of anxiousness and dread as he walked towards them.

How long had he been in Hell?

The Pontiac Daily Gazette was dated Thursday, September 18, 2008.

"September..." Dean trailed off.

Jesus, it'd only been a few months.

In the bathroom, Dean turned the sink to the coldest it would go and splashed it over his sweaty, grimy face. After he dried his face with his dirty flannel, he stared at his reflection for a second or two. He cautiously lifted the hem of his black t-shirt, jaw clenched in readiness for the criss-cross of scars he assumed would be there.


Not a scar or mark on his chest; aside from the black anti-possession tattoo.

Dean remembered the feeling of the steel-cold claws of the hellhound ripping through his chest. Nikki had screamed with every swipe. Then his airway had been snapped at; blood had bubbled up in his throat and over his lips. He'd looked at Nikki then, after he couldn't breathe. She'd been cut up pretty bad too; there was blood on her t-shirt (he couldn't tell what was his and what was hers) and a gash on her cheek. Dean remembered holding Nikki's hand, and her repeating I'm not letting go over and over.

And there wasn't a scratch on him.

Well, that wasn't entirely true; there was a nasty, painful red burn on his shoulder. It chafed and burned against his rough burn, shaped like a hand print, was where Nikki had pressed her head while she cried. Of everything that had happened to him in Hell, nothing would have done that.

Dean grabbed a random candy bar off a shelf. He ripped off the rapper and took a bite. He shrugged at the taste (it wasn't amazing, but it looked better than most of the crap in the place), and threw a few handfuls in the plastic bag he'd snagged from behind the counter. After grabbing the rest of the water bottles, he made his way to the cash register. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he'd need cash.

He stopped and picked up the copy of Busty Asian Beauties off the rack. Dean chuckled to himself at the pun he'd come up with in his mind; off the rack. After briefly paging through the magazine, he added it to his bag.

As he was emptying the register, the TV turned on. Dean paused, and slowly turned the static-screened TV off.

The radio on the other side of the counter turned on. Tacky country music came from the speakers. A high pitched ringing started, and the TV turned back on.

The ringing grew louder, and Dean grabbed salt off the shelf.

His face pinched in discomfort; this was the sound Nikki had made back in the hotel and in the house with Gordon. It was a loud sound that Dean could feel in his bones; the one thing he remembered about Nikki's episodes with that sound, it was that it was only going to get louder.

What he wasn't expecting was for it to get so loud so fast. It'd taken at least a few minutes, this was painfully loud in seconds.

Dean gave up on the salt, and pressed his hands to his ears. He crouched down on instinct, thankfully. The remaining glass panes of the door shattered inwards. He jumped away from the broken glass, only to land in more.

In a desperate attempt, he threw himself back towards the register; the windows across from it shattered. Glass rained down on Dean's face.

The ringing stopped abruptly. Dazed and mildly hurting, Dean sat up.

As he looked around at the shattered glass, he sighed once.

This is new.


800 miles away in New Haven, Connecticut, a blonde grad student jerked out of the half-asleep state she'd been in.

A few months ago when she signed up for her final semester of classes, she'd been drawn to the adorable boy who was at the table for America's Unwritten Constitution. Little did she know, he wasn't the TA who'd be teaching it, just some random kid who was in the PE program.

Now, twice a week she had to sit for two hours and listen to a woman with a nasal voice talk about the ground rules of constitutional interpretation, how it interacts with judicial decisions blah blah blah.

Nicole, the half-asleep grad student, had been happily day dreaming her way into sleep with thoughts about her four free weeks before she really had to start studying; just her and Sammy, a half-gallon of cake batter ice cream and crappy daytime TV.

Then this— this voice in her head head had bellowed out literally the most random sentence ever. It'd surprised her so much that when she jerked awake, she let out a little yelp and actually slipped out of her chair.

"Miss Lani."

Slowly, Nicole peeked over her desk, and down the lecture hall at the TA with the nasal voice.


"Would you like to explain why you're on the floor?" She asked, a hand on her poorly dressed, paisley-printed 90s skirt clad hip.

She hopped back into her seat with a wide, slightly nervous, grin on her face. "No...No, I'm good."

The TA continued with her lecture; Nicole awkwardly rubbed the spot on the back of her hip that she landed on, and furrowed her brow in thought.

Who the hell is Dean Winchester?