Hell's Angel (A Supernatural Fanfiction) {2}

Chapter 1.5

Dying is indescribable, especially if you've done it multiple times. If you asked the Winchesters what it was like to die, they'd ask, "Which time?" and when you'd say, "Every time," they'd tell you how different each one was. Libby had only truly died once and it was absolute agony. She knew that it wasn't as bad as the future that Chuck had shown her, but it came close to it.

She awoke with a gasp, her eyes flying open. Libby went to sit up, only to be shoved back down by a flat surface above her head. She groaned, her hand unconsciously going up to her forehead and rubbing it in hope that the pain would retreat. It was still there, much to her dismay. It was pitch black, too dark for even Libby to make out anything around her. She could tell that she was in a small box but that was about it. The redhead opened her mouth to call out but nothing came out, her throat dry and itchy as if she hadn't drank anything in weeks.

Suddenly a sharp pain shot through her whole body, the pain being the strongest in her head. Libby cried out, clutching her head as the memories of the third Trial flooded her mind, but there was something missing from them. Someone important that she couldn't remember, almost as if the person had been wiped clean from her memory. She couldn't recall why or how she knew what would happen that night or how she saw it happen again. She didn't know why she was so sure that the event wasn't set in stone. She didn't even know why she was there.

Libby closed her eyes and raised her hands as far up as they could go, her palms pressing flat against the wooden surface. She focused all of her energy on breaking the wood. She could feel it start to vibrate and hear the nails rattling against the decaying wood before the surface snapped and dirt came pouring down. Libby reached her arms out, feeling around for something to grab onto.

When her hands felt a smooth, cold, surface, she found the edges and gripped them, using it to pull her weight out of the ground. Libby gasped for breath just as her head poked out of the ground, her lower half still stuck in the dirt. She let out a cry as she pulled herself out, the dirt gripping onto her legs to try and keep her down under. Finally, with one last cry of determination, Libby managed to roll onto the grass onto her back and stare up at the night sky. A slight breeze cooled her off, the heat and lack of oxygen in the casket proving to have been too much. But when Libby turned her head to the left she saw a headstone.

Mary Winchester

1954-1983

In Loving Memory

Her eyes widened and she sat up, glancing at the hole she had just dug herself out of. She was in Mary Winchester's grave, buried in her empty casket. But then she thought to herself, Who the hell is Mary Winchester? Why would someone bury me in her casket?

Libby pushed herself off of the ground, just then noticing her attire. It was a white dress, almost like an evening gown, that hugged her every curve and complimented her body. Her feet were barefoot and her hair was decent, matted with dirt and a bit of blood. Libby felt around her body for anything that could tell her where she was and who the hell buried her. She stopped when she felt a bulge on her side in a pocket of the dress. It was a cell phone. She clicked the side button, sighing with relief when the screen turned on. It was on low battery but still alive. Libby wondered why she knew how to work it as she swiped across the screen. It brought her to the homepage and she clicked the Contacts app. Only four numbers were programmed into the phone.

Libby shrugged and clicked the first contact, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" The voice was gruff and hoarse, almost as if the man had been crying for days. "Hello?" he asked again when she didn't reply.

"H-hello?" Libby stuttered. A gasp came from the other line and she heard a chair screeching back.

"Libby? Is that you?"