In the moments before Dean Campbell opened his eyes to the
fire burning him alive, he found himself lost within a
dream of stone and light, where bones crunched underfoot
and a chain pressed hard around his ankle, binding him
tight within the center of a raggedy sand circle. A deep
dream, an old dream, the kind he rarely had anymore, and
it was only the scent of roasting meat that pulled him
from the mystery of shadows inside him mind. Pulled him
free and floating, consciousness returning with a hard
peeling light that became, after a moment's confusion, an
inferno, a sheet of pure heat washing over his naked body
.
Fire. He was on fire.

Dean screamed. He screamed until his eyes bulged, but he
made no sound. His throat was hostage. And like his voice,
his body refused him. He could not move. Paralyzed, or
maybe he was already dead and this was hell: forced to
watch himself burn to ash, his life given up like a paper
doll to a matchstick, some human sacrifice to the white-
hot beast licking his eyes, melting his mouth, pushing
deep inside his ears to roar like thunder; a sound to ride
his terror upon as he silently screamed, screamed and
screamed until something broke inside his head and
shattered.

He felt hands on his body. Real hands, the kind he had not
felt in years. Small and female, delicate. Moving against
his chest, sinking into his splitting flesh. Scratching.
Cutting. Carving an incision above his heart. He felt no
pain, no -- nerve endings melting, sloughing away like old
skin -- but he sensed those fingers -- oh God, oh God --
slide into his body past bone to wrap tight around his
hammering heart, and he thought, This is it, I'm gonna
die, I'm already dead, what a loser, what a goddamn way to
end it. But as the hand squeezed inside his chest, fingers
unforgiving, another voice intruded on Dean's mind, a
voice loud and clear and unfamiliar, and he heard a man
say, No, not yet, not again.

And just like that, the fire boomed, puffed, the pressure
eased. The world collapsed into darkness.

Screams. Dean heard terrible screams. He thought someone
else must be hurt, dying -- get up, get up, get your gun
and fight -- but after a moment of dazed horrified wonder
he realized that it was him -- his voice, finally working -
- and what a beautiful awful sound. He could not shut his
mouth. He could not stop his body from writhing as the
paralysis eased. Yet still, blindness; a darkness absolute…
until Dean raised a shaking hand and touched his face

He opened his eyes. The world came into soft-lit focus: a
white ceiling, creamy walls, a darkened window covered in
ivory sheers. Hotel finery at its best. Clean and perfect
and not on fire.

Not on fire.

He sucked in his breath and closed his eyes. Gripped the
rumpled sheets between his fists to steady himself before
slowly, carefully, touching his body. He was naked,
covered in sweat, but his skin was smooth and he felt no
pain. He was whole. Intact. Still had a penis and all the
other bits that went with it. No bad smells, like meat or
smoke. Just the light sweet scent of orchids.

So. Just a dream, then. A goddamn dream.

Dean sat up. Cold metal spilled from the hollow of his
throat; a woman's locket, hanging from a thin chain around
his neck. He gripped the necklace hard, savoring the
rounded edge that cut into his palm. Gulped down long cold
breaths that did nothing to slow his heart. He felt woozy,
nauseated. Tried to imagine the fire as a dream and could
not. The heat was still too real.

His knuckles brushed against his chest, the skin above his
heart. He felt a scar, but that was familiar, old news.
Except, just below it he touched something else, a ridge
that should not be, and Dean opened his eyes.

There was a mark. A red curving line, like a welt or
bloody tattoo, the afterthought of a sharp knife. Dean
pressed his fingers against it, tracing the edges. He felt
pain. The first pain since opening his eyes to the fire,
the dream.

Or maybe not a dream at all. Dean remembered those small
hands, the sensation of fingers pushing, pushing so damn
hard into his chest, wrapping around his heart. Squeezing.
He remembered that voice in his head. He remembered fire.

All of it, so real. Real enough to kill. Real enough to
almost make sense, considering what he had been chasing
for the past three days. Which, given his luck, meant one
thing only.

He was in some very deep shit.