✸

My muse just dreamt that they got killed by yours. Send me ‘✸’ for my muse to wake up from their nightmare and seeing yours.

It was one of those nights. Dean was stuck with the magic asshole (both in that he was such a dick it was almost unbelievable and the bastard actually could do magic) again, and with a case on hand, the Winchester wouldn’t risk drinking himself stupid just for a few hours of peaceful sleep. Hangovers he could deal with, but being woken up by the damn thing you’re trying to kill while you’re still hammered? That was a sure-fire way to get killed. Unless you had backup, that was, and yeah, what great backup another drunk would be.

While John stayed on the bed of the shitty motel room in the tiny little town they were working a case in, Dean dozed off on the couch after a few hours of mind-numbing TV. Eventually, sleep swallowed him whole. ( last time he’d checked, the clock read 2:48AM. )                                        Big mistake.

“What the hell are you doing?” He barked out, anger pulsing through him as he kept his gun pointed directly at the mage’s head as he painted the dark alleyway with blood. Dean couldn’t make out the sigils he’d made against the concrete, but he knew. Somehow, he knew. “We’re supposed to be saving these people from a demon, John, not invoking one!”

“How do you propose we do that, mate?” John spat back as he began chanting. Dean couldn’t breathe with the fear rising up in him, and soon, he couldn’t move.

“I’m not afraid t’ kill you, John. Step outta the circle! I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you do this! I’m begging you. Don’t!”

“Sorry, old son...” John replied sheepishly before Dean began to cough, wildly, as he finished the first half of his incantation. He was killing him.

“John!” He coughed out, though the blood spilling from his mouth almost made him choke. He last thing he saw as his vision went dark was John’s wicked grin and a figure suddenly standing in front of him, snarling.

The hunter jumped up, his eyes immediately flashing towards the clock– 4:01AM– before he turned to check on the mage in the same room he’d been sleeping in... ( the dream was all too within the realm of possibility for Dean’s comfort )

✸

My muse just dreamt that they got killed by yours. Send me ‘✸’ for my muse to wake up from their nightmare and seeing yours.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,omnis satanica potestas–” He remembered calling out as the raven-haired girl snarled at him, twitching angrily in her bindings as black swallowed what was left of her crystalline blue eyes.                           “You’ll have to kill me, Winchester!”  “ – Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!” He’d continued, but she was right. The teenager let out a blood-curdling scream before a wicked laughter arose through the air. Why hadn’t she been exorcised?

“Nova’s been wanting to do this for a LONG time, Dean,” She barked, and suddenly, she was free. The demon had him against the wall, her hands wrapped around his throat...

He remembered the searing pain she she ripped his throat from him, holding a bloodied lump of entrails as he slumped against the floor...

The last thing he heard was her mirthless LAUGHTER.

He could still feel the burning against his neck when he woke up, his fingers tracing over rough, patchy stubble where Nova’s fingers had ripped through his skin almost idly, as if to check and see if he really did still have his windpipes where they belonged. Finding that it was still intact was a relief, as silly as it was, and he’d wiped the remainder of sweat from his forehead. Nightmares were just a part of life.

He exited his room, his sleep pants dragging against the bunker’s floor as he squinted against the light and fumbled his way out for a glass of whiskey to nurse before heading back to bed. He hadn’t been expecting to see Nova still up and reading.

                “’s you doin’ up f’r?” He grumbled, sleep still fogging over his mind despite the utter fear he still felt coursing through his veins.

"Yeah, yeah, I know how this goes. I'll grab my clothes and get out of here."

         Dean scrubbed at his eyes as his vision swam and his head pounded with every passing second. A low and pitiful moan tumbled out from the back of his throat as he squinted, peering up at the cute little brunette he probably slept with the night before. He couldn’t exactly remember right now.

It was three A.M. when a heavy knocking came to Dean Winchester’s motel room door. It had been silent in the moments before then, the only sounds filtering through the room were the humming of dying lights and soft snores from a man getting caught up on sleep he never got.

The banging on the door was enough to rip the hunter from his pleasant dreams of soft skin and perfect curves on beautiful women. He blinked, once, before he was moving, the remainder of the gentleness he’d been dreaming of long gone with his gun in hand and his heart pounding away in his chest.                                    ( he was always a light sleeper )

He peered through the peephole in the middle of the mint green door before his heart fucking dropped. Just behind the thin walls of the motel room’s interior stood John Constantine, blood staining his trenchcoat and white shirt.                                   ( too much. )

“You don’t understand- I didn’t.. I didn’t have a choice.”

Chris furrows his brow, just… just positively angry. What right did anyone have to tell him anything like that? Perhaps, maybe, Chris was too angry to want help at all. He felt like he needed to take care of things on his own - all the time.        “What would you even know about it, man?”

When Dean speaks, his voice is dull; flat. He’s been at this for too long, had this same conversation a million times.       — “A helluva lot more than you would,”

And, of course, it’s true. He knows more about this, more than others in his oh-so-wonderful “career.” He knows too much.

 "Cas!” He wailed, but his voice wasn’t heard by anyone.   “Cas!” He tried again, and still, there was no sound. It was hopeless, but he kept screaming anyway. He yelled it like a mantra, but instead of the name aiding him in relaxation, every syllable tore further and further at him as he watched in horror. There was a searing pain against his back, but he ignored it. Of course, he ignored it. His pain meant nothing as his angel let out a bloodcurdling scream of his own and the smell of smoke burnt against his nostrils.   The angel was just out of reach in the dark red room, writhing against the floor. As much as Dean tried to move, tried to reach out to grasp his arm and tug him to safety, he found that he was frozen still. The black walls seemed to be closing in on them, the smoke emitting from Cas’s melting wings flowing in to Dean’s lungs. Cas’s screaming stopped, and when the smoke cleared, Dean found that there was nothing but a burnt trenchcoat sitting where the angel’s body should have been.  Green eyes filled with tears from the exhaust, and he reached out again. This time, he found that he was no longer stuck in one spot. His limbs could finally move again. Before he reached the tan lump on the ground, the room exploded in to flames again. Somewhere in the midst of the heat, a voice echoed out.  “Dean,” it said, and Dean’s heart sank further.                   Mom.

 Dean's eyes slowly fluttered open, blinking hard against the weight of sleep. As he registered a tightness in his chest and pain in his back, it took him a minute to realize just where it was he had fallen asleep.  Bobby's house.

 As he sat up in the white clad bed, he placed a hand on the back of his shoulder. The scar Cas's wings had left was still hot to the touch and damp with sweat.  Another night, another nightmare.

 A sigh escaped him as he got up and walked to the bathroom to get ready for his day. He was starting to think the scar would start to cool off, let alone heal. It was a shitty thought, but he had to think realistically now. As he started to brush his teeth, he stared at the white wall above the sink, his eyes tracing the familiar bumps of the textured paint. There was no mirror in the bathroom, or almost anywhere in the house. He couldn't bear to see the man he was today, the man who'd lost everything from family to friends.  Don't even think of calling Cas your friend, you sonuva bitch. He wasn't. He'd passed friend long ago, and you fucking know it. You can't just pretend that he wasn't more than that now that he's gone. Because of you.