Hello darkness, my old friend,I've come to talk with you again,Because a vision softly creeping,Left its seeds while I was sleeping,And the vision that was planted in my brainStill remainsWithin the sound of silence.In restless dreams I walked alone Narrow streets of cobblestone,'Neath the halo of a street lamp,I turned my collar to the cold and dampWhen my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon lightThat split the nightAnd touched the sound of silence.And in the naked light I sawTen thousand people, maybe more.People talking without speaking,People hearing without listening,People writing songs that voices never share And no one dared Disturb the sound of silence."Fools" said I, "You do not knowSilence like a cancer grows.Hear my words that I might teach you,Take my arms that I might reach you."But my words like silent raindrops fell,And echoedIn the wells of silence.And the people bowed and prayed To the neon god they made.And the sign flashed out its warning,In the words that it was forming.And the sign said, the words of the prophets are written on the subway wallsAnd tenement halls. And whisper'd in the sounds of silence."
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Dean swam, gasping for air, surfacing into the night. Struggling through the overload of sensations, he felt rivers of moisture streaming through his hair, running the length of his body. Noise assaulted his ears and his skin felt electrified or possibly on fire. He felt that he should be able to narrow it down, seeing as he had personal experience with both.
Dean swam up through the nightmare, catching in the sheets as he jackknifed upright in bed. His mouth opened and closed in an attempt to provide his starving body with the oxygen it craved.
Slowly, he wiped a shaking hand across his eyes, trying to free them from the stinging sweat that ran down his body, plastering his hair, t-shirt, and boxers to his lean frame.
Sudden remembrance and his eyes sought the figure in the bed beside his. Thank God. Sammy was still asleep. Dean's secret was still safe. Sam no longer seemed to dream. At least, he hadn't awoken Dean for months. Sam would want to share that kind of information with Dean, and Sam had said nothing about dreams. He'd said plenty about a lot of other things though. It all contributed to the noise that seemed to bombard Dean relentlessly.
There would be no more sleep on this night, so Dean quietly got out of his bed and made his way to the bathroom, grabbing clean clothes out of his duffle on the way by.
Quickly stripping off his sweat soaked clothing, Dean stepped into the shower and let the water wash his tired, aching body clean. He enjoyed the sensation of feeling his fevered flesh cool under the shower's pulses. But, even the soft sounds of the water splashing onto the porcelain around him seemed to pierce his sensitive ears.
Finally, Dean stepped from the shower, and after quickly towelling himself off, he dragged on his clean clothing.
He couldn't help but start at the reflection that stared at him from the mirror, not recognizing the gaunt man with the too pale skin drawn tautly over cheek bones that suddenly seemed too prominent. Was he still a hunter or had he somehow become the hunted?
He couldn't breathe. The roaring was back in his head. The cooling effect of the shower was gone. He had to get out.
Dean left the bathroom as quietly as possible. He glanced at Sam. Still asleep. He breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly grabbing his leather jacket and the room key, Dean silently let himself out of the motel room.
Again he was gasping in the cold night air, seeking relief as the night pressed against him and threatened to pull him down. Without conscious thought, he just started walking, soaking in the silence of the night.
He laughed mirthlessly. Who would have thought? It wasn't that long ago that noise was a second skin to him. He surrounded himself with it; it kept the darkness at bay. Whether it was meaningless banter or the Impala's stereo blasting, noise was his ally. Now he couldn't bear it. Sam had looked at him quizzically when he first started shutting off the stereo. Then the look had changed to worry. Dean didn't want meaningless banter. He wanted every word to count. To be remembered. To be remembered as a part of him.
Dean walked along the deserted streets of yet another nameless town. He passed stores and bars. He passed in and out of the pools of light shed by the intermittent street lights. One bar had a broken neon light. Before he would have known what the interior of this bar looked like. He was sure he could make some pretty accurate guesses about what he would find if he chose to go in, but he was no longer interested. Not in the noise. Not in the meaningless hustle. And still, as dim as the lighting might be it still wouldn't be dark enough. Once, he would have sought out the company of nameless strangers, feeling an odd and comforting connection to them.
Funny. Not too long ago, Dean had always been relieved to see the dawn. A reminder that he and his family had survived another night. Now it was another reminder of the quickly passing day, each one seemingly coming more quickly than the last one. But now he needed the comfort of the velvety darkness. The cool night air caressed his tortured flesh and soothed his fevered mind.
The dreams were full of light. They did nothing to illuminate, however. The dreams were full of noise. Some of it was just roaring. Some of it was faceless voices. And some of it was his own screaming.
No. He welcomed the silent darkness of this night.
Dean turned the collar of his coat up. The late winter air was still cold. Spring had yet to take the chill out of the air. It was never cold in the dreams. He was never alone in the dreams. And yet, he was so alone in the dreams that his heart ached with it for hours afterward.
It was so hard to keep his game face on for Sam. Dean knew now why she had given him one year. Demons knew him too well – and what the hell was up with that anyway? This was no conjured Sam that was twisting with guilt in front of him every day. Who looked at him longingly when he didn't think Dean would notice. Nothing was worse than watching Sam suffer. Watching him suffer because of him. Well. One thing was worse. And Dean had fixed that. Sam's grief would lessen over time. Sam would heal. Sam would find a reason to carry on.
Dean's solitary footsteps echoed down the street. But that was the only sound.
Sam lay in the silent darkness, straining to hear the sounds of his brother's footsteps slowly growing louder as he returned after his nightly escape. He hated the silence, the darkness. The dawn would be another chance to keep the darkness and the silence at bay. Sammy prayed that this would be the day that he would find his answer.