A/N: So, this is my first fic in this fandom. After my ff bestie, youbetta, finally convinced me to watch SPN, I got hooked (*le sigh* of course! How could I not?). Anyways, this is just a bit of season 5 finale post-epi drabble. Very emo and not (very) Dean, hence the 3rd person pov. Just thought I'd warn ya :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, of course.

Angels beating all their wings in time,
with smiles on their faces
and a gleam right in their eyes.
Thought I heard one sigh for you,
come on up, come on up, now

"Shine a Light"
~Rolling Stones

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

Just fucking peachy.

The whiskey tasted impossibly sweet as it tunneled its way past the bitter clogging up his throat.

But then again, when had whiskey ever tasted anything but sweet to Dean Winchester? The accompanying sting had always been barely a tickle, and he used to like it that way.

But now? Now it only reminded him of just how fucking easy it was—easier than he'd ever imagined. Definitely easier than he thought it would be.

Just a nod and a ghost of a smile—he didn't even have to really be fully present.

Yeah, that would usually do it.

Can't forget though, gotta change it up and throw in a husky "just fine" every now and then, maybe even sprinkle in some snarky challenge dripping with flirty innuendo. Hell, it was so easy – he barely even had to try.

Oh, but he wanted it to be harder.

Hell, if he'd ever let himself admit it, he might've even prayed for it a couple of times – before he caught himself. See, he'd never been much of the praying type.

As impossible as it might've been to break his last promise to his brother, the ease with which keeping it had come seemed to be in direct proportion to just how much he wished he could get out of the damn deal.

But a promise is a promise. And his brother fucking knew that.

Yup, so apple pie it was. Sweet and gooey and all-American. With a nice big scoop of straight-as-lace vanilla ice cream on top, too.

Because it went so damn well with scotch. Mmm mmm good.

He was almost completely submerged in the white-picket-fence-framed picture of snore-fection, when the dreams started.

The setting was always different yet the same—different verse, same song; a table at some dirty, cheap motel, the stench of anonymity filling the room; the poor lighting that threw sharp shadows on the game in front him and the opponent sitting across from him … Sammy. Always Sammy, staring at him with that expectant look of a giddy, bouncy toddler, coupled with a smile so sweet and sad at the same time—it was enough to break you. If there was anything there left to break, that is.

This was the fifth dream in as many nights, and Dean was getting tired of this routine.

But what else was there to do? So he played his part.

He let out a grunt, then tried to shake it off.

No such luck.

A couple of tired blinks. And then, as much as he wished he could stop himself, he drank in the sight of his brother. Didn't let his eyes flutter close even once, for fear he'd disappear.

Jesus, he had it bad.

And he must look like one crazy son of a bitch, eyes all bugging out and practically tearing up from the effort. Either that, or strung out. Or, some combination of both.

"You okay?" Sam's soft, gentle tone floated over to Dean.

A shrug. Even that was almost more than Dean could manage.

Because even though this was only dream-Sammy, this was all much, much too hard.

"So you just gonna sit there and stare all night … or you gonna actually go?"

"Go?"

Sam gestured impatiently to the Monopoly board that sat between them, but Dean's eyes only flickered over to it momentarily before returning to his unblinking vigil of his brother.

Sam's impatience grew until he finally succumbed with a heavy sigh and a trademark tortured tugging of his hair. "Fine. I'll go then."

The dice hit the board, and Sam's face tightened in concentration as he slid his piece the requisite number of spots. Dean didn't have to look down at the board to know that his brother had chosen the colt as his piece, or that his own piece bore a striking resemblance to a certain '67 Impala.

Nor was he surprised when Sam broke into a stupid grin.

He knew it was coming. They played this game every time … and it always ended the same way. Worse than a damn skipping record.

"Yes! Chance!" his brother called out triumphantly, then his smile got even wider as he read the card.

Dean shot him the glare of death. "Dude."

Sam looked up, utterly confused.

"Dude. Seriously."

"What's up with you, Dean?" Sam was going into mother-hen mode, just a click away from hovering.

Dean mimicked his brothers' words with childish spite, mostly because he was just plain out of snappy come backs.

He was too damn tired. It was just too goddamn hard.

"You are such a child. God, I was just happy I got the 'Advance to GO' card, and not 'Go to Jail'.

That was it. Dean barely even noticed the string of curses that fired out of his mouth as he tossed the table—and the stupid game—across the room. "What the hell, Sam?"

After he was finally able to get his breath and temper under control once again, Dean managed to continue in a slightly less-deranged tone. "Look, I can't even begin to understand why you suddenly decided it's Drive Dean Crazy Week, and haunt my dreams. Hell, I'm not gonna even try. But … really? This is how you want to spend the time? Playing fucking board games?"

Ignoring Sam's wounded look, Dean barreled on. "And, please, as if that's not bad enough … can we quit it with the lame-ass metaphors?"

Sam appeared to be just as surprised at Dean's knowledge of literary devices as he was at his accusation that he had used one poorly. "Wh—" he stammered, swallowing hard. "What are you talking about?"

" 'Advance to GO'? Not 'Go to Jail'? Yeah. Real subtle."

"Dean, dude. Relax. It's just a game, man." Sam shot back before rising to his feet and walking towards the door. As he opened it, he looked back over his shoulder with that sad-sweet smile of his. His voice was so soft, almost like he was trying to smooth the sharp edges of his words with it. "Anyways, wouldn't you rather see me get another pass at go, instead of rotting in jail?"

The door slammed behind him, slamming Dean right back into wakefulness with a violent spasm. After catching his breath, he forced himself to lie back down and close his eyes. He knew, before he even tried, that getting a few more hours of miserable un-rest was as useless as it was necessary.

Anyways, what else could he do? It was as good a way as any to pass the time.

Shutting his eyes tight, he waited for the darkness of unconsciousness. But just as sleep was about to overtake him, he could swear the streetlamp outside began to flicker ….

In the morning, Dean wished he could stop obsessing over his brother's latest nocturnal visit. And just like all the mornings that had preceded it, he couldn't quite decide whether it was easier to remember, or to forget.

So he tried to convince himself that it wasn't important. After all, it was just a dream … just his messed-up mind playing tricks on him.

It had to be a dream, right?

Yeah. Had to be.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Now pweeeeze press that li'l green button and let me know what you thought :)