Purgatory haunts Dean so much, and I can't help but feel that he'd dream about it too-so I wrote what I thought he might dream about.


His dreams were always the same. He closed his eyes expecting them—began to wish for them, after a while, began to see their pain for their sweetness. It began amongst the trees, amongst the forests of Purgatory. He would be sitting—or leaning, sometimes, that happened too—against the gnarled grandfather tree that marked the edge of his territory. He was waiting. Listening. The trees rustled and creaked around him.

Then, in the manner of dreams, he would no longer be there, but standing on a hill, observing the carnage below. So much red. Who knew so many of those things bled red?

And then he'd see it. A bit of khaki amongst the limbs and gore and red. His heart would stutter to a stop, he'd try to think, desperately, to recall the faces of everything he'd killed. When he failed he'd run—not away, but toward the bit of khaki, praying it wasn't so, fear making him stumble, making him slip in pools of red and black and (once) grey. He'd blink and then he'd be standing over the bodies—he'd roll something with tusks away—

It wouldn't make sense at first. He was looking at a trench coat, all right, but it was connected to something red and pulpy, not … so he'd crouch down and use his fingers to wipe away the blood, and he'd keep wiping until he recognized it.

He knew his own work. He knew he'd done it. He couldn't understand how, but he'd done it. Something was making an awful sound—was he crying?—and he'd drag what was left of Cas into his arms, touch the face he'd been searching so long for—

And then he'd wake up.