Ever since Castiel had waded in to that lake, Dean had been acting strangely. It started with the silence, and the staring in to oblivion, but it steadily progressed. He seemed to be slipping in to a kind of stupor. He had even stopped eating and boozing as much. Dean Winchester. Not cramming half a cheese burger in to his mouth at one time, and Dean Winchester going days at a time with no alcohol consumption. It didn't take a genius to work out something was wrong. Sam knew it had something to do with Castiel's disappearance, but he wasn't aware of the depth of the problem. He had seen Dean gazing up at the night sky, maybe wishing or waiting for Castiel to drop out of it, and he had heard Dean shouting and even praying for his return. Sam was sure he had even overheard his brother sobbing the angel's name. Surely not? No one could possibly have known the extent to which losing his Angel had affected Dean.

Watching raindrops splattering on the window of the dingy motel room, picking a drop and following its journey from single drop at the top of the window, rolling into and adjoining itself to other, larger droplets until they formed mini rivers to the bottom of the window. Dean vaguely noted this wasn't his traditional way of celebrating the latest triumph over the foe. He scarcely had the will to settle himself to bed, leave alone go out and party.

Sam had managed to get one beer down him, but Dean had excused himself on the grounds of having a migraine and had returned to the crummy room. Dean's eyes took one last flick around the room – a habit long years of hunting had instilled in him – before turning off the bedside lamp. He didn't fail to notice the peeling, bubbling green and white wallpaper, the heavily lacquered cheap wooden doors and railings, and the dark damp patches on the front wall. He stifled throaty coughs as his lungs got used to the fausty aroma in the room.

As with every night, as his eyes fluttered shut, Dean allowed himself to imagine Castiel standing by the door, a twinkle in his eyes, his lips almost turned upwards in to a smile

That night again brought intense dreams to Dean. They had been coming to him since about three weeks after Castiel had gone. The dreams had started off obscure, and Dean had found himself waking with a start. However, as time bore on, the dreams had started to become more vivid, and the random shapes and colors and images which had been flashing up in Dean's head started to melt together. To begin with, he had been aware of a striking blue color and a sense of familiarity, then black, white, peach, dark blue and an off cream-beige color. He would be awoken by the sound of a voice shouting.

Dean grew crankier as the dreams got worse rather than eased, and he knew he was taking it out on his brother. He didn't mean to. He loved Sammy more than anyone or anything in the world.

"Dean!" Dean awoke, his chest tight and burning, and he gasped for breath.

Sam jumped and looked at his brother accusingly. "Dude," He fetched some toilet tissue and mopped up the spilt coffee.

Dean sat up slowly, blinking his eyes against the shocking light flooding in through the windows. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was past eleven in the morning.

"Thought you'd never wake up," Sam begrudgingly handed the full cup to his older brother, then swirled the remains of his own cup. "Sleeping like an Angel." He remarked quietly, not sure he intended Dean to hear. His sense of humor appeared to have up and left a while ago. Around the same time as he realized Castiel was gone for good. Even Sam's mention of the word 'Angel' sent daggers in to Dean's heart. First his Mother, then his Father, Ellen and Jo, now his Angel.

Sam watched as Dean sipped and then set down his coffee, then headed to the en suite. He remained in there for about ten minutes, then re emerged, clean and shaven, and he picked up his coffee. Sam winced as Dean took a mouthful of undoubtedly cold coffee, pause, pull a face, then proceed to neck the rest of it. Sam shook his head, and turned back to his Google search on 'unexplained phenomenon in the US' A broad criteria, he knew, but everything has to start somewhere.

Dean slumped down on to his bed again and closed his eyes. He conjured up a mental image, which was quickly shattered by the sound of his brother's voice.

"You doing okay, dude?" Sam scolded himself for using the same word twice. Casual enquiries didn't hold the same innocence with repetition.

"Just tired." Dean laid his arm over his eyes and sighed gently.