Go Back To Sleep

Sweat glistened off of Dean's half-naked form as he tossed and turned in his sleep. …No! You bastard! Get your filthy demon paws off him! Fear and adrenaline mixed like poison as Dean remained locked in the prison the sandman had encased him in. (It was an alternate reality where Sam had come back only to become bait by a yellow-eyed demon.) In truth, these types of nightmares still haunted Dean frequently, even though it had been almost a year since Sam had taken that fateful leap into a certain hole.

It didn't matter. For Dean, time did not heal all things.

Despite what other's continuously preached, a part of Dean still believed that Sam's demise was something he could have prevented. It didn't matter that, alongside him, Cas and Bobby had done everything humanly and otherwise possible to keep the inevitable from having happened. But such were the inner workings of Dean Winchester, a man who, from the beginning, felt that he had been born and raised to protect his little brother.

Evidence of that character flaw appeared once again as Dean's nightmare continued on.

In some vaguely familiar cemetery, Sam let out a scream. And, like all other nightmares, Dean's feet immediately felt like they had become trapped in quicksand. He couldn't move and he tried. Instead, he was left to watch, helplessly, as a bloodied fist punched its way through Sam's chest from behind. Not wanting to see the sight of yet another of Sam's many gruesome deaths, but unable to turn away, Dean continued to devastatingly stare with tears beginning to free flow from his eyes. Even as the lucid part of his brain whispered that it was all some kind of sick illusion, somewhere inside his damaged soul, Dean felt the pain was clearly justified.

Sammy, I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry I couldn't save you.

Thankfully, though, a loud sound became Dean's salvation; for he awakened from his nightmarish slumber with a start. Where the noise had come from, Dean had no idea; for, regrettably, he couldn't see through the tears—vision blurry, hearing funneled. Truth be told, sitting up bare-chested and grinding his knuckles into his eyes, Dean wasn't exactly sure of his surroundings. That is, until a haggard minute passed where his lids stretched wide and his breathing regulated. Soon, the familiar bed, beneath, and the dresser and pictures, around, gave clue that he was, indeed, home—a house that he currently shared with two others.

Lisa… Ben.

Upon thinking of the two who were his family now, a clammy hand quickly slid along the damp sheets at Dean's side, before spreading out along the mattress in the dark—cold fingers searching for something they couldn't find.

"Lees?" Dean croaked, voice hoarse, using the nickname Lisa always thought to be cute.

After noisily clearing his throat, Dean continued to wonder where she had gone off to. He wasn't too worried though. Unlike Dean, when Lisa couldn't sleep, she had a habit of sitting in the kitchen with a cup of warm milk and a book to keep her company. Dean called her a grandma for the ritual, but it didn't stop her from not seeking him out for some 'extra exercise that might just put us both back to sleep afterward.' Dean worked construction and Lisa had gone back to being a yoga instructor. With two jobs and a tween-aged Ben, they didn't exactly have much time to get a little wild in the bedroom most days.

But Dean wasn't complaining. When they did find time, Lisa was just as limber as he remembered. The thought made Dean smile even as he ran hands through perspiration-slicked hair. Letting out a sigh, he then cast a tired glance toward their adjoining bathroom. The door was a jar, but nothing greeted him but empty blackness.

Figuring to get up since sleep wasn't an option at that point, Dean then heaved the covers to the side. His legs swung off the bed and he stood, giving a tug at the black pajama bottoms that had a habit of falling off his hips. They were tattered, too long, and faded, but they were … someone else's—from a time when he was still driving around in the Impala that was currently lovingly covered out in the garage. In all actuality, Dean still had a few things that didn't belong to him, but every time he tried to just throw them away … he couldn't.

Dean and Lisa's garage held more than just the Impala. A black footlocker, beside his trusty tool box, kept a folded, leather jacket, some dog-eared pictures, a leather bound notebook, a silver laptop, and a matching phone hidden safe and secure. But thoughts of old things slipped from his mind as Dean went back to concentrating on the present.

Before long, Dean was finding himself ever so thankful for the sliver of moonlight that allowed him to see his pathway as he headed toward the bedroom door. He only bumped a knee into the side of the dresser once.

"Sonofabitch!" he cursed as rubbed his shin, before opening the door—its creak not unlike the many doors in the haunted houses he and Sam had cased in the past. With a raise of a brow and a purse of his lips, Dean made a mental note to put some oil in its hinges. He next cast eyes around the darkened room beyond. The room was as it should be—sparsely furnished with just a touch of warmth. Lisa had a thing for white walls and light green throws. A dim glow came from around the corner, and Dean smiled as it was coming from the kitchen.

After silently making his way over, Dean saw her. Lisa was, yet again, sitting at the counter with her back to him—cup in hand, book in the other. Her beautiful black hair hung in softly falling ringlets from having kept her hair in a braid all day due to work. He had to admit that he liked the look. It had a quiet allure as it cascaded down the back of her silky white robe.

Standing there in the doorway, still unseen and unheard, Dean took the time to admire the view a little longer, taking comfort in the sight. It was moments likes these with Lisa—and Ben—that even the bloody hardships he had endured to avert the friggin' apocalypse seemed justified in the end. Almost.

Sammy…

But thoughts of terrifying fates that could not be undone left Dean then as he finally gave in to the warmth of the moment, wanting to physically wrap his woman up in his arms. Wordlessly, he went to do just that.

Dean let out a terrifying yell as Lisa's head fell from her shoulders to roll onto the countertop. It left a gruesome trail of blood in its wake, before falling off the counter's edge and bouncing just once off the floor.

Sam Winchester watched from outside the corner of the living room window, able to see only a fraction of his big brother's expression. His eyes reflected, like glass, the image of Dean just standing there, frozen, a look of overwhelming horror on his face. However, no expression flitted across Sam's; for, once the well had run dry, there was nothing left to give.

The macabre handiwork had not been Sam's own. He had tracked a vengeful Dijinn to that exact location hours before. However, he had merely watched as Lisa had died before his very eyes, scant minutes before Dean had made an appearance. Sam continued to quietly watch as his brother gathered himself enough to remember one other of his new 'family.' The smallest smile etched its way on Sam lips as he watched Dean run upstairs toward the boy's room.

You're already too late, Dean, Sam thought. He knew that the other Dijinn had already completed the job. All that mattered now was that Dean would be free to hunt again.

"It's alright. You'll get over it," Sam said to no one in particular as he headed back to his car. He had to make himself look respectable before their grand reunion, of course.