The ceiling of his bedroom is the same as it has always been. The bends in the ceiling are all in the same places, making the entirety of the house seem less stable. There is still a light stain in the right corner that is furthest away from the bed, caused by the pipes that run through the house leaking and seeping through the ceiling. The ceiling fan whirls on a medium setting, making a slight rattling noise as it goes, spinning around and around in an attempt to cool down the room. Which is greatly assisted by the open window on his left that allows for cool air to enter, rustling through the plain white curtains and into his bedroom.

Everything is as it should be.

Except for Dean.

Dean shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in the familiar comfort of his large bed, staring up at the ceiling as if nothing had happened. He should be dead, laying bloody and mangled on the asphalt of the highway that he remembered so clearly.

Yet here he is. In his room, in his house that Bobby left to him in his will. He cant help but consider if the previous happenings were all in his head, perhaps a dream, his imagination going wild, or even the very real possibility that Dean has just gone insane.

He doesn't dare move, staring upwards and glancing around with his eyes. Maybe, if he doesn't move, then all of this will go away. Just maybe, he can sink into himself, no longer having to deal with the world around him or the pain that walks hand in hand with everyday life.

Time passes, although Dean isn't sure how long it is before he finally moves. His body feels heavy and weighed down, yet he fights to will himself up. He sits up groggily, remembering every second of his dream in excruciating detail, the desperate ness, the hopelessness, and the pain. They all mix together in a crystal clear montage.

A dream.

That is all it was. Just a horribly vivid dream, unlike anything that he had ever experienced before. So real that he honestly thought he was dying. He honestly thought that it was over. But no, it was just a dream. Dean keeps trying to convince himself of this fact as he stands up out of his bed.

Then out of no where it hits him. The pain rushes into his left arm. It's all too much like a feeling that he remembers, though a little bit duller, it still burns as if someone had lit his arm on fire.

The ex-hunter turns to get out of his bed, legs shaking a bit as he stands. He rest's a hand on his arm, where the burning occurs before pulling it away quickly, hissing in pain. He makes his way out of the room hurriedly, stumbling down the familiar hall and into the bathroom. Dean unceremoniously flicks on the light and starts to tug his shirt off, wincing as the cotton fabric drags across his shoulder.

There he stands, studying himself in the mirror, unable to deny how awful he looks at the moment. Dean's eyes have developed dark circles beneath them from lack of sleep. His skin is paler than it use to be undoubtedly from hardly leaving his home, making him look strangely sick. His hair is a mess, as it usually is nowadays.

He observes his features only for a brief moment before the sting in his arm sets him back on task. With the reminder, he turns to the side, directing his attention to the bright red, hand shaped mark upon his upper arm. His eyes widen slightly as he rests his hand on the mark. It stings badly, confirming that it is in fact real. Yet he keeps his hand in place for a moment, the burn of it somehow helping to ground him and keep him calm.

Before Dean can wrap his mind around what might have caused the burn during his sleep, his lights start to flicker.

Dean's gaze trails upwards from the dirty porcelain of the sink to the florescent light above the bathroom mirror. A frown takes his face, his eyes squinting and blinking at the light. The house shakes. It is almost un noticeable at first, but then gets more evident as a shrill, high-pitched screech starts to ring throughout the house. It gets louder and louder until Dean is covering his ears and shutting his eyes tight, trying to block out the awful noise. Through the palms of his hands he can hear the lightbulbs and mirror above him shatter, and feel the sting in his back as the glass falls upon it.

Only a few seconds go by before the noise seems to have disappeared, but when Dean removes his hands, he can hear a man screaming. It's far away, yet close at the same time. Then there is a muffled crash from somewhere behind him.

Then he realizes, it came from outside. The ex-hunter pulls his shirt on hurriedly, not thinking about the burn on his arm until the fabric of his shirt has dragged across it. He quickly pushes his pain aside and walks out of the bathroom and down the hall, toward the back door of his house. It takes less than a minute for him to slide on a pair of worn out tennis shoes and grab a flashlight and shot-gun.

Then he heads outside into the cold night air.

Please review and let me know if you want me to write more. Your opinion is very very appreciated!

Also! big thanks to my editor Alexus... Who is awesome... she is my goddess.