A/N: I just found out while I was writing this that Maya Angelou has died. Thank you, Maya, for inviting me into a world where I was rightfully unwelcome and showing me round with the warmth of an old friend. Goodnight, sleep well.

Restless Hungry Eyes

How your restless hungry eyes
Speak of cloudy summer skies
The morning dew, turns into rain
Lonely winds will call my name

-The Yardbirds

Dean Winchester is dead.

That thought was the only thing occupying the hollow space where his grace had once been, it reverberated through the tattered remains of his wings, spread like poison into his vessel and crept through his veins. His chest felt like it was being crushed, his skull was too heavy for his body, waves of dizziness blurred the edges of his vision, it hurt too much to breathe and without air he had no voice but he couldn't speak anyway for the hand that had clamped around his throat and was squeezing too tightly for him to make a sound… Oh Father, is this what crying feels like?

Dean Winchester is dead.

He'd held it together for far too long. His face had been blank and his back straight as he'd walked the pathways of heaven with his fists clenched in his pockets. The disembodied hands of reverent angels had reached out to brush against the muddied hem of his stolen trench coat, until at last there was no on else but silence and grief.

Dean Winchester is dead.

It was as if all the years of love and worry and anger and friendship were crashing inwards. Cas barely noticed as his knees hit the soft grass. The heaven he'd taken himself to was empty, holding nothing but an endless plain of grass, rolling out to craggy hills on the horizon. The scale, the simple beauty of it, deserved to be admired, but to Cas it was still too small. The clear sky was just another roof looming over his head, the wind choking him, the ground opening and swallowing. Although his vessel stared blankly downwards, the sun reflecting a faintly green glow over his skin, inside his true form was heaving. With each gasp and shudder he lost more and more control over his body until it dropped, lifeless and strangely peaceful, and his spirit fled to the sky in a hurricane of light.

Dean Winchester is dead.

No. No! He wouldn't accept it. Couldn't.

He tore through the remaining heavens, the alien grace trapped within him writhing and devouring as it burned, before breaking through the doorway and returning to Earth. Without his vessel, everything was just light and atoms. He weaved himself into the spirit world. Heaven was closed, Dean's soul must be trapped somewhere on Earth. Cas didn't even bother entertaining the prospect of hell. Of course Dean would go to heaven, he was Dean. The air was thick with spirits flocking to his light, clawing and screaming, he brushed them away with a thoughtless swipe.

"Dean!" His voice echoed outwards into the veil. The spirits cowered, their ghostly hands clutching at tortured faces. Cas was taken surprise by a sudden surge of anger and pity; these souls had been intended for heaven. This was Metatron's doing.

"Dean! PLEASE!"

Even without wings he could move at incredible speeds and his frantic search took him over thousands of miles in a matter of minutes. There was nothing, he couldn't find him, oh God, oh Father. Why was he never enough?

"DEAN!"

He stopped and tore himself from the endless grey of the veil. He was standing on a jagged rock, surrounded on all sides by bitter air and frothing ocean. He made a vague guess that he was somewhere in the North Sea. Desperately, he reached out one last time, trying to feel the pull of Dean's soul on his grace. There was nothing.

He cried out in defeat, his voice a deafening roar, shaking the earth its power. The waves surged and crashed around him, foaming on the edges of the rock, and the beginnings of a storm roiled and quickened. The clouds darkened like a purple bruise in the sky and the last echoes of Dean's name mingled with first rumble of thunder.

Dean Winchester is lost.

The first thing Sam was aware of as he regained consciousness was the sensation of his face pressed up against freezing concrete. The dull ache of it had numbed his jaw and was spreading along his neck. He reached out groggily, his fingers grazing the rough floor, in an attempt to push himself upright. His body was throbbing with day old bruises and the dizzy nothingness of the whiskey had long since ebbed from his system, leaving behind a hammering pain in his head which increased tenfold when he blearily opened his eyes and sat up. The dim light glared down at him and the room lurched sickeningly.

He was sprawled out next to the charred remains of the summoning spell. As the events of the last day returned to him in a flash, he leapt to his feet and forced back the rising nausea. Shit, Crowley. Swaying slightly, he hoisted himself to his feet and staggered from the room. He began to regain his usual strength as he started making his way down the long oppressive corridors and was soon sprinting, leaping three steps at a time.

Crowley was the only one who could have entered the bunker and his behaviour…not answering the summoning directly, creeping around. not announcing himself with one of his usual self satisfied one-liners, knocking him out to give himself free run of the bunker? This was 'Crowley with an agenda'. Alongside the inevitable pain and now frenzied worry, Sam felt a sudden surge of hope. He refocused on his goal at present. No hope, absolutely no hope, when have things ever gone well?

Still mentally repeating this mantra, he flung open the door of Dean's room.

"Crowley?"

I took him a moment to realise what he was seeing and then the dam burst. Dean was stood up, his back to Sam, facing Crowley, alive. Dean was alive.

"Oh God, Dean. Are…are you okay…I mean you were. Dean?"

Sam was still frozen in the doorway. Dean was alive but…

"Dean?"

He wasn't moving, his back was still turned, his muscles coiled tightly under the fabric of his shirt. The euphoria of the last few seconds faded away Sam allowed himself to see all the things that were wrong with the scene in front of him. Crowley wasn't looking at him, his eyes were still fixed on his brother, a strange unidentifiable expression playing faintly across his face.

Was that triumph?

Dean still hadn't reacted but a faint glint of silver caught Sam's eye. A delicate chain, too fragile to be taken at face value, was tied around his brother's wrist and the other end was held by…

At last, Crowley looked up.

"Sorry Moose."

Suddenly Sam was diving forwards, intuition telling him what his mind had been too stunned to predict. It was too late. His hands closed around empty air. They had vanished.

"NO!"

A/N: Just in case anyone was wondering, there's a full chapter of Dean up next. It should be up sometime later today or, if not, tomorrow :)