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It was unnaturally quiet. The colors of the gray sky and the yellowing grass faded to inky black as Dean sat slumped against the door of his car. His brother was gone. His brother was as good as dead. A crushing weight pressed on his chest. He was suffocating. He couldn't breathe. A feeling like lightning passed through him and his eyes shot open. He looked up. The angel was there, fully restored to his vessel. With a touch, he was healed, but his heart remained broken.
He stood up, bones and skin unbroken. Yet with this new vitality, he felt only more burdened. He looked to the black car beside him. It sat on a road to no one knows where, almost beckoning him to take to the endless asphalt that has been his home for longer than he cared to admit.
He slid in through the driver's side door, feeling utterly alone. He looked to the vacant seat to his right. The lack of balance, the asymmetry of the situation was tangible. Dean only set his jaw and pressed his foot to the gas. He traveled down the road, straight and unpromising. His eyes transfixed on the daunting journey ahead, he only half noticed the people emerging from nowhere, lining the path of his trek like haunted sentries. Some faces he recognized, others he did not.
Castiel, comfortingly expressionless. Bobby, confined to his wheelchair, but still indomitable. Ellen and Jo, Jessica, John and Mary, and countless others he knew he could not bear to see again. A face along the line grabbed his attention. Sam? He turned and looked over his shoulder, desperately searching the line of faces for his brother.
"I'm here, Dean. I am coming."
An alien voice whispered in his head. Sam, or who he thought was Sam, was gone. He turned his attention away from the line of faces, knowing Sam wouldn't be there.
For a split second he saw a figure standing directly in his path, unmoving in the middle of the road, before he slammed on the brakes, throwing him through the glass.
The incessant buzz of the alarm pulled Dean from this nightmare. Slowly, his eyes pulled into focus and his gaze fell upon the ceiling fan spinning above his bed. Their bed.
"Good morning, Dean," Lisa said, her voice still groggy with sleep. He shifted his gaze and saw Lisa, her dark hair mussed from sleep, a pleasant smile on her face.
"Good morning," he replied, his heart still pounding in his ribcage. He tried to quietly steady his breathing.
She propped herself up on her elbows, concern furrowing her brow.
"Dean, are you okay?"
Dean only nodded. She knew better.
Lisa grabbed his hand, pressing a kiss to the rough skin.
"You need to talk?"
Her unending concern for him was foreign, but utterly welcome. He shook his head, squeezing her hand in his.
"Okay," she replied, nodding understandingly. She pulled herself from their bed, stretching as she walked to the bathroom.
Dean sat up, rubbing his eyes. Every night, every night there were nightmares. Every night, his subconscious taunted him with empty promises of glimpses of his brother.
He looked at the clock on the nightstand. 7:30.
He had to go to work.