A/N: What? They're getting shorter? Nonsense, they can't possibly be- Oh God, they're getting shorter. Welps, I guess this was gonna happen sooner or later. You have now all found out that I am a terrible author/person. :P Flee while you still can.
"I close my eyes, then I drift away, into the magic night I softly say. A silent prayer, like dreamers do, then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you." - Roy Orbison
When Dean dreams, they are always the same. He is standing on a ledge in some faraway place, where the smog does not cover the sky and there are no towering buildings in site. Below him a shimmering pond throws harsh glares of light in his face periodically, with the tides. Here, in this place, he is at peace. He breathes the air in deep as he isn't able to in the claustrophobic city and lets the wind blow through around, fresh and clean.
All the same, there is something missing and he can feel it. He feels that emptiness as though it a knife twisting itself deeper and deeper into his chest. But no matter how hard he searches, he is alone. Eventually, he reaches a kind of clarity and begins to walk forward, resolute, stoic. The water below calls to him, sings in a voice that cannot be denied. He is ready, prepared to give what this world asks.
Just before he can take his last step, a hand rests upon his shoulder, gentle but firm. He stares at the slender fingers for many moments, the skin still soft, that of a merchant's life. Slowly, he begins to turn and follow the length of the arm that belongs to his savior. When he makes the full revolution, all he can pay mind to is the clear blue eyes that gaze at him just like his mother's used to.