|Dean Winchester hugs baby trees (withgunsdrawn) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2011-10-11 23:35:00
|Entry tags:||anna milton, dean winchester|
Who? Dean & Anna
What? Dreamstalker conversations.
Where? Dean's head/dream.
Rating? Vaguely high for helldreams, but otherwise probably not bad.
One arm draped over Juliet’s waist, the other tucked up under his pillow, fingers just touching the cool metal of the gun there (not a knife, not anymore; knives blended too seamlessly with his dreams, kept him in the dream too long and put risks in place he didn’t want to take - a gun was safer, clip beside it, safety on anyway, and the blunt edges couldn’t do much damage if he did keep dreaming too long), Dean was asleep faster than he usually was. This whole vacation thing, it made sleeping easier - pointedly not thinking about things like Lucifer, the end of the world, how close he kept coming to losing everyone that mattered... not thinking about any of those things, it helped. He knew it couldn’t last forever, but while it lasted, he was trying to enjoy it.
When he slept, his dreams were still what they always seemed to be, though. Hell. Today, apparently, he wasn’t the one with the knife in his hand - it was back on the rack with him, being carved and filleted and shredded, asked that one question over and over the whole time.
Do you want it to stop, Dean?
Part of him was distantly aware that this wasn’t real - that he was only dreaming, that in reality he was out of hell, he was safe and happy as he ever got, he had his family, he had Juliet beside him, and none of this was real, this wasn’t really happening now. That part of him was drowned out, though, smothered and buried under hell pain torture pleasemakeitstop please yes I'll do it whateveryouwantplease, so at first when everything went still and quiet, when the pain stopped, all he felt was relief, followed quickly by a sick sense that something worse was going to happen.
Sitting on the bloody floor where the rack used to be, he almost didn’t notice or recognize the red-headed angel standing there. When he did, it clarified that this was a dream (although if he was dreaming about being rescued from Hell by an angel, why wasn’t it Cas? Whatever, facts didn’t have to be exact, in dreams), not the real Hell - angels don’t just walk into hell, not like this. He couldn’t remember Castiel’s rescue, not exactly, but he knew there was a hell of a lot more light involved.
“...uh. Hi?” Dean picked at the hem of his blood-wet shirt and scowled, more than a little embarrassed to be caught dreaming this way, after all this time; he should be over Hell by now, shouldn’t he? A year (two, if you counted the year or so he'd forgotten) later, shouldn't he be dreaming about other things most nights, by now? “Am I just dreaming, or is this an angel-stalking?”