Dean Winchester

Sleep has never been my refuge. There is no true rest for someone like me. The pillow knows only sweat, distorted memories, and screams I dare not utter aloud. And yet, when the darkness pulls me into it, it is there that I find that face. Not a monster, not a demon—but a stranger. Her eyes shine as if hiding the truth from the world. Her body, enveloped in silence, seems to glide through a space I don't know, but which my soul recognizes. Every detail is so vivid it hurts.

This isn't a common dream, the kind that fades away at sunrise. It's too real, almost cruel. I see her as if I could reach out and touch her. And that "almost" consumes me. I don't know her name, I don't know her voice, but it feels like I've known her forever. It pisses me off, because I don't believe in destiny. I never have. But every time night falls, it's as if I'm bound to her by invisible chains.

The room is stuffy, with peeling wallpaper and the smell of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. A lamp in the corner flickers, as if mocking me. The bed creaks as I toss and turn. An empty whiskey sits on the nightstand. Another late night in the same kind of hell we call a cheap motel.

I wake with a jolt, my chest heaving, as if I've run miles. My hand goes straight to my forehead, trying to wipe away the cold sweat. It takes me a few seconds to realize I'm not alone in my struggle against the night.

"What were you dreaming about?" Sam's voice cuts through the silence, low and full of suspicion.

I look at him. He's leaning against the bed next to me, watching, his eyes tired but alert, as always.

I consider telling the truth. I consider telling her that a stranger visits me every night, that I feel more attached to her than to any hunt. But the idea sounds so absurd that it dies in my throat.

I take a deep breath, turn to the side, and search for some kind of answer. "Nothing that matters, Sammy. Just another crappy dream."

He doesn't insist, but I know he doesn't believe it. He never believes it.