Deans Head
Madison Motel
February
"Dean!" She cried out, her face illuminated by a light that pushed back the shadows, but the meadow was gone, replaced by the cold, hard reality he knew too well.
With a jolt, Dean woke up, heart racing, drenched in sweat. The familiar confines of his motel room surrounded him, grey and mundane. But the memory of the dream lingered, a bittersweet reminder of what he truly wanted—a life filled with love, laughter, and the promise of family.
He lay back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, feeling a hollow ache in his chest. "Someday." He whispered to the empty room, a vow to himself. "Someday." Dean yawned, and tried to sleep again. He lay in bed, tangled in the thin sheets, his body restless as his mind replayed the dream that had felt so achingly real.
He thrashed under the covers, brow furrowing, as if trying to escape the haunting images that clung to him like a persistent fog. In his dream, he had been in that sunlit meadow again, Sheva spinning joyfully, laughter ringing in the air. But this time, the laughter twisted into something darker, shadows crept in from the edges, swallowing the light. He could see the fear in her eyes, the way she reached for him, but he couldn't move. It was as if the earth had turned to quicksand beneath his feet, dragging him down while she was left alone to fight against the encroaching darkness.
"Damn it!" He groaned, his voice hoarse as he turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The weight of the dream pressed heavily on his chest, a suffocating reminder of the things he feared most. He could feel the tears pooling in his eyes, blurring his vision.
"Why can't I protect you?" He whispered fiercely, the words barely escaping his lips. The vulnerability of his heart, so often shielded behind bravado, cracked under the pressure of his emotions.
With a choked sob, he turned onto his side, burying his face into the pillow. The tears came, hot and stinging, soaking the fabric beneath him. He felt raw, exposed, a part of him breaking free from the hardened exterior he had built up over the years. It was a release he had never allowed himself, a moment of weakness that felt both terrifying and liberating. He was a savior, a warrior. That's what he knew to be true. This? What was this? It was unfamiliar.
"God, I'm so tired!" He prayed into the pillow, the words muffled. It was a confession, a plea for understanding, for relief from the burden he carried—of being the protector, the one who always had to keep moving forward. But in that moment, all he wanted was to feel safe, to let someone else carry the weight for a while. The memories of his life—the hunting, the loss, the never-ending fight—swirled through his mind.
As he lay there, the tears continued to fall, each one a reminder of his humanity, of the love he yearned to hold onto. He wanted to be the hero, to save everyone he cared about, but the fear of failing them gnawed at him.
In the quiet of the night, with only the distant sounds of the world outside, Dean let himself cry. It was a moment where he didn't have to be the strong one, where he could simply be Dean—a man filled with hope, sadness, dreams, fear and regret. Eventually, the tears slowed, leaving him feeling both drained and oddly lighter. He took a deep breath, the air filling his lungs slowly, and wiped his green eyes with the back of his hand.
"I need to see her." He sniffled.
"Tomorrow, I'll find a way to make it right."
Finally, he closed his eyes, allowing the exhaustion to pull him under. He
hoped for no more disturbing dreams.
