[ Dream Time ]
[ Part of the dream event ]
Dean stalks through the woods, a shotgun clutched tightly in his hands, held poised but pointed somewhat downward. It is dark, the bloated full moon visible through the naked branches above. There is no snow on the ground, but the air has the feeling of frost, his breath clouding before him. The carpet of soggy leaves muffles every footfall. It is of great benefit to his own creeping, but makes it that much more difficult to hear anything that may be sneaking up on him. As keyed up as he already is, he turns at the slightest sound.
He comes to a clearing, the moonlight illuminating it, leaving sharply defined shadows like a spotlight. Once he surveys the clearing and the woods behind him, he relaxes slightly. The expanse of tree-free ground is completely covered in brown, yellow and red leaves. Not a speck of ground seen between them.
Perfect.
He looked down to check the ammo in his gun, and four more rounds ready to be reloaded. When he looked back up, he wasn't alone. There hadn't been a sound. Not even a whisper. He was just simply there.
The man wore a pure white suit, shoes unsoiled by the miles of muck between here and civilization. He turned slowly to face the center of the clearing. Even though Dean had anticipated it, he still halted. His brother's face. His brother's body.
"Dean," his brother's voice said. "I'm so glad you meet me here."
"Stay right there you son of a bitch!" he shouted, raising the gun at last.
"You've been over this, haven't you? With yourself, remember? You'd never kill your brother."
"No, but so help me, I'd hurt him if it meant gettin' you outta his skin."
The thing that was his brother stepped forward, with slow, confident strides. "It's inevitable, you know. What we discussed before."
"I said stay right there!"
The thing kept moving forward, straight across the center of the clearing. Dean's gaze dropped slightly to those white shoes and just where the fell. After a few moments, a cruel grimace spread over Dean's face. "Got you, you bastard."
Out of nowhere, a frigid blast of wind swept over the clearing, blowing away the loose leaves. Beneath them was a large devil's trap. Impossibly ornate, etched into the ground itself.
His brother looked around him, with a faint, amused smirk. And simply continued on his path toward Dean. He came to the edge of the circle and simply stepped onto the unmarked ground, leaving the hunter gaping.
"Dean," he said softly, almost caring. "We've been over this. I'm not a demon. Not really. You already know the only thing that can kill an angel, even one forced to fall from grace, is another angel. And unless you cease your refusal to Micha--"
"NO!" The gun reversed in his hands. Holding it by the barrel, he cracked the butt of it across his brother's jaw like a club. "I'll kill you myself!"
His brother, who wasn't his brother, rubbed the place on his jaw where he'd been struck, but otherwise seemed unphased. "Perhaps this is a conversation for more civilized quarters. Don't you agree?"
Before Dean could respond, the forest around him vanished. It was replaced by the interior of a house. A rather up-scale house at that. The wall paper was burgandy with gold fillagree, the couch and overstuffed chairs done up in gold and cream, a fire crackling in the delicately carved fireplace. Yet the man in white was nowhere to be seen.
Dean stalks through the woods, a shotgun clutched tightly in his hands, held poised but pointed somewhat downward. It is dark, the bloated full moon visible through the naked branches above. There is no snow on the ground, but the air has the feeling of frost, his breath clouding before him. The carpet of soggy leaves muffles every footfall. It is of great benefit to his own creeping, but makes it that much more difficult to hear anything that may be sneaking up on him. As keyed up as he already is, he turns at the slightest sound.
He comes to a clearing, the moonlight illuminating it, leaving sharply defined shadows like a spotlight. Once he surveys the clearing and the woods behind him, he relaxes slightly. The expanse of tree-free ground is completely covered in brown, yellow and red leaves. Not a speck of ground seen between them.
Perfect.
He looked down to check the ammo in his gun, and four more rounds ready to be reloaded. When he looked back up, he wasn't alone. There hadn't been a sound. Not even a whisper. He was just simply there.
The man wore a pure white suit, shoes unsoiled by the miles of muck between here and civilization. He turned slowly to face the center of the clearing. Even though Dean had anticipated it, he still halted. His brother's face. His brother's body.
"Dean," his brother's voice said. "I'm so glad you meet me here."
"Stay right there you son of a bitch!" he shouted, raising the gun at last.
"You've been over this, haven't you? With yourself, remember? You'd never kill your brother."
"No, but so help me, I'd hurt him if it meant gettin' you outta his skin."
The thing that was his brother stepped forward, with slow, confident strides. "It's inevitable, you know. What we discussed before."
"I said stay right there!"
The thing kept moving forward, straight across the center of the clearing. Dean's gaze dropped slightly to those white shoes and just where the fell. After a few moments, a cruel grimace spread over Dean's face. "Got you, you bastard."
Out of nowhere, a frigid blast of wind swept over the clearing, blowing away the loose leaves. Beneath them was a large devil's trap. Impossibly ornate, etched into the ground itself.
His brother looked around him, with a faint, amused smirk. And simply continued on his path toward Dean. He came to the edge of the circle and simply stepped onto the unmarked ground, leaving the hunter gaping.
"Dean," he said softly, almost caring. "We've been over this. I'm not a demon. Not really. You already know the only thing that can kill an angel, even one forced to fall from grace, is another angel. And unless you cease your refusal to Micha--"
"NO!" The gun reversed in his hands. Holding it by the barrel, he cracked the butt of it across his brother's jaw like a club. "I'll kill you myself!"
His brother, who wasn't his brother, rubbed the place on his jaw where he'd been struck, but otherwise seemed unphased. "Perhaps this is a conversation for more civilized quarters. Don't you agree?"
Before Dean could respond, the forest around him vanished. It was replaced by the interior of a house. A rather up-scale house at that. The wall paper was burgandy with gold fillagree, the couch and overstuffed chairs done up in gold and cream, a fire crackling in the delicately carved fireplace. Yet the man in white was nowhere to be seen.