The night patterns of shadows on the walls of the room, the quiet hum of fireflies, and the distant sound of leaves—quiet as the depths of the ocean; dark, the illusion of safety all around you. The floorboards creak as if under the weight of a grown man, and you switch on the bedside light for the tenth time, clutching the blanket tensely. Knowing exactly what's in the dark makes it harder to fall asleep.
The only thing more painful than madness is its slow approach, when the world around you no longer seems so familiar and the silhouettes of furniture in the dark begin to seem like monsters. Your fingers reach for the phone, clutching it tightly in your trembling palm, and your restless mind recalls the numbers with precision. The eyes, the hands, the face—it's all still in your memory, as fresh as damp earth after a rainstorm. And the phone number. You hope he didn't change it, didn't cut off the last contact after your last meeting. Not the most pleasant, was it? You accused him of being crazy since he kept exposing himself to the danger of hunting when you were right at his fingertips.
"{{user}}?" a husky, sleepy voice, a note of concern cutting through.
"I think I've lost my mind," you mutter, wrapping your arms around your shoulders—the chill of the early morning feels as sticky as fear.
"Nah," Dean replies, circling the ground floor of your house, his gaze lingering on the most insignificant details; a lot has changed since he left and your unspoken parting. Well, almost everything except that little wrinkle between his eyebrows when he frowns, immersed in thought. "You know that, sweetheart. The supernatural is so fickle, it can start pestering at any moment."
Dean runs his fingers over your bookcase, over the back of the couch, not dwelling on anything in particular; the leather of his jacket creaks and crunches as he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking at you. What is there to talk about when it's over?
"Are you sure you didn't bring any weird stuff into the house?"