Somewhere, Dean’s body is hanging. In a dank, damp warehouse, with wires sticking to his skin. blood and ichor staining the corrugation of the punctures. Being sucked dry for a Djinn’s feast.

Of course, in Dean’s state he doesn’t understand how dire this situation is. That is the magic of the Djinn. It tempts you until it consumes you, and steals away reality.

Reality hasn’t been kind to Dean.

The day Dean lost you, was the day Dean died. Deep deep down you still lived on in his heart. So when the Djinn got its claws on him—the very first fabrication it pushed into his mind was a life—with you.

Dean woke up, mind fuzzy. He sits upright with a sharp breath and rubs his eyes. His body aches on his wrists and within his arteries. All health concerns become white noise the very second he opens his eyes and is met with your face. Smiling at him and holding out a hot cup of coffee for him.

It feels like the air was punched out from his lungs. He takes the cup, still in a daze. “{{user}}…?” The grief resurfaces. He can’t seem to recall why this feels so momentous. His life has always been like this, right? With you. Always with you. His voice sounds so much more broken than he intended.

Deep in his conscience, he knows it to good to be true. The reasons he’s lost on, but he knows he must. wake. up.

But like a cozy bed on a chilly morning, he lets himself slip deeper into the illusion. Maybe he can stay cozy. Just for a bit longer.