Chapter Text
Dean dreams.
It's a nightmare.
Hell. There's fire and brimstone, sure, but also blood pooling on the floor, the awful stink of sulphur and guts. His father's there in the middle of it, tied down and terrified, the white of his eyes showing, sweat glistening on his forehead, and demons, hundreds of demons laughing all around him with their black devil eyes.
Then there's a cool touch on his forehead, and the nightmare world is drawn away, as if someone had drawn the shutter over it.
He's lying on a soft bed, his body sinking into it, his mind weightless. There's dark hair brushing his face, and he hears the sound of a woman's voice singing. He can't make out the words, though his subconscious tells him it's probably Latin, or some other more ancient dead language.
He hadn't noticed, but suddenly the words have changed, English now, a familiar tune.
She's humming Blue Oyster Cult's 'Don't Fear the Reaper.'
The singing is driving the nightmares away. Dean tries to speak, but he's so tired and the pillow is so comfortable under his head and his muscles have no strength and his throat has no voice. "Shh, sleep now," she tells him in a voice like a forest stream. "There is no need to dream of Hell, Dean Winchester, the angels promised me that you are Heaven-bound."
Dean would try to make sense of this, but the red-blood-sulphur nightmares have blown away like dust, and he can finally sleep, and why waste the opportunity.