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Summary
Dean woke up with a start, his heart thudding in his chest. He was not in the motel bed that he was definitely sleeping on last night. He looked around, trying to figure out where he was. He realized with a start why the curtains seemed familiar, why the bed smelled like home. He was home, in his old bedroom that he hadn’t seen since his world went to shit. He clenched his fists in the sheets.
John rubbed his thumb gently against his knee, "Could you forgive me for having these thoughts? For not being able to control them better" he murmured softly, sending shivers up Dean's spine.
Fuck it, he thought, it's a dream anyway. "You can..." he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, looking down at where his father's hand rested on his knee.