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CHAPTER TWO
'RECCURING NIGHTMARE'
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The night sky stood as an inky canopy of darkness, freckled only by the fewest of stars.
Dean had always thought the polar-white stars resembled a likeliness to the scattered embers of a dying fire after an easy salt and burn.
However, at that very moment, in a small yet adequate motel five miles from Indiana, the last thing on Dean Winchester's mind was the stars.
The fabric of the thin duvet was clenched firmly between his calloused, overworked palms.
The sound of his frantic, shortened breaths drowning out the mediocre ticking hands of the clock on the bedside table.
Blood pounded in his ears, his vision disfigured, reminding him of the time he first drank tequila as a youth.
His chest heaved up and down as the choking feeling from his throat loosened its unforgiving, cold grip, allowing him to inhale deep, long breaths.
Of course it wasn't strictly unusual for a man of his career to have a nightmare. On paper, he was the perfect candidate for some sort of nightmare, night terror disorder.
But this wasn't some normal, irrelevant nightmare of the ghosts of his past or his forty-year expedition in Hell.
This was something different, something unfamiliar yet repetitive.
