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Torn up memories,
No more excuses,
No reason to lie,
I can't hide this unhappiness,
That makes me feel like I want to die.
The loneliness that shatters me,
These tattered wings,
Like the last song of a siren,
Standing on decrepit dreams.
Fallen from grace,
A worn out face,
Seeing nothing but the same place.
Used up reasons,
No more reason to fly,
With clipped wings,
All of her dreams suddenly die.
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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