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Gray Flowers

Title: Gray Flowers
Genre: Angst/ Supernatural
Word Count: 881
Rating: PG-13 for description
Summary: He did not remember anything... not even the voice that called his name. Instead he walked the other way.
Author's Note: All from a dream I had about two years ago... "What was hell like?" the voice in my head asked.
Warning: Spoilers for Witch Hunt and Justice in Bello

Dean was standing in the middle of a field. Flowers stood up around him. Their faces opened to the crystal blue sky. It was cloudless. A ball of yellow sunshine hung low in the air. The sun looked close enough to touch. He rose up his hand to block his face from the oncoming bright rays. A wire fence stood rattling in the wind behind him. Grass crawled up the rubber of his shoes. He still had a long way to go. Beyond the trees on the other side, Dean could have sworn her heard Sam calling him.

He moved his hand from his eyes to see where he was going. A gray sky seemed to slide in from the opposing end of the field. Slowly, gray slunk toward him, the sun disappearing inside the colorless array. Dean looked before him now as the earth became desolate of any grass. It looked like each thread was getting pulled back into the ground. Each hair left as the gray sky came and the flowers wilted, their heads now hanging over into the dusty dirt.

Now the land was barren. No grass stood with bright green integrity. The sun must have been an imaginary friend of a man in his past life while the sky no longer held its blue beauty. The colors had seeped out of the world, and Dean stood there in the middle of it. His brow furrowed while his hands hung loosely at his sides. His left food moved in a small step towards what may be humanity. Again his name was cried out, but now through what was a voice he never heard. Dean’s food landed on one of the wilted flowers. This too was grayscale. And then he heard the earth rumble, like the gears inside the dirt had begun to turn.

At first it looked like grass was protruding from the ground. While he stood there watching, Dean realized that they were leaves. Dirt cleared way for each tree by seeping into the ground as the plants came up from the earth. Hanging from them were things Dean could not quite see clearly. Although, he could tell that they hung limply from each branch. Sinkholes surrounded each tree, so it looked like they floated in mid-air. Still, they rose. Dean stumbled to the ground by the shaking of the earth. Trees rose up around him until they were all planted and tall. The bay leaves swayed in the nonexistent wind. Dean stood back up. Everything calmed now. He was in the midst of stillness.

One of the bay trees stood tall behind him. A branch scratched the back of his head. It felt soft and flaccid against his hair. Dean began to walk once more toward his destination. At least that was where he heard some sound. Maybe the noise of someone calling him to go back, or for a path. The bay leaf trees niggled at his brain a couple moments more. There was a single diversity that niggled his brain. Dean looked up at the closest bay tree. It’s gray leaves slowly drifted toward the ground, replacing the missing grass. There was nothing peculiar here. Just another body hung limply, her bones replacing any branches of the tree. Her hair fell from the tree, landing in the drift with leaves that hung form her fingertips. Large white teeth were hidden behind fine lips in a moody smile. Brown eyes looked down diagonally to the earth.

Dean turned around. There were so many of them. Arms were raised in a v-formation. Looks of horror showed on some. A man with a slight pot belly and gray beard stood strongly with gray hair surrounding him on the floor. A light-haired woman with wrinkles from being worn in life stood ornately in solemn like the rest. One more looked British, her hair hanging limply on her shoulder while her eyes had a glimmer of greed in them.

Dean did not feel for any of them. There was no anger. No love chocked him with invisible hands. His shoulders found the courage to shrug. He could not even think that this may be different from what he usually saw. Faces were always printed in the bark in other trees, especially cypress. Though he could not mourn because he head no knowledge of what any of this meant. So he passed the trees without a second through of those who went down swinging.

When his footsteps steadied at a pace, the echoes could be heard. Not of his name, or whatever he had once been called, but of noises meant to be words that shouted at him from the sky. Perhaps he should turn back. The man had no idea where he was going. Only one piece of knowledge was something he could be sure of: she was waiting for him. This new leader was waiting for him. For a reason he could not name, she wanted him to be a part of her demon army. Apparently the other side was rising, and she would have none of that.

Dean’s strides became a steady beat. Like a march, his feet moved along the dirt, not bothering to look at the trees anymore. He had a job to do.

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