Cas was trying to sleep. He’d cranked the heater before he climbed into bed, and pulled the thin motel blanket around himself, but it was still too cold in the room.
A side effect of his failing grace, no doubt—along with the persistent headache, the tightness in his chest, and the way his joints ached every morning,
it was as if a chill had settled somewhere deep in his bones and wouldn’t leave him alone.
He picked his head up and glanced at the glowing numbers on the clock on the nightstand. 3:47.
He dropped his head again to the pillow, pressing his face into it and breathing in the musty smell.
Exhaustion was another thing that had been plaguing him for the last several months, but for some reason sleep didn’t always come easy. Too many thoughts floated through his head: Dean was gone.
Dean was alive. Dean was probably, if the lore he’d found meant anything, a demon.
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