A/N: Hey, fanfiction! It's been a while.

This is a short, very creepy/suspenseful one-shot. Fits well with Supernatural, right?

Disclaimer: Don't own Dean or any of the Winchesters, the godsend Castiel, or even the Impala. Yes, it's tragic, I know.

The hunter ran, ran as fast as he feet would carry him, through the dense vegetation, roughly shoving past branches that snapped with the deadly boom of a cannon, heart beating wildly to the rhythm of his foot falls in the haste to escape death.

The hunter knew he was being hunted.

He could sense the being before he saw it—lurking just beyond the range of his vision, ready to strike at the precise moment, ready to hurt, ready to stab . . .

Ready to kill.

"I'm an angel of the Lord."

Head and heart pounding with a dangerous high of adrenaline, he ran with his entire life flashing before him, watching numerous faces frozen in time swim before his very eyes, as if they had already lived, had already died.

How could this be happening? Was this even real?

His heart skipped painfully in his chest upon seeing the figure materialize out of thin air before him, all color draining from his face, green eyes finding the blade clutched menacingly in the pale hand. He turned tail and ran flat out, trying desperately not to look back, not to think, not to think of the face he had seen. . . .

But there was no outrunning fate.

He fell face forward, skidded to a stop as the attacker quickly advanced. Rolling onto his back, he lifted his hands in a weak attempt to block the final blow, shut his eyes in preparation for the worst.

"I did it, all of it, for you."

Dean Winchester eyes fluttered open with a violent gasp as the blade plunged deep into his very heart, ending his life.

He was covered, every inch from head to toe, in a cold sweat. He blinked several times, breathing deeply, almost painfully, throat and lungs burning. A hand flew to his chest unconsciously, perhaps to acknowledge the continuous pounding of blood beneath his skin.

A dream, just a dream. . . .

"You okay?"

Dean jumped slightly in surprise. Glancing up, he saw his brother sitting calmly across from him at the mahogany table, a look of pity in his eyes.

"Yeah," Dean managed in a hoarse tone, running the back of a hand over his forehead. He cleared his throat. "I'm fine."

"As he has seen it, so it shall come to pass..." Where was a prophet when you needed one?

"Beer?" Sam offered a dripping bottle to his older sibling—fresh relief.

Dean took the beverage, Sam noticed, with a desperate need for escape.

He drank as though he never had before—it was only when he noticed Sam had not looked away that Dean lowered the drink, setting it almost challengingly on the table, as if daring Sam to say something more.

"Nightmare?" Sam asked knowingly, understandingly . . . compassionately.

Dean sighed. "Yeah, something like that."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nope." Dean once again lifted the beer to his lips.

It was Sam's turn to relieve a frustrating sigh and push away from the table. Of course, what had he expected? Dean only dealt with his problems the way he knew best—by simply not dealing with them.

As Sam left the room, Dean drained the bottle, and as he headed into the kitchen for a second, he figured he could go a while without speaking to angels.