A wavering tone, one now familiar to the older Winchester. One of solace, and yet, one that grew so weary. It was fairly early; Dean had lost track of time long ago, when he’d decided laying down sounded to be a fond idea, but the dreaming world offered only bizarre incarnations of reoccurring nightmares. And so he sat at the foot of the wrecked motel bed, sheets tossed every which way from thrashing, a pillow having managed to end up at the far reaches of the corner.
“I don’t know if you’re listenin’, but I’m talkin’, so I gotta ask you to hear me out.”
Dean’s nervous. That much is shown by the fact that he won’t even raise his head as he speaks, only allowing his features to rest in either palm, his entire being tense as it screeched for him to stop. Talking.
“I don’t know where you are. Where you went. If you’re even around anymore — You promised me you’d stay here, and you did this. But, look. I’m not mad. I just. . I could really use your help on this one. So if you can stop in sometime soon. I’d be really greatful.”
And he decides to halt there, just waiting. Listening for the sound of fluttering wings, for anything. His eyes close steadily due to the lack of sleep, drowsiness overtaking him, but he’s determined to wait. Always the believer, Dean Winchester.