1944 — Somewhere in Europe
Snow fell in soft, reluctant flakes over the ruins of a village that had no name left to remember. The smoke from shattered rooftops curled toward a colorless sky, and the air tasted of gunpowder and grief.
Dream walked unseen through the wreckage. His footsteps left no mark. To the living, he was only the wind that brushed their helmets, the quiet that came after the shelling stopped.
Around him, soldiers moved like ghosts that refused to lie down. They carried the wounded, counted the fallen, whispered the same small prayers in different languages.
And at the center of it all, Captain Steve Rogers stood staring at a broken bridge that spanned a frozen river. His shield hung loosely at his side, its red and blue dulled by ash.
The mission had been a success, by every measure the military would care about. The Hydra base destroyed. The weapons seized. Dozens of prisoners freed.
But Bucky Barnes had fallen.
Dream watched the scene unfold through the fractured glass of human sorrow. He had seen worlds end and begin again, stars burn themselves to silence — but there was a particular ache in the mortal way of mourning. It was raw, unpolished. It mattered because it hurt.
He moved closer. Steve didn't see him, but Dream saw the storm behind those steady eyes — guilt, disbelief, exhaustion.
"You cannot save them all," Dream said quietly, though his words brushed only the air. "No dream, not even one as stubborn as yours, can hold back death forever."
But the words were for him as much as they were for Steve.
⸻
That night, the camp was eerily still.
Steve sat apart from the others, a fire burning low before him. The men tried to sleep, though their dreams were uneasy. The war never truly slept — it only changed its mask.
When Steve finally closed his eyes, the Dreaming came for him.
He found himself standing on that same bridge, the one that had taken his friend. The river below wasn't ice anymore — it was glass, and beneath it moved reflections of faces he'd lost.
Steve looked down. "Not again…"
"No," said a familiar voice behind him. "This is not the waking world."
Dream appeared beside him, clothed in shadow and starlight. His presence was soft, unthreatening, but the air seemed to shift around him — a gravity of calm.
Steve didn't flinch this time. "You again."
Dream inclined his head. "You remember."
"I thought maybe you were… I don't know. A part of my conscience."
Dream almost smiled. "I am what comes when the waking mind needs more than truth."
Steve let out a dry laugh. "That sounds like a fancy way of saying you're not real."
"Real," Dream said, "is what your kind makes it. You believe in a flag. In courage. In the idea that one man can stand against a thousand. Tell me, Captain — is that not a dream?"
Steve turned away, gripping the bridge rail. "I just wanted to do what was right. And now he's gone because of it."
The glass river shimmered below, showing Bucky's face for a heartbeat before breaking into ripples.
Dream followed his gaze. "Do you think he blames you?"
"I don't know," Steve said. "But I do."
The silence that followed wasn't empty — it was heavy, alive. The kind of silence that held too many words.
Dream spoke gently. "When I first looked upon humanity, I saw fragile creatures bound by the fear of endings. But then I saw you — not you, Steve Rogers, but your kind. You built meaning in the space between pain and persistence. You dared to dream even as the world burned."
Steve shook his head. "We're not special."
"You are," Dream said simply. "Because you endure."
He turned his eyes toward the glass river. The reflection of the moon above them flickered, and for a moment Steve saw not the moon, but a thousand stars burning through time — the echoes of other worlds, other wars.
"Every soldier carries a dream," Dream continued. "Some carry it in their hearts. Some on their shields. Some take it to their graves. But you… you carry one for all of them."
Steve looked down at the reflection again — the stars, the faces, the impossible beauty of sorrow made visible. "That's not fair."
"No dream ever is," Dream said.
They stood there a long time. Steve didn't speak. He didn't need to. The wind moved gently through his hair, carrying with it the sound of laughter — old laughter, warm and distant.
"Bucky?" he whispered.
For a moment, the dream shimmered, and the voice that answered was familiar, quiet, full of fondness.
"Don't beat yourself up, punk."
Steve turned, but the bridge was empty again. Only Dream remained, watching him with that ancient, knowing stillness.
Steve swallowed hard. "Was that you?"
"No," Dream said softly. "That was you. The dreaming remembers what the waking world forgets. I merely keep it safe."
Steve nodded, eyes glistening. "I don't want to forget."
"You won't," Dream promised. "But you must wake. The world still dreams of you, Captain. It needs to."
The word carried both weight and grace — Captain. No title had ever felt heavier.
Steve sighed. "I didn't ask for that."
"No dream chooses its dreamer," Dream replied. "And yet, here you stand."
He reached out then, and for a moment his hand rested on Steve's shoulder — gentle, grounding, impossibly real. "Grieve him. But do not lose yourself to sorrow. He would not want that."
Steve blinked back tears. "I don't even know if I can do this without him."
Dream's eyes reflected the stars again. "Then dream of him beside you. In doing so, he is never gone."
The world began to tremble, the bridge fading into mist as dawn approached the waking world.
Steve's voice came low, almost lost to the wind. "Will I see you again?"
Dream's answer was quiet, but certain. "Every time you close your eyes."
⸻
The morning sun rose over the shattered village, turning the ash to silver. The men stirred from their uneasy rest.
Steve awoke with the fire burned down to embers. For a moment, he sat still, unsure why he felt lighter. The grief was still there — sharp and deep — but it no longer hollowed him.
He looked at the shield resting beside him. Its surface caught the light, throwing a reflection that glowed like a sunrise.
He smiled faintly. "Come on, Buck," he whispered. "Let's finish the fight."
⸻
Far beyond the waking world, Dream stood at the edge of a field of poppies that bloomed from the slumbering thoughts of fallen soldiers. The Dreaming was quiet now, but not silent — the kind of quiet that comes when grief turns to remembrance.
Death appeared beside him, her footsteps bare against the soil. She wore no darkness tonight, only the calm of inevitability.
"He's strong," she said softly.
Dream nodded. "He dreams beautifully."
Death smiled. "They all do, until I come for them."
"Then perhaps," Dream murmured, "you and I are not so different."
Death leaned her head against his shoulder. "No, brother. We never were."
Together, they watched as the dreams of men rose like lanterns into the starless sky.