The call ended, and the silence that followed was almost worse than the voices.
Dean kept the phone in his hand for a few seconds too long, thumb hovering over nothing, eyes fixed on a dark screen as if staring hard enough could rewind time. The suite around him was dim and quiet in that particular palace way - thick curtains, soft lamp light, and the faint hum of climate control hidden somewhere in the walls.
He lay back down, because he was stubborn and because he refused to let a two a.m. call steal sleep from him.
He pulled the duvet up to his chest and told himself, firmly, that he could sleep after that.
That he could simply close his eyes, breathe, and let his brain do what brains were supposed to do at night: turn off.
It didn't.
His thoughts kept circling, sharp and repetitive, like a finger worrying a bruise.
