He isn't sure how long it's been, truthfully. The first few days had been rough, rougher than he'd like to admit. He'd been pissed and bored and there'd been nothing he could do about it, nothing this whole goddamn time.

Dean sleeps some of the time, and finally, finally figures out how to shut down. It's maddening, really, because he wakes up intermittently, dreams of Cas and Sam, dreams of Lisa, dreams of being home, curled in bed, painfully normal. Dreams of everything that it's all the clearer he can't have now. The world's too different, with the time that's passed - he's not even sure what year it was.

When the casket finally snaps open, and Dean can sit up, he thinks it's a dream, another rush of his mind playing tricks on him.

"...Bullshit," he says, and stares, shaking dirt off of him. "You're--"

Not dead, but gone, there's no way--