CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
WHAT HE REMEMBERS
Dean woke up drowning in sweat.
For a few seconds, he didn't know where he was.
His eyes opened, but the ceiling above him meant nothing. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his breaths coming shallow and unevenly as though he'd been running.
He turned his head toward the window.
Late afternoon.
The sunlight had already begun to soften, spilling through the curtains in long, dusty strips that stretched across his bedroom floor.
Dean stared at it.
He had slept that long?
He slowly pushed himself upright.
The sheet fell from his chest.
His skin was damp.
His hair was wet at the roots.
The mattress beneath him was warm and slightly sticky from how much he'd sweated.
He looked down at himself.
He was shirtless.
Dean rubbed both hands over his face and tried to remember what had woken him.
Then it came back.
The shed.
His stomach tightened.
The voice.
Dean.
The clearing.
The circle carved into the earth.
The three figures.
