A/N - I'm still considering continuing 'The White Room', but for now here's a quick one-shot that I couldn't get out of my head. I hope you enjoy and, as always, any feedback is appreciated :)

Disclaimer: I still don't own Marvel, which is probably for the best.

Bucky was dreaming.

It was the only explanation he had for waking on a deserted highway in white hospital scrubs, with his left arm a bloody stump at his side. The pain he expected from it didn't come, and for that he was grateful, but the knowledge that he was dreaming was apparently not enough to wake him. He supposed he could wait and watch grey clouds move across the sky as ash rained slowly down upon him, but curiosity demanded he get up. Further down the road may lie a forgotten memory or a much needed jolt back to reality.

He got to his feet shakily, unused to the lightness of his left side. The ash had left a grey blanket on the road's surface and the highway itself stretched further than he could possibly see, even on a clear day. He took a single step and an uncomfortable heat told him that his feet were bare.

Nothing changed as he walked. The air remained thick with ash that burned his throat, but he could see no sign of its source. The road stretched endlessly and the air was eerily silent; Bucky could not even hear himself breathe although his heart hammering in his chest told him he must be alive.

The first sign of change came when something cracked under his foot and pain blossomed, and he looked down to see a shattered skull staring up at him.

'I killed you'. The thought came to him unbidden, despite the fact that he could hardly tell who the skull had once belonged to. And yet, all it took was the sight of a bullet hole in the temple to bring back memories of a metal finger tightening around a trigger, and he knew the notion must be true.

He walked on. More skulls were scattered across his path; empty eyes facing him from all directions, accusing him silently. Bucky ignored them. They were long dead - they could not hurt him.

Before long the broken skeletons were replaced with fleshy bodies in varying states of decay; some recognisable, most not. He could attach names to some of the faces, although he could not recall ever learning them, and for each one he passed the mantra of 'I killed you' continued over and over in his head.

Ash continued to fall over his surroundings and yet the bodies remained unburied as if they'd been piled along the road mere moments before. He passed an overturned car with two motionless passengers and a heavy weight settled in his chest as he took in the slumped form of the driver. He quickly turned away, but not before seeing an outstretched hand twitch against the open door.

After what felt like hours, he stumbled upon a body whose presence didn't seem to belong. 'I didn't kill you' flashed across his mind, as easily as the opposite accusation had done for the countless bodies beforehand, but Alexander Pierce's eyes stared emptily at him anyway as blood spilled from his chest. Bucky almost wished he had been the one responsible for his death, but the thought brought with it a feeling of horror that Pierce didn't deserve.

His old handler didn't matter. Bucky knew he had to move on, but the thought unnerved him. The road continued to provide no end, and he found he was no longer certain he was dreaming. Perhaps he had died and this was his penance. Perhaps he was trapped eternally with the ghosts of those he had killed. That was what he deserved, he knew.

He didn't notice at first that the ground had become wet, but when he looked down his bare feet were dyed red and blood had spread out over the grey ash. It was almost a beautiful sight in this bleak world; the dark red a stark contrast to the dullness of its surroundings. Looking up provided no such beauty however, and Bucky almost collapsed at the sight of dried blood staining faded blue fabric.

Steve's face was turned away, but that provided little relief as Bucky saw the wounds that had killed him - the bullet holes in his leg and stomach and the tear in his shoulder where the knife had slashed.

And yet, that was wrong. Steve hadn't died that day, Bucky had saved him before he'd ran, he would surely have remembered if he'd completed his mission...

He could remember causing those wounds, however. He could remember pulling the trigger; his sick sense of satisfaction over the knowledge that the bullethad hit and that his mission was nearly over. He could remember fighting the man-on-the-bridge as surely as he remembered delivering the killing blow to all the bodies who had come before.

Only this kill hurt him more, had his breath trapped in his chest and tears burning at his eyes. Out of instinct, he reached out with his left arm to touch, but the sight of his stump greeted him instead. That was wrong too – the stump had been replaced with a killing machine many years ago – but he had no time to dwell on that.

Reaching out with his right arm this time, he barely managed to touch cool skin before Steve's arm lashed out and grabbed his own, and he was faced with an icy blue stare. Bucky shouted in alarm and threw himself backwards, but before he could free himself he could feel more hands grabbing at him. Cold hands clutched at his arms and legs and grabbed at his face as if trying to tear it away, and every time he fought one off it seemed two more had joined in. Some of the hands had worn away to bone and when they scratched at him blood oozed from his broken skin, but he could feel no pain. Only the cold.

A phantom joined the fray, clutching at his right arm tighter than the rest, but when Bucky looked he found nothing there. His attackers remained persistent, despite his feeble attempts to shake them off, but for all their numbers they remained as silent as a breeze. The only noise came from within his own mind; a constant cry of 'I killed you. I'm sorry, I killed you...' He thought he could hear someone shout his name, but that made no sense. Dead men couldn't speak.

A fleshy hand covered his eyes and all went black, and Bucky was finally aware that he was screaming.

A high ceiling replaced the sight of ash raining from the sky and cold hands, but Bucky found himself unable to move. He could still feel the cold, wet imprints the hands had left on his skin. The pressure on his right arm remained, along with a constant mention of his name, but he found he was paralysed and could not push them away. He remained staring at the ceiling, unblinking, his breath escaping in short gasps. Perhaps the pressure would go away if he waited and the voice would stop, but he would be helpless until that moment.

The pressure finally lifted only to be replaced on his cheek; lighter and less-suffocating and yet all too reminiscent of the cold hands of those he had killed. The voice was clearer now too, but it came from the mouth of a ghost.

"Bucky? Bucky, please, come back to me..."

He's dead. Bucky remembered, he had seen the man lying on the road with all the rest. And yet, none of the others had spoken.

"Breathe, it's alright. I'm here, I'm still here."

Bucky wanted to believe him so badly. Experience told him that this was a trick sent to torture him, but he would give anything for that not to be the case. The sound of Steve panicked was not one he would normally wish to hear, but it was better than nothing at all.

He coughed, and the burning in his chest told him it had been a while since he'd breathed normally. To his relief, he found that he could blink and his frozen stare finally left the ceiling and landed on the familiar man at his side, who seemed pale and concerned but otherwise alive; wonderfully so.

"Steve?" Bucky's voice came out in a weak croak but it seemed to be what Steve had been waiting for, as he gave a weak smile and started lightly stroking Bucky's cheek. The touch still felt uncomfortably similar to those that had come before, but Steve's hand was warm where the others had been cold and intent on causing pain. Bucky found himself leaning into the offer of comfort. "Wha' happened?"

"You had a nightmare. You were screaming, but I couldn't wake you," Steve's voice had the feigned calmness that a worried parent would give a sick child, but his eyes betrayed the fear he'd felt moments before. Bucky made no mention of it; he was too relieved that what he'd seen hadn't been real. Already the details were starting to fade from his mind. If he was lucky, he would forget the dream entirely. "You're okay now. It wasn't real, Buck."

"I thought..." One image couldn't remove itself entirely from his brain, and even just thinking about it seemed to transform the soft sheets into a bed of ash. "I thought I'd killed you."

Steve's hand stilled on his cheek, and for one horrible moment Bucky thought this quiet moment would shatter and he'd find himself back on the highway with no way to escape. His growing panic did not escape Steve, who carefully pulled away from Bucky's cheek and took his right hand instead, before bringing it to rest over his chest. Even through the fabric of his t-shirt, Bucky could feel a strong heartbeat that hadn't belonged in that world of the dead. Steve let go, but Bucky let his hand linger, needing that confirmation of life just a little longer.

"I'm right here," Steve assured him, as if his heart wasn't enough. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

Bucky laughed weakly; still shaken by his dream, but safe at least in the knowledge that Steve was with him. The dry taste of ash and the sensation of ice on his skin melted away, and he was suddenly very aware that he was exhausted.

He let his head fall back onto the pillow (which still felt too soft after all these years, but he had grown used to it) and looked up at Steve, who seemed to have calmed considerably himself in those last, quiet moments. "Stay with me?"

Somehow, he didn't think he needed to ask. Steve climbed under the sheets and wrapped his arms loosely around him; seeming to relax slightly when Bucky didn't protest at their closeness. Sleep came easily after that, with the constant reminder that he was not alone and that Steve was here with him; whole and alive.

That knowledge was enough to guarantee that the rest of the night passed by uninterrupted, while Bucky slept better than he had since before the war and Hydra had stolen his youth.