caffeinedeathwarrior:

Dean still sometimes has nightmares.  

He doesn’t have nearly so many since he’s eased into this cozy, domestic era of his hunting career, where “big bads” are predominantly a thing of the past and the most he has to worry about us the occasional wendigo, but he still has them. 

They used to be of hell, of flesh being flayed from his body with razor-sharp cleavers and limbs being ripped from their sockets, but the more time passed, the more hell in and of itself seemed like a very lucid, very horrible dream.  It didn’t seem possible anymore that those things could have happened to him, tortures beyond torture, desecration to his very soul, though of course, he knew they had.

These days, what he dreams about most is Cas.

So many times he’d thought he was gone for good.  So many times he’d knelt over his body, cupped his cold face in his hands, watched him explode before his very eyes, and each time it felt as though Dean’s soul had been hollowed out with a spoon.

There’d been a time when he could have lived without Cas, but now, that time seems like a distant memory.

He rarely remembers the dreams in detail:  just disjointed flashes of things that had been, of sudden explosions of blood, of black goo oozing from every orifice. 

Tonight it was the white light of his true form pouring from his eyes and mouth, terrifying and other worldly and final.  It was his limp body collapsing on the ground, wings emblazoned on either side, like a confirmation stamp of his demise. 

It was pure dread filling Dean’s heart, painful as though his very blood had turned to slushy ice, welling up and spilling over until he couldn’t help but start to cry.  

As always, he awoke to warm, gentle hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently.

“Dean.  Dean!  Wake up, it’s alright.  It’s only a dream.” 

Dean’s still crying, the feeling of hollowness lingering as he instinctively moves closer to the warm body beside him, letting strong arms wrap around him and pull him close. 

“You are dreaming, Dean.  It’s alright, Dean.  You’re alright.” 

“Thought I…lost you again,” Dean sobs into the soft cotton of his undershirt.  “…Thought I lost you.” 

There’s a brief pause, and then,  “…I know, Dean.” Lips press a soft kiss to the top of his head, a gentle confirmation of his presence.  “It’s alright, I’m here.  I’ll always be here.” 

Dean wants so desperately for it to be true.  For now, he just lets himself lie there, pathetic and sobbing and shivering, fingers knotted in the cotton tee shirt as though he alone could keep Cas from leaving him again.

Finally, Dean recovers somewhat.  His breathing slows enough for Cas to inquire, “Are you alright now, Dean?”

Dean pauses, then hesitantly nods his head.  “More’r less,” he mutters, clearing his throat, as though attempting to regain some composure.  

“I’m glad.” 

There’s a brief pause, before Dean punches Castiel in the arm.  

“Ouch,” says Cas, out of politeness.  He really doesn’t feel that sort of pain.  “Was there some particular reason for that, Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, snuggling closer to the warmth of his chest.  “You gotta stop dying so damn much.  You’re gonna make me old before my time.”

In spite of himself, Cas smiles, pressing another kiss to the top of Dean’s head.

“I know, Dean.  I know.”