cryingcryptids-deactivated20181:
(*clutches chest* F E E L I N G S)
“I’ll watch over you”
Those words Cas has been so fond of saying every night grated against Dean’s mind. Whenever Cas was earth-side, the angel was stuck to Dean’s side like glue. He didn’t mind it, not really.
Cas was a good guy, despite, and sometimes because of, the choices he’d made in the past. And Dean was proud to call the angel his friend.
But, nevertheless, Dean still had some things he’d rather keep in the dark when it came to Sam and Cas.
The nightmares were one of those things.
Hell, with its lightning-lit darkness, gut-wrenching screams, agony taken and given from his hands. Losing Sam, losing Cas. Purgatory, with voracious shadows, adrenaline, and hyper-vigilance. The Mark, with ceaseless bloodlust, relentless dark urges, and the whispers of evil and his demon side.
Drinking stifled the nightmares sometimes.
More often than not, Dean worked himself hard; spending every minute pounding the pavement, in the gym, researching, or at the shooting range. If he exhausted himself enough, he could squeak in an hour or two of sleep before the nightmares made an appearance.
The last thing he wanted was for Cas or Sam to be witness to his panicked awakenings.
Every time he woke from a nightmare, his skin was slick with cold sweat, his heart hammered in his chest and he was never quite sure where…or what he was.
So, yeah. It was with damn good reason that Dean shut Cas out whenever he said those goddamned words.
Cas didn’t need to see Dean like that; weak and panicky and afraid.
Dean polished off his glass of whiskey and reached for the bottle. It was lighter than he’d expected. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions. The thing was dry, amber liquid long gone.
Dean slammed his glass back down on his nightstand and shucked off his shirt, jeans, and socks.
His fingers hesitated on the lamp’s string for a moment. He gritted his teeth and jerked down.
The room descended into darkness.
Dean punched his pillow and laid down, hand curling around the hilt of his hunting knife beneath his head. The kiss of cool metal and worn leather grip soothed him slightly.
Half-way through a Metallica song playing in his head, Dean passed out.
Skin split, the sound wet and unholy.
Dean felt hands, blades, other…things swirling through his insides. He felt the painful yanks and jerks as things were plucked from within. As he was torn up from the inside out again and again and again.
He couldn’t even scream anymore, his vocal chords ruined. He was reduced to nothing more than a fleshy rag-doll to be taken apart and be pieced back together at Alistair’s hands.
And then, once more, like magic, Dean was made whole again.
Each time, those words slithered from between smoky, blood-slicked black lips and broken teeth.
And Dean had had enough. He wanted down. He wanted anything to make the pain stop. To make the torture cease. Anything.
He stepped down off the rack, bare feet squelching through blood, gore, and other unmentionable bits. A dark sort of hunger burned through his veins. The black sensation crawling up his spine and making his head blur with the need to hurt, to inflict pain like he’d experienced.
Alistair raised one gnarled, clawed hand and pointed at the rack across the way. Dean turned, feet carrying him forward thoughtlessly.
Part of Dean screamed at himself to stop, that that person was someone he knew.
Tanned skin, dark hair, heavy-lidded blue eyes that already shone with fear and pain. The familiar voice issuing across the shrinking distance, deep and gravelly. Pleading, begging.
Dean’s body stopped, his consciousness banging around his skull violently as he watched his hands raise, strike, fall. Raise, strike, fall.
Red bloomed, leaked, trickled, flooded. Flesh parted and screams rent the air.
No! No! No!
“CAS!”
Dean lashed out, bolting upright and slashing through the darkness before himself. His heart thundered in his ears, the screams still echoing in his head.
Hands caught Dean’s arms, stilling his wild movements. That only made Dean more crazed.
He was being held down. He was back in hell. They were gonna strap him back to the rack-
“Dean.”
The voice was husky, familiar. It smoothed over his raw skin and pierced through the red haze in his mind.
“Dean, please relax. You are safe.”
His fingers unclenched, something falling from his hand. Hot, wet, sticky liquid trickled over his palm and down his arm as he grabbed at whoever was holding him.
Light flared, golden and warm. Dean flinched, eyes smarting before they began to adjust.
His surroundings were familiar. Pale walls, books, desk, guns, the foot of his bed, a chair…His room.
Where was Cas? Sam? Who was holding him?
Dean’s momentary calm vanished as his breath began speeding again.
Something warm touched his jaw, jerking his gaze to the right.
Bold, clear blue blazed only inches from his face. Dean knew that color. Knew who it signified.
Dean’s shoulders slackened and his insides unknotted. His fingers tangled in soft fabric, brushing covered flesh and bone.
“Cas,” The angel’s name was exhaled on a shaky breath.
Castiel nodded slowly, carefully dropping his gaze to Dean’s hands.
The hunting knife Dean kept beneath his pillow was slicked with scarlet. The red stained his blanket and was seeping into Cas’ coat’s sleeve.
Seeing blood sent Dean’s pulse rocketing again, his mind swirling back into the hazy land where he’d stood before Cas and carved the angel wide open. Blood, gore, and more painting their skin and the Pit’s floor. Cas slumping against the rack’s restraints, lips red and eyes sightless-
“Dean. Dean, look at me. You’re safe.”
Dean managed to drag his eyes up, searching for the red again. All traces of blood had disappeared from the tan trenchcoat and blankets. The hunting knife was gone, too.
Dean reached his hand out, fingertips pressing against Cas’ chest.
The angel was warm, solid, real.
Dean’s breath hitched, his eyes burning and heart tripping. His fingers knotted in the front of Cas’ shirt. And then, his cheek was pressed against warm, crisp material. The scents of rain, smoke, and the faint acridity of electricity tickled his nose. A heartbeat pounded strong and sure beneath his ear.
“I killed you.”
The words were ripped from Dean’s lips, half-intelligible and stuttered around stammering breaths.
“No, Dean-”
“You were in hell with me. Strapped, ch-chained to the rack. And, and I-I ca-carved you up, Cas. And y-you were screaming, begging f-for me to st-stop. And I j-just couldn’t m-make myself stop. Blood. Your blood. You-you d-died. I killed you.”
“You didn’t kill me, Dean. I’m right here. I’m unhurt.”
Dean tried to get a breath in.
“The blood-”
“Was your’s. You’d cut your hand with your knife.”
Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ back, breathing in his smell, soaking in his warmth, trying to convince himself that it’d just been a dream. That Cas was real, was here and alive and safe.
There was a beat where Castiel was completely still.
Then, one hand was cradling the back of Dean’s head with infinite tenderness, the other holding Dean to his chest.
“Dean,” Cas’ voice was raw and ragged. “I’m safe. You’re safe. None of that was real. This is. Right now. It’s-it’s all right, Dean.”
Dean went limp, breath stuttering and rattling as he pressed his damp cheek against Cas’ shirt. Cas’ arms wrapped around him tighter.
In a fierce, yet not ungentle tone, he dimly heard the angel whisper.
“I’ll watch over you.”
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