sometimes when dean dreams

Sometimes when Dean dreams, he dreams of hell.

It's less frequent than it used to be, and for that he's quite grateful, but when he's dreaming, it's easy to forget that it is merely a dream.

He's back there in the pit. Sometimes he's on the rack, and other times it's someone else. It's those nights that he wakes up screaming.

The rack was bad. It was pain and hopeless torment. That much he can handle, in a way.  (Never on that scale before, but he's a Winchester, they always bounce back. Eventually.)

It's when there's someone else, some other face without a name. It's when he's the one holding the knife and ignoring the cries and pleas for mercy, that Dean wakes up in a cold sweat, a shriek clamped tight behind his teeth.

He knows Sam is awake in the darkness too, watching him from the other bed. He doesn't need to look, doesn't want to.

"You alright, man?"

"Yeah," Dean croaks every time. "Shut up and go to sleep."

Sam sighs, rolls over, fluffs his pillow, and falls back asleep. Dean knows the ritual well, like a well-choreographed dance. On these nights, Dean can't go to sleep. He lays awake and tries not to think. Sam is snoring loudly, and he blames that the next morning when Sam tells him he looks like shit. He doesn't say it's because he's afraid of going back.


***


I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.

Dean is awake with a gasp, panting, trying to catch his breath.

He's still lying in his (the motel's) bed. Sammy is still asleep, still snoring.

Dean isn't screaming, although he dreamt of it again. The wretched soul, stretched out on the rack, begging, pleading, crying—please don't do this!

I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

This time, he'd thought he'd caught a glimpse of blackened wings before he woke.


***


Dean has started sleeping through the night.

He hasn't stopped dreaming of hell.

Some nights he's on the rack, tortured. Other nights he's off the rack, the torturer.
Every night the dream simply ends, usually before it really begins. He doesn't feel the flames licking his skin, burning him, chains biting into his wrists, hooks tearing his flesh—not anymore. He can still see it, sees the demon advance on him helplessly pinned to the rack, sees himself approaching his next victim.

Then, nothing.

He's no longer in hell. He's surrounded by a comfortable, quiet darkness that he doesn't feel he deserves, not after everything he has done.

Sometimes there's a voice. It sounds familiar but he can't quite place it. It tells him to sleep.

In the dream, Dean closes his eyes.


***


Castiel watches Dean sleep.

He's been there since Dean laid down for the night, remaining unseen. He watched him shift and turn, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy motel mattress, listened to his breathing even out, heard the soft snores that signaled that Dean was finally resting.

Castiel takes up his nightly vigil then.

He knows he's been getting too close to Dean. Knows he shouldn't be there, knows he shouldn't interfere.

Dean moans in his sleep, fingers gripping the sheets tight. Castiel knows it's starting.

A cold sweat has broken out over Dean's skin, and his breathing is frantic, erratic and hitched. Castiel can hear Dean's heart pounding in his chest, and under that, he can hear the screams and fires of hell.

A shudder rolls through his body. He remembers it too.

Castiel reaches down, pressing his palm to Dean's forehead. Instantly, the man stills, his breathing returning to normal.

"Sleep," he murmurs, and Dean obeys.

Castiel watches Dean sleep.


***


Sometimes when Dean dreams, he dreams of blackened wings and a voice in the darkness.