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Pain—horrifying, burning pain, indescribable after so long, so fucking long, months and years of ceaseless torment. Some tiny, exhausted part of his pain-fogged mind—the rational part, the part that still desperately tried to hold onto his sanity, his humanity—screamed at him that it hadn’t been that long, that time ran differently in hell. That was bullshit; there was no such thing as time in Hell. Only endless, writhing agony, each new torment and each new horror blending seamlessly into the next in one mindless blur of torture. A fresh wave of agony washed over him as a shadowed figure appeared.
“Got a proposition for you, Winchester,” he sneered, grinning wickedly, “A way to get you off the rack.”
Off the rack—the pain would end, he’d be free of his restraints, his pain, his torturers—but he knew the cost of freedom. Alistair had offered before; he’d been denied again and again. Every time his resolve had weakened. It wouldn’t be long now; they both knew it.
“I can make the pain go away,” Alistair sang. But he refused again, bracing himself as the agony began anew, screaming and writhing even though he was certain he didn’t have a voice, a body, not anymore, bruises and broken bones and blood, always blood, so much even though he should have run out so long ago—
Dean jolted awake with a shout. Blaring panic clouded his mind as he struggled against the blanket prison entrapping him. It was dark, too dark, too hot—he wanted the blankets off, off, OFF.
“Dean?” The gravelly baritone he’d know anywhere cut through the darkness. “Are you alright?” The lights flickered on. Cas’s worried face appeared next to him, frowning gently in the soft light.
Cas. He was with Cas, in their room, safe from any demons or angels or monsters who wanted them dead.
Dean let out a slow, shuddering breath, nodding jerkily. “Yeah,” he rasped, scrubbing his face with his hand, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just...just a nightmare. I’m fine now.”
He could tell Cas wasn’t fooled; electric blue eyes were doing that thing where they made him feel completely exposed, brows furrowed as they did when he was upset. The former angel studied him silently for a few seconds before wordlessly stretching out his arms. Dean leaned into the embrace, sighing deeply as Cas gentled a kiss into his hair and wound his arms tighter around him. They stayed like that for a few precious moments, Cas’s arms around Dean’s torso and Dean’s head against Cas’s shoulder, neither man speaking, just enjoying the weight of the other against them. Cas broke the silence first.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked gently, nuzzling into Dean’s soft, spiky hair.
Dean closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the arm around his chest. Bits and pieces of the nightmare still floated around in his head, angry red flashes of phantom pains, dark shadows and grinning faces slowing fading away. They would never completely disappear, but he’d managed to move past the worst of his experience a long time ago.
“It was an old one; just old stuff from hell, memories and crap—Alastair made a guest appearance, the bastard.” The words were said with such careful aloofness that, if he hadn’t known any better, Cas would have thought the nightmare hadn’t bothered Dean in the slightest.
Cas said nothing, choosing instead to pull Dean closer against him and press a fluttering kiss to his neck, his cheek, behind his ear. Slowly, the last vestiges of horror slipped from Dean’s mind until all that was left was a happy glow of contentment. He angled his head to look at his boyfriend kissed him tenderly. The “thank you” was heavily implied.
“Go back to sleep, Dean,” Cas murmured when the separated. He laid back down on the bed, pulling Dean with him and keeping him against hid chest. Dean nodded sleepily with a hum of agreement, shifting so as to face his boyfriend and sling and arm around his waist. He was asleep within minutes.
Cas watched him sleep for a moment, marveling at how young he looked when he slept. Pressing one last quiet kiss to Dean’s forehead, he tightened his arms around him and whispered fiercely, “You are never going back there. I promise you.”
******
Dean was still fast asleep by the time Castiel had gotten up.
The former angel let his boyfriend sleep this time. Last night had been draining, and it would do Dean good to sleep in for a while. In the meantime, he might as well begin breakfast.
Cas chuckled to himself, amused at the thought of himself—Castiel, warrior of Heaven, Angel of the Lord—cooking blueberry pancakes in one of Dean’s ratty ACDC t-shirts and loose blue pajama pants. It wasn’t at all what he’d imagined his life would be like, but he wouldn’t have wanted it to pan out any other way.
The soft thud of bare footsteps were the only warning before strong arms wrapped around his waist, lips pressing a tender kiss on the nape of his neck. Cas grinned and turned the heat down before spinning around to face Dean, only to have his lips captured in a kiss. Cas sighed softly against Dean’s lips, content warmth spreading through his body. For a moment, that is. Up until his saw the hand sneakily creeping its way towards the stove out of the corner of his eye.
Cas smacked the offending hand lightly with the spatula. “Hands out of the pan,” he murmured against Dean’s pout. Dean protested with an hurt look, clutching his hand as if it had been severely injured. The former angel flashed him a quick smile and then turned back to their breakfast. He felt Dean kiss the top of his head once more before moving to get the plates out. It was nice, this quiet little domesticity they had, even if somewhat boring at times. There hadn’t been much activity in the area since they moved in.
“What, no bacon?” Dean accused, staring critically at his plate as it was set before him. Blueberry pancakes may have been a fan favorite with him, but Cas was well aware nothing trumped breakfast meat of any kind.
“You ate the last of it yesterday. I was going to pick up more today while you are at your therapy session.” Cas winced at Dean’s suddenly downcast expression. It probably hadn’t been a good idea to bring that up.
“Yeah, about that…” Dean muttered, fiddling nervously with his fork, “You still makin’ me go?”
Cas sighed; he’d brought the subject of Dean taking therapy sessions for his years as a hunter a while ago, and it hadn’t taken well from the start. Eventually, after a dozen more nightmares and memories than he’d care to admit in as many weeks, Dean had caved and agreed. “I think it would be beneficial to your mental health,” Cas said carefully.
“There’s nothing beneficial about some fruit loop therapist asking how I feel about the clouds and the birds and the trees and making up bullshit!”
The conversation had ventured out of familiar territory and onto thin ice; if Cas wasn’t careful, things could get ugly, fast. “Dean, we’ve discussed this,” he protested, “Tabitha is no ordinary human therapist. She has insight to our world. She can help you with issues that would send you to a mental hospital if you told anyone else.”
“I don’t give a—“
“Unless you would prefer to continue to have nightmares every night?”
He didn’t like the way Dean slumped against his chair and picked idly at his food, defeated. “Yeah, alright,” he said glumly.
“Good.” Cas leaned over and pecked his partner on the cheek for good measure. “I’m glad we can agree.”
The smile that spread across Dean’s face let Cas know that all had been forgiven, balance restored to the universe as Dean began shoveling forkfuls of pancake into his mouth.
“But I’m just warning you now, I expect pie to be there when I get back.”