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Dean doesn't realize he's asleep until he's waking with a jolt, wrenching himself upright with such force he nearly sends his chair toppling backwards. He regains his balance by clutching at the edge of the book-strewn table he was slumped over, and then rubs a hand over his face, cursing quietly to himself, feeling deep creases where his cheek must have been pressed against the spiral binding of his notebook. He isn't sure how long he's been out. Long enough for his laptop to go dark, at least. Long enough to sink into vague dreams involving a lot of blood, and chains, and screaming.
He supposes it was inevitable; he hasn’t slept in nearly two days, not since Amara zapped him back to the park and he found a garbled voicemail from Sam on his cellphone, from which he gleaned nothing except that Sam was about to do something incredibly stupid like go into hell without him. Dean drove back to Lebanon without once taking his foot off the gas, his phone pressed to his ear the whole way, continually redialing Sam’s number. His fears were as good as confirmed when he got back to the bunker to find no Book, no witch, and no little brother; rather more than confirmed when Crowley called a few hours later to tell him (after a lot of dithering and dancing around the issue) that Rowena had betrayed them, and Sam had been sucked into the Cage.
Dean curses again, more emphatically this time. He didn’t mean to fall asleep. Sleep will only cost him time, while he searches for a way to get Sam back, and Dean knows with painful, first-hand certainty that every hour, every minute of delay could be costing Sam eternities of torture. Plus, sleep lets the nightmares creep up on him. This thought makes the back of his neck prickle, and he glances uneasily around the library, into the shadows gathered in the corners and between the bookshelves. He doesn’t remember much of the dream he just woke up from, but he can still almost hear the screaming voices, and he has a horrible sense that some of them (the ones that sounded most like Sam) were calling his name.
He stands up abruptly, grabbing his empty thermos from the table and heading out of the library and into the bright light of the kitchen. He glances longingly at the whiskey cabinet, wishing he could grab a bottle and drink himself into a stupor too deep for dreams—but Sam needs him, and he needs to be clear-headed, so the only drinks he’s allowed to have are ones with caffeine in them. Turning his back on the whiskey cabinet, Dean starts a new pot of coffee, leans on the counter, fidgeting, while it percolates, and then fills up his thermos and heads back out of the kitchen.
He doesn’t realize where his feet are leading him until he’s outside the door to Sam’s room. Force of habit, he supposes, because it’s not as if he’s forgotten that Sam isn’t there; the knowledge of it is a constant rasping whine at the back of his head, like static over the radio in the absence of a signal. But he’s become accustomed, over the last few months, to coming here after a nightmare, and this one has unsettled him more than he wants to admit.
There’s a faint glow coming from under the door, which means Cas is in there. Dean knocks softly and enters. Cas is huddled on the bed, several books spread out around him, the comforter wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. He looks terrible, almost as tired and strained as he did while his grace was fading, and it causes Dean an odd pang to see him bury his nose in the edge of the comforter, inhaling deeply.
“Hey, Cas,” says Dean, feeling somewhat awkward as he approaches. “Find anything yet?”
Cas looks up, frowning slightly. “Dean. You should be resting.”
Dean takes this to mean that he hasn’t found anything. “I just caught a few z’s in the library,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m good for now.”
“You know, ever since I got my grace back I’ve missed being able to sleep,” says Cas. He fixes Dean with an unblinking stare, and continues, “But now I’m glad that I can’t. If I could, I think I would be having nightmares.”
Dean shifts uncomfortably, and instead of responding, he reaches to pull one of Cas’s books toward him. Before he can grab it, though, a hand lands on his wrist.
“Dean,” says Cas, and Dean doesn’t have to be looking at him to know that his eyes are all wide with that earnest expression he must have picked up from Sam. “Seriously, you need to rest.”
“I’ll rest when we’ve got Sam back,” he says, dislodging his arm from Cas’s grip and resolutely picking up the book.
He doesn’t object, though, when Cas unwraps the comforter from around himself and piles it into Dean’s lap; and when his eyes slip closed again a short while later, the scent of Sam on the fabric is enough to keep the nightmares at bay.