Work Text:
Black.
All Dean could see was black. Some red, too, maybe? Another flash of light cut across Dean’s vision, blinding him. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t see. Horrible panic arched through his chest. Calm, he had to be calm. What was meant to be a deep breath rattled through Dean’s lungs, stopped short by the aching pain in his shoulder, sides, and feet. Instinctively, Dean tried to move.
But Dean couldn’t move.
He couldn’t move.
A scream bubbled up his throat.
“Sammy!” His voice dragged like lava over stones. His panic had no veil now, overtaking his entire being like a tidal wave. “Sammy, please!” Hot tears slid down his face. In his entire life, Dean had never felt so helpless, so afraid. Someone was coming to get him. Every time he had gotten himself into trouble, someone had always come to bail him out. Always. Why would this time be any different?
“Dad!” The word ripped from his mouth before he could think. Memories of his childhood flashed in his mind, memories of finding himself in trouble even he couldn’t weasel himself out of, and his Dad being right there to get him out. He remembered all the times his dad would scream at him for his stupid decisions. His dad leaving him alone, refusing to answer the phone for months. John wasn’t coming. Dean knew that. He had always known that.
There was no getting out this time. No escaping, nothing.
Dean was in hell. And he had done it to himself.
The sound of a voice broke through the cacophony of screams surrounding him. A horribly familiar voice, accompanied by a pair of milky eyes.
“Hello, Dean,” it said, arrogant and cruel. Dean felt his heart seize in his chest. Frozen, like a fawn hidden amidst the grass. No. No. “I’ve waited a long time to see you again, old friend.” The words swirled around his head like smoke, heavy and nauseating. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn’t real, couldn’t be.
“What’ll it be this time?” Alastair breathed in slowly, savoring. Dean could feel him walking around his suspended body. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t. “The knife, to start, maybe? The axe?” He chuckled, then. A horrible, soulless sound that echoed hollowly from his core. “Oh, but that’s all far too easy, isn’t it? There is much better for you, Dean Winchester.”
“You’re not real,” Dean bit out.
“Oh, aren’t I?” The chuckle became a terrible roar of laughter. “You’re really out of your wits, aren’t you? The great Dean Winchester, reduced to this sniveling mess. It’s poetic, isn’t it?” It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real, itwasn’treal, itwasn-
“I can assure you, Dean, this is all very real.” The voice cut through his panic and directly to his core.
“No.” It came out thick, choked by his own saliva. “I made it out of hell. You’re dead.” He swallowed hard. “My brother killed you.”
“Now that’s a better torture than I could ever give you,” he sneered. “So full of hope that it turns into complete delusion.” He leaned in close to Dean’s ear, face just out of sight. “You’re stuck here, Dean. No one is coming to get you, and I’m gonna keep tearing you apart piece by piece forever.” He spoke as if scolding a child with outrageous ideas. “That is, unless,” Alastair stepped back, though staying only in Dean’s periphery. “you’re ready to come off the rack.” A thousand memories raced through Dean’s mind.
He remembered thirty years of being stuck on this rack, thirty years of being torn apart and reassembled each day. He remembered the fear and the pain. He remembered all of the time it took him to realize he was well and truly alone this time. He remembered how lonely he felt, how angry. He never knew exactly who that anger was directed towards, whether it be his dad, himself for making this deal, Alastair, Sammy for not finding some way to pull him out…
Worst of all, Dean remembered saying ‘yes’.
Ten years.
Ten years he had spent doing what he had sworn forty years ago that he would never do. He thought he was stronger than that, that he could hold out for longer. But Dean was weak. Pathetic. He didn’t deserve to have someone save him. He had what he deserved right here beside him.
Maybe Dean could do it right this time. Maybe this time he could hold out for longer. If he could just hold out longer, maybe someone would come to get him. Maybe he would deserve it. He opened his mouth to say no, to tell him to ‘bite me’, but the words wouldn’t come out. A heavy pressure formed around his throat. Dean spluttered, gasping for air to no avail. Despite himself, more tears formed and fell from his face. It was the lack of air, he tried to tell himself. He was Dean Winchester, he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid. The lump in his throat closed off any remaining airways he had. His vision started to tunnel and then fade into fitful spots of black. He was going to die. And when he woke up, he’d be right back here all over again. A bright white light filled the rest of his vision.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Dean shot up in bed, sweat coating his body in a thick sheen. His breaths came hard and fast. He blinked away the odd black and red light as he groggily remembered the motel room around him.
“Dean?” a voice asked from beside him. He flinched. Dean turned, stealing himself for those awful white eyes, but was surprised by a familiar blue.
“Cas.” He breathed a sigh of relief, dropping his head into his hands as if his only concern was how late it was. He pretended not to notice Cas’s pinched eyebrows and concerned eyes. He waited for Cas to look away. He didn’t.
“How are you, Dean?” Cas asked, finally.
“Oh, just peachy,” Dean snarked. His eyes subconsciously slid over to the sleeping form of his brother in the bed next to him. “Because everyone loves to wake up to someone staring at them, we’ve talked about this, Cas,” he said, though more quietly. Dean slid off the bed, suddenly unable to handle Cas’s silence. He ducked his head as his hands fiddled awkwardly with the motel room coffee maker.
“I always thought dreams were such odd parts of being human.” Cas spoke, still on the bed. Dean’s hands froze on the packet of instant coffee. “When it is time to rest, what is the purpose of reliving your worst memories?”
“You say that like it's something we can control,” he muttered.
“Maybe not.” Cas sighed, pensive. He was silent again. Dean poured the coffee grounds into the filter. “Do you feel a need to remember hell?” Dean nearly spilled the filter as he fit it into the machine. He took a moment to breathe.
“You think I want to remember hell?” Dean turned around and met his eyes. “You think I want this?” His hands gestured vaguely towards the bed. “To be woken up like this every single night? To be tired all the time?” He could feel a burning beginning at the back of his eyes. He wanted to rage. He wanted to yell and scream how Cas was so terribly wrong, that he didn’t understand anything about him at all.
“I think you do.” The argument died in Dean’s throat. It only occurred to him then that Cas could probably already tell his thoughts. He could still feel the anger bubbling deep in his chest and flowing to his clenched fists. He let his lungs fill and he felt his hands relax. The smell of coffee filled his nose as the machine began to run hot water through the grounds and into the pot.
“I’ve done bad things, Cas.” Dean turned away, resting his hands against the counter. He watched the pot slowly fill with coffee. His heart pounded at the memories of what he had done. He squeezed his eyes shut. If only he had been just a little stronger, lasted just a little while longer. But Dean was weak. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“You are a good man, Dean, an honorable man.” He turned harshly, knocking Cas’s hand from his shoulder. He ignored the pang of regret he felt for it.
“No, Cas, my father was an honorable man. 100 years my father spent in hell, and never once-” his voice broke. He stared pointedly at the now full coffee pot. “After being tortured for 100 years in hell,” he spoke slowly. “with the same offer I had. He never took the deal.” He looked again, then, at Sam. “Cas, I did.” He reached for the pot and noticed a slight tremor in his hand. He gripped the handle hard.
“Perhaps your father had known more than you did,” he offered.
“What else is new,” Dean scoffed, pouring himself a cup. He reached for a second paper cup without thinking.
“Dean, you had no idea that taking that offer would break the first seal. What I’m saying is, maybe your father did.” Dean put the pot back into the machine, leaving the second paper cup empty as he nursed his own. He folded both hands around it, allowing the warmth to soak in. He hadn’t realized how cold his hands were.
“That doesn’t change anything,” he murmured.
“I think it does.” Cas leaned on the counter next to him. Dean idly noticed the slight contact between their elbows. “You are a much more honorable man than your father.” Cas leaned into him reassuringly before pulling away. “I hope one day you will see that too.” He looked like he was going to walk away. Why did that bother him so much?
Dean picked up the second cup and wordlessly offered it to Cas. He didn’t know why he did it, he knew angels didn’t need to drink coffee. He also didn’t know why Cas took it. He didn’t care. Dean just poured him a cup before once again returning the pot to the machine. They stayed like that for a while, seemingly enjoying the silence in the dark. Dean’s eyes idled on Sam, thinking it a miracle they hadn’t woken him. He hoped they hadn’t, at least. He never wanted Sam to see him having nightmares like this. He hoped he never would. One final sip and Dean’s cup was empty. He held his hand out for Cas’s.
“If you’d like to try sleeping again, I’ll watch over you.” Cas said it as earnestly as he always did.
“We’ve talked about this, Cas,” he grumbled, though he didn’t protest when Cas followed him back to the bed. “Go back to reading your book, or something. Let a man get his four hours in peace.” Dean heard the old springs of the mattress creak as he lay back down, not bothering to get under the covers this time. He flipped onto his side, pointedly facing away from Cas. He tried to ignore that he had to share a bed with Cas. He really tried to ignore that he didn’t hate it.
“Of course.” Though, he didn’t hear Cas reach for his book.
He felt the bed dip down next to him as Cas settled back in. One moment passed and then another. Dean could feel himself slowly relaxing back into the mattress, though his mind had yet to still.
“Thank you,” Dean said into the dark. He could feel his throat trying to close. He was careful not to speak until the lump faded away. “For helping me.” He said it like he was admitting a heavy secret.
“However many times you may need me to, I will raise you from hell again and again.” Ever so softly, Dean felt a sudden weight cover his body like that of a heavy duvet. The weight felt comforting and warm, yet when he tried to raise his head to look, he could see nothing there at all. Instead, over his shoulder, he saw Cas laying sprawled on his stomach. He looked relaxed, his eyes closed, though Dean knew he wasn’t trying to sleep. Questions built around his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to break the silence. Instead, Dean leaned into that odd comfort, allowing himself to relax completely. Sleep snuck up on him faster than he thought.
This time, the sleep was pleasant.